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EOTF
Month: April 2008
Wicked Cool Mystery: Pssst! Whodunnit?
“Wherefore Art Thou, Teen Detectives?” was Colleen’s plaintive query recently at Chasing Ray. It’s a good question, actually. Where are the great mysteries for teens and young adults?
There are myriad mysteries for middle grade readers. Remember Donald J. Sobol’s Encyclopedia Brown books? I loved those because they always surprised me. Some of my more recent MG mystery favorites are Nancy Springer‘s Enola Holmes series, which I adore. Endymion Spring is so involved that it could have interest for older readers, but the age of the protagonist puts it squarely in middle grade territory, ditto for lovably loony psychic investigator Miss Gilda Joyce.
My only exposure to classic young adult mysteries outside of the Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys tradition has been Joan Lowery Nixon, whose mysteries were cozy and somewhat predictable for me, but at least depicted strong female characters who did things. Canadian author Graham McNamee’s 2003 novel, Acceleration, is classified as a mystery, but much of the action and the emotion takes place in the character’s head, also making it a psychological thriller. Pitching this question to my writing group brought up the name Nancy Werlin, also known for her psychological thrillers which delve into the darkness of the human psyche. Again, a thriller isn’t exactly a mystery, at least not by definition.
To me, a thriller is like… let’s say it’s like the game Jenga. You already have all the pieces, it’s just a matter of trying to carefully delay the tower of facts all falling down on your turn. A mystery is more like a two thousand piece jigsaw puzzle — without the box lid. You’ve also got everything in your hands, but… how does it all fit together?
Sometimes I’m not in the mood for the hard work of figuring out whodunnit and can’t deal with the high level of anxiety created in psychological thrillers. It’s then that I turn to my favorite frothy mystery, Black Taxi, by Australian author James Moloney, which uses both elements of suspense and mystery with a little comedy on the side.
Rosie Sinclair left school to be a hairdresser like her leopard-print wearing Mum, but at sixteen, she’s back, because it all fell apart. Her beloved granddad, whom Rosie admits is “just a bit bent” has gotten busted on the last job of his 30 year petty crime career. His inevitable arrest means he’s entrusting Rosie with the keys to his gorgeous classic black Mercedes, and his cell phone. Of course, Rosie is thrilled. Sure, sure — okay. He’s left her with the responsibility for chauffeuring around all his geriatric friends, and the phone is ringing off the hook with the querulous demands of the ‘wrinklies,’ but the car is awesome, and the guys it’s attracting are hot.
But Grandpa Larkin is a well-known crook, and someone else has the number to his cell — someone who is threatening bodily harm to Rosie and her grandpa, if she doesn’t return ‘the ring.’
What ring? Rosie wonders. And then the real fun begins.
This novel was possibly not as well received in the U.S. because Rosie is considered a high school dropout and her best friend, who is two years older, is an exotic dancer. This is unfortunate, since the Australian educational system, which releases sixteen year olds from compulsory education who don’t wish to go on to University, doesn’t label them ‘dropouts’ at all. I actually read a review that named Rosie’s best friend as a prostitute instead of an exotic dancer — which is patently false, and shows that the reviewer either did not read the book, or read FAR more into it than was written. While Rosie is definitely not polished and demure, the friendship shown between she and her best friend is true and solid, and the novel is entirely G-rated. Best of all, the decisive and funny conclusion will make you cheer. The mystery itself isn’t that taxing, but there are some surprises, and the lightweight storyline moves quickly. This is definitely a Wicked Cool Overlooked Book.
Now that Colleen has asked the question, I’m going to be looking around for more really good young adult mysteries, and encouraging a few people in my writing group to, for heaven’s sakes, FINISH THEIR BOOKS. *cough*
This is Just a Reminder:
apology, by rosalyn taylor
I
don’t know how to say I’m sorry.
All
along, I thought it was you I was afraid of…
Now
it looks like it was
a world without you
that
scared me so bad all along.
Sorry
for leaving you
You couldn’t help it when you left
But
I had a choice.
16
Waking
up in my own bed is a luxury. The morning routine gets rolling, then snowballs,
Anthea and I moving around each other in a quick bathroom ballet.
She doesn’t bang on the door when I take too long, and I don’t take
more than a minute over my ten minute shower. We share the mirror, wash out the
sink, pick up our towels and overall are being very careful with each other. We
exist in separate bubbles of politeness, none of our edges overlapping, none of
our thin sides touching. The peace is fragile.
Our
last family therapy session is today, during second period, with Dr. Slauson.
Talking with her one on one at the hospital was actually easier than I thought,
mostly because my mind was still full of everything Auntie Harlyn had been
saying. Dr. Slauson’s little gold pencil was still, and she listened to me as
I told her all about Dad. She only
started writing near the end of our session when I told her that Anthea had
probably been right.
“So,
you think you’re a traitor too?”
“Well…”
I’d shrugged, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “No, but… Maybe. I should
be more…like family, I guess.”
“Life
isn’t about ‘shoulds,’ Rosalyn.”
“It’s
not?”
Dr.
Slauson had asked me what I thought family should be like, but I couldn’t
answer her. She said we’d talk about it more in our family session.
In
my room, I open my backpack, and shove in my history binder.
I am looking forward to turning in all of my back work.
My teachers, who probably gave up on me weeks ago, are all going to be
surprised. Just getting back on track with my grades makes me feel like the
world I inhabit isn’t quite so shaky.
I
zip my pack, make sure I have my music and drop my phone into my pocket. I have my means of communication back, but I still haven’t
found the right words to say to Natalie and Jenae. I am dreading going back to
classes and having to explain, just as much as I am looking forward to hearing
exactly what Wes was wearing, what he looked like, and how he’d spoken
my name when he’d asked about me…
Anthea
practically bowls me over in the hallway, and we thunder down the stairs
together. I stop by the kitchen to tell Auntie Harlyn goodbye, and grab an
orange. She pushes a zip-top bag of fiber bars at me, fussing about decent
breakfasts, but I just hug her and stick them in my pocket.
Anthea
is eating leftover pizza, which, she defends to Auntie Harlyn, is a completely
balanced meal. When we finally get outside, Anthea doesn’t cross to the other
side of the street, but stays in step with me as we walk to our stop. She finishes her slice in time to get on the bus, and the
driver only gives me a harassed look as I shove my orange into my pocket and pay
my fare.
“Roach.”
Anthea is sitting in the seat in front of me. “Mom’s picking us up at
eleven.”
I
nod and busy myself with peeling my orange.
“Don’t
be late.” Anthea puts her feet up on the seat and slides until her back hits
the window. She stares out at the morning, fingers twisting in her hair, as we
turn up Sixth Street.
I
roll my eyes as I savor the tart sweetness of an orange section. Unbelievable.
Miss-know-it-all would have nothing to say to me at all if she didn’t have
something to be telling me every time I turn around. I am so full of
aggravation that I almost don’t hear her when she says, “Joe broke up with
me.”
“What?”
Surprise leaves my mouth slack and open. I close it around a juicy piece of
fruit, then shove the orange into my cheek guiltily. “Sorry,” I say
indistinctly. “You…have a fight?”
Anthea
shrugs, then nods, still looking out the window across the aisle. “Well…
kind of. But not really. He just…” She shrugs again.
“You
guys dated a long time,” I say cautiously, feeling my way into the
conversation. “It’s kind of cold, right before a dance and everything, for
him to…” I swallow the words ‘dump you’ but can’t find good
substitutes.
Anthea
sighs. “He wouldn’t have gone anyway.”
“Oh.”
The
bus wheezes as its doors creak open for disembarking passengers. Someone’s
toddler starts to whine, and Anthea turns in the seat and puts in her earbuds. I
finish my orange silently, the conversation finished.
…it wasn’t a half-bad story, it just needs some work…
Poetry Friday: Nat’l Poetry Month
I feel like I’m just being immersed in poetry this month, which is a good thing, since I’m only being intermittently immersed in rain. Now that we’ve seen a few daffodils, I have become a believer that gray rain, slush and mildew isn’t all the UK has to offer, but parts of my psyche are still out in terms of saying that we like it here or not.
However: the sun is shining NOW, this moment, despite loads of clouds sailing by at a fast clip, and so that deserves some notice.
I copied down this poem because… it’s so not me. I think there’s a teensy riot grrl screeching mouse-like in my inner core. I wish this were me. Maybe it’s kind of like why young readers like fantasy literature; we wish to be powerful. If we were vampires, we’d be up all night, scare the crap out of the establishment, take insane risks, be brilliantly sexy and hey — live forever. If we were witches, it’d be the same, except we’d have more power than to just consume people’s lives. And hey, if we had dragons…
So, I will muse further on my samurai. Old rules and swords for me. Hard men with no time for anything but discipline and rules. As I said: so not me. But I like this poem anyway.
Samurai Song
— by Robert Pinsky
When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.
When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.
When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.
When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.
When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.
When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.
Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.
Poetry Friday: What Defines You?
I remember watching the movie The Hours, and watching a woman figuratively drowning. It was the most terrifying imagery — water rushing in and filling the room where she lay on the bed; water climbing the wall, closing over her head. Even when it wasn’t visible, the pull of the waves sapped the strength in her legs and dragged at her, making her life unbelievably heavy. The water — and oblivion — called to her.
I first read this poem last November, and its words have reverberated since, as clearly as the roar of tides. No matter what side you land on in terms of his political writings (the poet is primarily a political essayist), the man’s poetry is arresting and brilliant, as he puts words to the silent struggle for balance and sanity. So, anyway, this poem is for Kel and Jennifer, who can walk on water.
The Hour
Maybe the moment recurs daily at six, when commuters,
freed from the staring computers,
elbow and bump in unsought intimacy on a station
platform with you, and frustration
rots what is left of your strength. Maybe the hour comes after
dinner, when televised laughter
seeps from a neighboring room; maybe the time is the dead of
night, when you ponder, instead of
dreaming. Whatever the time, you will escape it—by sinking
down with a book, or by drinking
secretly out in the dark studio, or by unbuckling
pants on a stranger, or chuckling,
one with a mob, in a deep theater. Soon, though, the hour
comes to corrode all your power,
pleasure and faith with the damp dread that it daily assigns you.
How you evade it defines you.
— by essayist Michael Lind, from Parallel Lives © Etruscan Press, 2007
Poetry Friday this week is hosted at the bookish Becky’s blog. Poetry Princesses: the countdown begins!
And onward to more mundane but no less exciting items: This is the week for cover girls. Mitali’s Secret Keeper has enviable eyelashes, and John Green’s Paper Towns has two covers with the same gorgeous girl — one subtly …well, dirtier, thus targeting a difference audience. (Which audience are you if you like a girl with smudges on her face? Inquiring minds now want to know the plot.)
Finally, SB Sarah asks a brilliant question over at Smart Bs/Trashy Bs that has resonated with me both as a writer and as a reader: does romance in novels influence the way readers view relationships? Do YA’s expect to find guys who make snappy comebacks like in Nick & Norah‘s Infinite Playlist? Do guys expect to find girls who are somewhat passive, like Stephanie Meyers’ Bella? This post combined with the poem really made me stop and think… and think some more.
Poets, Audience and …Denim.
Huzzah! Poetry People everywhere are celebrating National Poetry Month. More celebratory than most are Gregory K. from GottaBook who has an original poem-of-the-day subscription service, Elaine at Wild Rose Reader who has an awesome contest going on, Cloudscome who is posting a haiga (haiku and image) every day at A Wrung Sponge and the Whidbey Writers Workshop whose Students’ Choice contest this month is for short poetry, and includes a cash prize. (Their writer’s workshop blog is quite a resource for writers.) We’ll be introducing the Poetry Princesses this month — stay tuned as soon All Shall Be Revealed…
While I am sort of sick of hearing about Elizabeth Gilbert (apologies to everyone who just LOVES her book) I was happy to find out that her sister is Catherine Murdock Gilbert… the YA author who wrote Dairy Queen and its sequels. Cool, no? Putting aside Elizabeth Gilbert’s meteoric rise to fame, the Oprah-bump that Eat, Pray, Love received etc. ad nauseum, ad infinitum, the really cool thing about her that The Violets have zeroed in on is how she wrote her book. She wrote it to ONE person, a friend who was troubled, and whom Gilbert felt would benefit from hearing about how her life had changed from her travels and various interactions with nations and people. Just one person. The whole novel was a letter.
In my MFA craft classes and in my writing group, the topic has often turned to audience. Who are you writing for? one of us will ask the other when we’re not sure the story is communicating clearly to its intended readers. We often debate whether or not it’s important to have an audience, a target toward which to aim the appeal of the story. Some of us try to write for everyone — adults, teens, middle graders, small children. Others of us consider this futile and just try to write for ourselves.
There has to be middle ground.
Being all things to all people never works in life, not to mention in writing. But writing in consideration of an audience seems scary — what if the audience is made up of hostile critics who don’t respond to your work in the way that you want? — Picturing yourself writing to a sea of unknown faces may not work, but Gilbert’s idea of just writing to one …is ponder-worthy, and maybe even a tiny bit magical.
What an idea: communication. One to one.
Tons of people knit little hats and donate soft toys and stickers for kids in Children’s Hospitals. But, if you’re sixteen, those things really aren’t aimed for you. What you really need is a BOOK. Books are portals that open onto new worlds, bring entertainment, distraction, and sometimes can help blunt the pain. If you can’t avoid the hospital, at least there should be tons of books there, no? Rock the Drop, people. April 17th. Go see the readergirlz and get involved.
It’s NOT a joke: effervescent novelist, Carrie Jones… is running for Maine State Legislature. Whoa! AND we have the same birthday. Which is a coolness unto itself. Go, Carrie, go, Maine! Whoo!
All RIGHT… Because it’s …traditional this first day of April, I have to include some weirdness- so, here are things I WISH were complete jokes, via Ypulse in the last couple of days: Paris Hilton, inspiring role model to young girls. What. Ev. Er. And …Christian… jeans. No, really.
Happy April.