Hooked by The Postcard

I picked up a copy of The Postcard by Tony Abbott the other day. It won the Edgar for Best Juvenile Novel (it’s a middle-grade), and since the Mystery Writers of America people really know their stuff, I started reading right away.

The story opening is pretty simple: Jason’s dad calls from Florida, because his grandma died. Not all that interesting or original in itself. But then we find out that grandma had Alzheimer’s (still not that original, but okay), that she was in a wheelchair but insisted she could fly (curiosity piqued), and that she claimed she was in danger and had to escape (I’m intrigued now). Add to this that Jason’s parents seem to be splitting up (which he’s figured out before they tell him), the humorous St. Petersburg depiction, and I am so IN.

Hooked by page three. Cool character, interesting story, and intriguing, fun mystery, all established without the dreaded info-dump. Now that’s some writerly skill. Chapeau, Mr. Abbott.

Of course, I’m already on page 122 now. Who wants to stop at page three when it’s that good, right?

The Plaid Skirt-part deux

Alright, I made it to page 48 on The Plaid Skirt. I tried, but came to the conclusion that this book was just not written for me.

Still. I hope someday The Plaid Skirt will realize that jeans are just way more comfortable, and a better choice when solving mysteries. I’m just saying.

Pondering Plaid Skirts

I'm reading this book--let's call it The Plaid Skirt, since it has a girl in a plaid skirt on it. It's not a famous title, in case you're wondering. And this is not a book I would ordinarily pick up, to be fair. It's kind of... girly.

But the bookmobile (my unfortunate library location) had a long line, the air was devoid of oxygen, I was awaiting my latest YA book purchase, so what the hell. Plus the title hinted at a mystery. Worth a shot.

I'm on page 38. At first, it seemed okay. Snappy pace, snappy dialogue, snappy character, a bit of a mystery--all parts of a good YA. I was sort of diggin' it.

But now The Plaid Skirt has a scene where the lead character and her plaid-skirted friends are talking. They're trying to solve the now ho-hum mystery, and are discussing their options. Or rather: ditzing their way through it. The conversation is so dumb, the characters so foolish, I feel like I'm actually losing parts of my brain as I'm reading The Plaid Skirt. Is this how the author thinks teen girls talk? Maybe some, but not the ones who actually read, right?

I'm trying to make it past page 38. I don't like to give up on a book, and maybe I'm wrong--it's been known to happen. But the teen girls I know are smart, interesting, and don't say (or cry, as The Plaid Skirt likes to use) "Oh my gosh!" every other word.

So I wonder: does a plaid skirt makes you dumber? Am I too hard on The Plaid Skirt (probably)? Are seven exclamation marks on a page too many (definitely)?

The mystery continues...

Ode to the New

"Mom, Mom, look what I bought!"
"Hmmm. It's a teddy bear." Lifts with thumb and index finger. Studies at a distance.
"This nice lady with the yard sale just gave it to us. And it was only a quarter. Isn't it nice?"
Studies at a distance. "What's that stain?"
"I don't know."
"Mommy will wash it first."

Deb is right.
Sometimes, you just want new. Sometimes, the story that goes with the yard sale find is one you don't want in your house...

Feeling Vindicated

So I cuss every once in a while. But I live in Colorado, where they bleep out pretty much half of every Black Eyed Peas song (should be illegal, I say) on the radio, so I try to watch my potty mouth. "Gosh darned," and "What the heck," and "Foeeey" (my f-bomb in disguise) just don't feel very satisfying though.

But I have kids. And live in Colorado.

Now I've been vindicated! A scientific study proves what I already knew: cussing makes you feel better. Just when you hurt yourself, according to the study, but it's a start, right?

Right?? Hell yeah.

Ode to the Old

I cleaned out my house for the past few weeks. Hence the silence on the blog. It's hard to feel chatty when you're wading your way through piles of old jeans, red lampshades (what was I thinking? That I live in a Paris Boudoir?), and 500 mismatched Barbie shoes. It felt good to clean out the clutter. Cleared my head.

So then I had a yard sale. Watched how people fingered through my castoffs, sometimes with a little smile, that hint of delight. One person's trash really is the other's treasure. And after I spent a few hours making a few dollars, I hauled the rest to Goodwill.

And after making my donation, I went inside the store. It makes no sense, I know. Clean the place out, buy more stuff. But I just love thrift stores. I love that slightly musty smell, the unbelievably ugly things I see. And then there are those nifty finds. Green glass vases from 1970-something. Antique furniture.

I live in the burbs. I spend my fair share of time around people who spend a lot of money buying new things: bedroom sets to impress, fancy living room furniture, art--all in an effort to make their house look like the model homes, or pictures in Pottery Barn's catalogue. It's beautiful, but most of it says so little about the people who live in the house. Everything is beautiful, tasteful and shiny, but there's no good story to go with any of it. It's so... boring.

What I love most about thrift stores is that every piece of art, bric-a-brac, and scuffed furniture once sat in someone's house. Where people lived, fought, prayed--whatever. Thriftstore finds have a story. I have no idea what it is--and somehow, it makes for such a cool mystery.

Oh, and the other cool thing about thriftstores? Everything is so awesomely cheap! Hey, I am Dutch, after all.

Bummin'

Yeah, I'm bummin'. Not in a bad way--I'm not bummed out, but I am bumming. As in doing nothing, writing-wise. All around me, my most talented and cool writing friends are setting goals, getting words written, edited, submitted. But not me.

And I don't even feel bad about it one bit. I worked hard (wrote and edited 25k words in three weeks--and on finance, no less) in May, so now I'm giving myself a break. I will be vacationing with my kiddos and husband. Sometimes you have to smell the roses.

I'll be back in July. To write all about what the roses smell like.