The Sunday Salon: Old School

With all the enticing new books being published all the time, it's easy to forget some of the great stories that have been around for years - or even decades. I was reminded of that earlier this week when a trip to the library netted me a couple oldie-but-goodie paperbacks, and got me hooked on an entire series that will keep me entertained throughout the winter. Sara Paretsky's series of mysteries featuring hard-nosed, Chicago female private investigator V. I. (for Victoria Iphegenia) Warshawski had completely escaped my attention until I read a great little book called Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading. In it, Maureen Corrigan, NPR Book Editor, wrote about some of the books that have meant the most to her during her reading life, and Paretsky's series was among them. The first book, Indemnity Only, published in 1982, introduces the fast talking, smart mouthed V.I. - or "Vic" as we soon learn to call her. Written in that inimitable Raymond Chandler/Dashiell Hammett style, with short clipped sentences and atmospheric descriptions, Paretsky quickly grabs the readers attention and pulls you right into the story.

Here's what Maureen Corrigan and I both love about Vic - she's completely her own boss, she's fearless, she says whatever she means and makes no apologies. But she still enjoys soaking in a hot bath at the end of a long day, with candles glowing and Italian opera on the radio. She takes her steak rare and her Scotch neat, promising herself an extra hour of running in the morning to prevent the pounds from creeping up. Without batting an eye, she takes on the mostly male establishments in banking, politics, labor unions, and the police force, and makes them accountable, her sharp wit and ever sharper tongue her most powerful weapons.

Vic's character is as complex as the mysteries she trying to solve, and in some ways her story is more engaging than the plot. She began her career as a Public Defender, but left because she got tired of following political rules. On page 13 of Indemnity Only, we get a interesting glimpse into her formative past.

I put on jeans and a yellow cotton top and surveyed myself in the mirror with critical approval. I look my best in the summer. I inherited my Italian mother's olive coloring, and tan beautifully. I grinned at myself. I could hear her saying, "Yes, Vic, you are pretty - but pretty is no good. Any girl can be pretty - but to take care of yourself you must have brains. And you must have a job. A profession. You must work." She had hoped I would be a singer and had trained me patiently; she certainly wouldn't have liked my being a detective. Nor would my father. He's been a policeman himself. Polish in an Irish world. He's never made it beyond sergeant, due partly to lack of ambition, but also I was sure, to his ancestry. But he'd expected great things of me...My grin went a little sour in the mirror and I turned away abruptly.

Clearly Vic feels herself to have fallen short of parental expectation, and it's poignant to see how this tough, self-confident woman can fall prey to the same emotional traps the rest of us women do.

Of course the best thing about discovering a series like this is that I'm guaranteed reading material for quite some time. Paretsky has published 14 more V.I. Warshawski novels, a good many of which I snagged at the library book sale last Saturday for 50 cents each.

So I'll be spending a lot more time with Vic this winter. I couldn't be in better company, either.

How about you? Have you ever stumbled across a book or series of books that have been around for a long time but somehow escaped your radar?

The Rule

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree There will be an answer, let it be For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see

There will be an answer, let it be.

There has always been and always will be senseless evil in the world. We think society has evolved, has become so sophisticated, but then that evil appears once again just as primitive and ugly as it ever was. Today it appeared in an elementary school in Newton, Connecticut. It appeared in the form of a 20 year old man, carrying guns. A man whose mother taught young children in that school. A man who had so much hatred in his heart that he mercilessly could kill innocent children.

How can we heal people who are so badly broken? And how did they get that way in the first place? You can't write legislation to prevent that level of sickness.

I only wish you could.

Over 2000 years ago, a man gave us a Rule, a piece of legislation if you will. "Love one another as you would be loved. Do unto others as you would have done to you."

So simple. And yet so hard to make reality.

But what would the world look like if we could?

I wonder. Oh, I wonder.

Write on Wednesday: What's It All About?

"It once seemed all-important to get to a certain salary level; my professional self-worth was tied to that figure. Now, instead, I’m morphing into measuring my self worth through professional development and creative evolution." ~Bethanne Patrick, What About the Money, Money, Money?, Between the Margins I don't suppose there is a writer among us who hasn't dreamed of quitting their day job and writing full time. Just the thought of it conjures a laundry list of romantic possibilities - hours whiled away over legal pads covered in handwriting, stacks of books and articles amassed for research, long walks in the woods while pondering character and plot development.

Most full time writers would probably tell you the operative word in that paragraph is "dreamed," because the reality isn't always so rosy. Like any job, writing has its share of frustration, tediousness, and even abject failure.

As I scroll through the Twitter and Facebook posts from some of my favorite new authors, I notice a number of them taking the huge plunge, leaving behind flourishing careers in editing, publishing, and teaching in order to dedicate themselves heart and soul to the writing life.

Most importantly, they are making a success of this endeavor, publishing novels and memoirs. I stand in awe of their courage and self discipline. I know their rewards are great.

I think it marks an important change for the literary world when women who have what society might consider a dream career decide to exchange it in order to fulfill their creative dreams, to "measure self-worth...through creative evolution" rather than a certain salary level. It's not easy, and certainly not always possible, to risk the security of steady income. But for those who have the opportunity to engage in the writing life full time and the dedication to be a writer writing - that's what it's all about.

The Sunday Salon: Of Dear Life and God's Whisper

This week more than most I realize how much of my thinking comes from books, how the words of others stir my heart, turn the rusty gears of my mind, bring tears to my eyes. This week more than most I have lived vicariously through the eyes of women whose books I have read, whose visions I have shared, whose imparted wisdom I've taken to heart.

This week I've read a collection of stories by a woman I consider writing royalty for her ability to distill everyday experience and emotion into it's purest essence. A woman who has written almost countless such stories in her 80-some years, stories that span now two generations, encompassing all the great change that implies, but remaining true and relevant to human experience.

And I've read a book by a (much younger) woman who has been for some years on the trail of a dream, one that is rock-solid in some respects, but also made of gossamer wings, lending itself to flights of fancy.

First, Dear Life, Alice Munro's new collection of stories. It is not a paean to the loveliness of life. No. Every story in this collection (whose emphasis is on the decisions made by ordinary characters and they ways one small moment can alter a life forever) has a rather stern personality. Ms. Munro is not overly affectionate with her characters and their situations. This is just how it is, she tells us, this dear life we all cling to. With the fatalism common to her generation, she knows we must accept the consequences of our actions and the fickle hand of fate. We must simply play the cards that we've been dealt. That is not such a bad thing, really. Now we all expect so much, feel entitled to so much, that occasionally it seems right to have the reins pulled in just a bit.

Then, after reading Dear Life, I fell into the comforting arms of my friend Andi Cumbo's manifesto about God's Whisper, as she has christened her farmhouse and its surrounding acres (God's Whisper Manifesto, the Makings of a Dream). Andi has been incubating this dream for a long time, and I've watched vicariously through her blog and Facebook posts as she has made it come true, assisted by grace from God and her own true grit. This small book lists ten principles for life at God's Whisper farm, but of course they are really principles for life anywhere. "Love people first and hard," Andi says. "Live with intention but without pretention." "Art matters, play is good, rest is treasured."

Simple precepts, and pure. Not easy to accomplish given the complexity of this Dear Life we all live- as Munro writes about with such aching understanding in these new stories, and in the hundreds of stories she's written during her lifetime.

Story is paramount. That is Principle Number 8 at God's Whisper. "Here at God's Whisper, we know that our stories are our very lives. That we thrive and grow and fight and love because of the stories we know, the ones we live, and the ones we want to create."

This week, more than most, I have been blessed by stories and the vision of two extraordinary women who told them.

Homebound

Last week I contacted the local Salvation Army to inquire about donating some furniture that wouldn't fit in our new house. They were happy to arrange a pickup, but the representative was apologetic that he couldn't give me a more specific time frame other than "between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m." "Oh, that's fine," I said agreeably.

"Really?" he sounded surprised. "Many people are unhappy that they might have to stay home all day."

"Really, I don't mind at all," I replied, smiling.

Little did he know, he was actually doing me a huge favor. Like a child on one of those snow days we get here in the midwest, when the weather is too frightful and school is called off - being forced to stay home is a delightful pleasure.

Sorry, can't run errands or go to any meetings. I've got to stay home.

Even though I don't work full time or have regular office hours, I harbor irrational guilt feelings  about taking "snow days," days to putter around the house, catch up on the laundry, organize my desk, clean out the refrigerator. Or to put some music on and lie on the couch with a book. Or to sit quietly in my favorite chair and simply ponder things.

Why do I feel as if I must run full tilt at all times, squeezing some activity into every minute?

Not today. Today I'm happy to stay home, eager to get out of bed when the first notes of music rise in a gentle crescendo from my radio alarm. I hum a tune as I measure coffee into the filter, smile as I settle into my chair with that first cup and my brand new copy of Alice Munro's new short stories.

I'm homebound and happy.