A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn tells the story of a man sentenced to ten years in a Russian work camp for being a spy, even though the accusation is false. However, Ivan is wise enough not to make waves or he might find another ten years put on top of his existing sentence. He also knows that extra years might be slapped on him anyway, because the Soviet would never trust him again and they wouldn’t want him returning to those “bad habits”. When, or if, he was released, he knew he could be sent to an even worse place, so he actually talks himself into not wanting to leave the camp. Going home was something he felt would probably never happen, so it would be better to stay where he was – in a situation he had learned to cope with and live in – than be sent to that worst place.

The story is not filled with suspense and twists and turns. This story holds a reader for another reason – it is character driven. The reader feels for this man (and his companions) and wants to get through the day with them.

The one thing that was very clear to me was how it shows humans adapt to their surroundings and learn how to survive even the most inhuman situations. When a person can find good fortune in receiving a few grams of stale bread and a ladle of something that resembles dish washing water each day, it should make the people of today appreciate what they have.

The book is just one long chapter, with not even a single scene break. At first, I found this irritating, but I got used to it. The writing is a little confusing. One moment the viewpoint was third person and then suddenly it turned to first person. The main character had two names and for a long time I wondered where Ivan Denisovich fit into the story as I didn’t realise I was reading about him because of this other name being used. (I’m not sure if I missed the connection at the beginning of the story or not. I did skim through those early pages again, but found nothing that made it clear. Maybe the confusion came about in the translation.)

Even with the confusion, I found this story interesting, which shows content is important. It made me wonder how well I would cope in a similar situation! I suspect not terribly well.

Anyway, this is a book I would not have picked up without recommendation, which proves – once again – a book cannot be judged by its cover.

Recommended.

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Wow! I finished this book in two days. That should say everything! But I guess I should say more than that, so I will.

Bad Monkeys by Matt Ruff is not a book I would have picked up in the library and brought home for myself. Someone else would have to pick it for me. In fact, that is exactly what happened. I arrived home from work one afternoon to find the book sitting on my bed.

“I saw that and thought you’d like it,” said Gary.

I looked at the cover. It wasn’t pretty, or intriguing, or special in any way. It was plain and quite boring looking. “Oh, thanks.”

I didn’t intend to give the book another thought, except to put it in the “Return to the Library Pile” at the end of the week. However, Gary is always thinking of me and I never show gratitude by even reading the book cover. This time I thought I’d at least do that.

Hmm, not bad, I thought. OK, I’ve got five minutes. I’ll read the first chapter or, at the very least, the first page. Then I can tell him I attempted to read it but got bored.

Two hours later my eyes left the pages of the book and I was surprised to find that I had read over 100 pages. I went to do some things around the house. Whilst my hands did the washing and the vacuuming, my mind was still thinking about the story. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Why? The author planted a seed that needed watering. He answered questions but kept filling my mind with more issues that I needed answers too. I was obsessed and needed to return to the book.

So I did. Several times over the two days it took me to read the book. I lost sleep over it too. I’m not particularly happy about that, but doesn’t it tell you how hooked I was? It does me.

So what is the book about? I can’t tell you! You’ll have to get a copy and read it for yourself. You are, however, guaranteed twists and turns that make you giddy. You will love the characters, they are so real. The words will play with your mind so that you won’t know what is true and what is real for that matter. And the author has a nice sense of humour too, which makes for an even more enjoyable read.

The library classified this as a detective story. OK, it is in a small way, but slotting this story into one genre is hard unless there’s a genre that covers science fiction, mystery, humour, fantasy and a touch of … weird.

Do yourself a favour. Read the book.

The next book I’m going to attempt is another book that I would never have picked up at the library myself. This book was listed in a Top 20 Books “considered the best of all time” – compiled by David Meadows. The book is called A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

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I haven’t wanted to write since last November. In fact, I felt so disconnected from the craft that I decided to give up on it. However, I’m involved in an anthology and the story to be included in that [strong]must[/strong] be edited.

Last weekend, I sat in front of my computer – on one screen was my manuscript awaiting changes, on another was the document the editor had sent me. I spent the better part of an hour switching between the two, but not actually doing anything. Then I decided that it had been a long time since I wrote the short story and I no longer had a clear understanding of what was happening, so I read it (yes, I should have done that at the beginning, I know).

Having read the story, I felt a bit better. I now remembered the issues I had with the story and reading through the editor’s comments I could tell those issues were a problem for her too. Surprisingly, I decided to rewrite the beginning. I say “surprisingly” because this is the last thing I expected to do. I really wanted to make the required changes quickly and email the thing back to the editor. You know, get rid of it and the responsibility. But…here I was thinking about what was wrong with the story and wanting to make it better. This doesn’t sound like a non-writer to me.

I think it took me four days to write eight double spaced pages. I admit that it was extremely hard – almost like trying to pull my own teeth out. I had to force myself to sit down and open the document. I found it hard to concentrate. I worried about the quality of my words. However, I did it because to [strong]not[/strong] do so would have let so many other writers down. I didn’t want that.

Once the beginning had been rewritten, I continued on with the rest of the story. It has been very slow going, but I’m getting there. Last night, I made myself open the document, I procrastinated for a while and did everything and anything else for about half an hour (mainly listening to some music; thankfully, the computer is not connected to the internet) and then I turned my mind to the edit. At first, my mind stubbornly groaned and grunted at every word I looked at or tried to write, but then something extraordinary happened…I lost myself in the story!

That hasn’t happened to me for so long.

When someone knocked on the door, pulling me out of the scene I was working on, I felt two things – joy at the fact that I didn’t even know what had happened or how much time had passed, and, disappointment that it was over. For the first time in a very long time, I was willing to sit in that chair and work quietly into the wee hours of the night.

It was late and I had to get up early to go to work, so I went to bed. I slept soundly for four hours. Then I woke up and found myself thinking about the story, the characters and the scene I was working on. And then, I actually thought about getting out of bed and turning on the computer. At 3.30am! I didn’t do it, but I can’t believe I even gave it a serious thought.

Now that is what writing should be like. It’s something that has been missing for me. I hope this isn’t an isolated incident.

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I actually finished reading Promise Me Tomorrow by Lori Wick almost three weeks ago. Life has been busy, which has stopped me from posting.

Promise Me Tomorrow is a romance story written by a Christian writer. The religious parts of the story were not too bad, generally speaking. The characters and actual story held me through most of those scenes. There was only one scene that was too much for me, which I skipped altogether. Apart from that it’s a romantic story about a man and woman and the obstacles they must overcome to be together. It’s sweet, sloppy and totally predictable, but I loved it.

I feel shy in admitting this, but it’s a story that could easily have been written by me (except for the religious content), because it’s exactly what I used to write when I first started writing. I adore reading and writing about the attraction between two people. You know what I mean…the sly glances, the adoration in the eyes, the fluster, the touch and the wanting to see the person again. And when I first started to write, I would build entire stories around these tender moments.

Anyway, it’s been a while since I read a book that I couldn’t put down. I honestly think this book spoke to me because I have denied (openly and privately) my desire to write the type of story I really enjoy to read and write. OK, I know that a lot of people would read this book, or any number of other books similar to it, and think it is complete dribble, but I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of doing what other people expect of me. Maybe I’ll enjoy writing again, if I do what I want to do. This is totally my own fault, by the way. I’ve allowed general consensus to rule me. But no more!

Promise Me Tomorrow is recommended to those with a tender heart.

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Last night I finished reading Dying to Help by Penny Kline. This is a detective type story, without the detective. Someone dies and the main character finds herself trying to put the facts together and come up with the truth. The title of the book suggests that the main character finds herself targeted because of it. This is true, but there was no real fear, no urgency and, unfortunately, no real action.

The details of the murder were put together quite nicely and the writing itself is good, but reading the story was dull. After 200 pages I could have easily put the book down, but I forced myself to keep reading. Having read fantasy for so long, I wanted to ensure I had given this other genre a genuine chance.

Upon reaching the final page, I felt happy that it was finally over. The actual “action” scene lasted all of a single page and I felt disappointed by that.

I have nothing else to say about this book, except…I don’t recommend it!

Next on my reading list is a romance novel.

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If you have ever own a dog…or a cat…then The Last Family in England by Matt Haig might be of interest to you. The story is told from the dog’s point of view and the view point is so convincing, I found myself looking at my pets and wondering if they were thinking the things Prince, from the book, was thinking. And, I almost convinced myself that they were!

The book covers a wide range of topics; some of which are quite embarrassing so I won’t even attempt to go into those here. But the safer ones include adultery, suicide, growing up and disjointed family life. At first, I found the book hard to get into, but that was nothing to do with the writing or the subject matter. It was because this is the first book I’ve attempted to read in months. Before long, I found myself gasping with shock at the embarrassing parts, empathising with the characters in other parts of the story and snickering at Prince’s thought patterns. Not to mention getting choked up and crying. Any book that brings out that emotion must get brownie points, in my opinion.

I picked up this book completely on a friend’s recommendation and I had no idea what the story was about and I didn’t read the blurb on the back cover. In other words, I had no expectations and I found the story to be completely different to anything I’ve read in the last decade or more. Even with the rude bits…and the swearing, it was refreshing and interesting. For those of you who know me well, you’ll know that’s unusual for me. I’m usually quite straight laced. Anyway, the characters are human (excepte for the dogs in the story, of course), the problems are real and the emotions strong. I recommend this book if you’re looking for something different.

I finished the book in less than a week. I can’t believe it. It looks like I’ll get at least two of those library books read at this rate.

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Along with my desire not to write, I find I don’t feel like reading either. However, I refuse to stop reading. It’s something I’ve done since day dot.

I have many book shelves at home. Most of them are crammed full (two rows deep and high) with fantasy books. I’ve loved these stories for so long. But every time I look at the books now, I cringe. I think I might be sick to the core of fantasy.

It’s time to change my reading habits, I believe.

Last night, I made a special trip to the library. There was one rule I had to follow. No fantasy books! I’m drawn to them because of the excellent covers, but this time I made sure I picked up anything and everything else. I deliberately picked books at random that I wouldn’t normally entertain. I figure that the cover doesn’t maketh the book and maybe, hopefully, I’m missing out on a really good story. I plan to find out.

I chose chic fic, detective, Australiana, humour and romance. With only three weeks before the due date forces me to return the books, I doubt I’ll read more than one of them, but I wanted to be sure I had options in case I didn’t like whatever I decide to read first…or second…or third! You get my drift.

First book of the rank will be Last Family in England by Matt Haig. This book was highly recommended to me by Alan Baxter. I will let you know what I think.

If you have a non-fantasy book you’d like to recommend, please go ahead and tell me about it.

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We come to love not by finding a perfect person,
but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.

–Anonymous–

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I spent some time visiting some of my writer friends tonight. I read their posts with interest, but I didn’t leave any comments. I’m not entirely sure why, but I think I feel that I don’t really have the right. It sounds stupid…because it is stupid. I know that. But that’s the way I feel.

After my “visits”, I sat back and pondered how I felt. The only word that fits is “sad”. I feel sad that I’m moving away from these people. They are people I’ve known for some time now and they are people I’ve shared much of myself with. I feel sad that I don’t feel the need to write anymore. I also feel sad because I don’t even feel like reading anymore. What’s going on with me, I wonder?

Last week, I spend a bit of time one afternoon working on my non-fiction manuscript. I only wrote a couple of pages and I was quite focused at the time, but as soon as I turned away from it, the urge to do more left me completely. It doesn’t feel important to continue with it any longer. Just like my other projects no longer mean much to me. Even the family tree is sitting untouched.

I think it’s important not to let my analytic mind get too worked up over all this. I’m going to let things go and allow myself to do whatever I feel like doing (which, admittedly, isn’t much right now). All I can really say is that apart from the sadness, my mind is peaceful and that’s something I think I really needed.

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It’s been a couple of weeks since my last post. Some readers might think I’ve deserted this website. I haven’t. Regular readers have probably wandered off to find more interesting (and active) blogs to read. That’s fine.

I guess the question on everyone’s lips (if, indeed, anyone still visits) would probably be “is she really going to give up writing?” If I had to answer that, I’d have to say “more than likely”. But that isn’t a definite answer, is it?

Having written that, I find myself sitting and pondering my own words – “more than likely”. I feel nothing when I say that. No fear. No loss. No desire. Nothing. After all those years of writing, I would expect to feel something…sadness, at least…but I feel nothing. I still have no desire to write. I don’t have stories or characters running around in my mind and it’s peaceful. I like it.

I’ve had a few people urge me to turn my attention back to the plans I had for Suicide: A Mother’s Story. They feel it’s a project that needs to be written. It is a topic that is worthwhile and as suicide is on the increase, it needs to be published and people of all ages need to be aware of the signs and dangers. One person even went as far as to say that my personality isn’t suited to writing fantasy stories. They said I’m a practical person who works systematically and has a rather black and white thought pattern. It might sound like a bit of an insult, but I have to admit it’s true.

Maybe this person is right. Maybe I’m ready to move on from make believe and find a place in reality. I can actually see the sense in that as it fits with what I’ve written in earlier posts about need and desire.

Thing is, when I think of Suicide: A Mother’s Story I think of a huge project, filled with emotion, which is daunting. I can face the emotion; it’s a necessary part of such a manuscript. Without it, the words would mean nothing. That’s not the problem. Writing about what happened isn’t a problem either. I’ve already done that and for this project all I have to do is expand on that. It’s the suicide awareness part of the project that feels really daunting. I can’t stand the thought of giving false information and that is the main thing that is stopping me from returning to the project. The other thing is the fact that for me to tell my story I have to refer to the other people involved and … well, that is worrying me also.

Anyway, when I look at my words – “more than likely” – again, it seems that I might be saying that it’s more than likely that I’m finished with fantasy. Has reality finally won the battle?

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