Redesigning Rose

About 1/18th of the way into Redesigning Rose, I realized it was probably the best direct competitor on the market for my own novel, Fifty Ways to Leave Your Husband.  So, of course, I made it my goal to find all the ways it was inferior.

Unfortunately, author Lydia Laceby didn’t make that possible.

I loved this book.

Skilled writer that she is, Lydia proved that it is possible to take a familiar concept - lying husband, smart wife finding her inner strength - and tell a tale that is fresh, unique, and utterly enjoyable through and through.  Rose Parker discovers that her bank accounts are dwindling thanks to her husband’s fondness for the attention of professional dominatrixes, and from there, the lies he’s told to conceal his nocturnal activities unravel rapidly.  Happily, Rose has Becky, an acquaintance who rapidly becomes her BFF - as well as her mother and her gardening - to help her through this upending of her world.  And then (of course) there are the two hunky guys who enter the picture.  Yeah.  Cue the lip-licking.

To her credit, Lydia doesn’t use these hunky potential heroes to ease her heroine out of a very difficult situation.  They’re the icing, not the cake.  Rose remains determined to sort out her failed marriage and her new life on her own, something I (purveyor of stealth feminism, as I call it) absolutely love.  Rose accepts responsibility for her own flaws and failings, and she sets out to become a better person.  She allows her strife to deepen her relationships with those around her, perhaps most especially with her mother.  She is the kind of woman I would like to have as a friend.

I love that this is Lydia Laceby’s debut novel.  That she can work this magic in her first book leads me to believe she will do great things in her subsequent works.

Fans of chick lit, take note.  There is a new, delightful voice rising to the top of the genre.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Running Strong

I am an unlikely runner, the very opposite of a natural athlete.  Growing up, I was always the kid picked last for teams in gym class - and for good reason.  A single lap around the gym left me winded.  Rules of team sports eluded me.  The only time I scored in basketball, it was on my own team’s hoop.  (Ooops.)  One P.E. teacher reduced me to tears, insisting I try serving that damn volleyball again and again and again while the other kids groaned, because, “You’re clearly not trying; no one is that bad!”

Actually, I was that bad.  Anything involving hand-eye coordination was beyond me, and the basic athletic ability that allowed most kids to run back and forth on a soccer field (as if it were actually fun!) left me gasping for breath and praying for a natural disaster to end my misery.  If you’d told me at age 12 that one day I would call myself a runner, I’d have said you were crazy.  You know, once I stopped laughing at the mere thought.

But strange things happen in life.  At 17, struggling mightily with depression, I ran outside one day and, much like Forrest Gump, just kept running.  I think the idea was to outrun my problems, maybe to outrun my very self.  Instead, as running one mile turned into two or three, and as I traded my Chuck Taylors for actual running shoes, I found that there was more to myself than I’d allowed.  I was still slow, still had to fight through the shortness of breath and the stabbing pain in my side, but I wasn’t the kid who faked sick to get out of gym class anymore.  I began to look forward to lacing up my shoes and getting out there on the road, on the trails, on the path to some unknown destination that just felt right.  

What I’ve learned since is that running is a sport like no other.  It accommodates all body types and levels of ability.  There are no damn balls or hoops to contend with (hallelujah!), yet there is a sense of camaraderie that makes any runner part of the biggest, most supportive team imaginable.  I’ve lost track of the number of races I’ve run, from 5Ks to half-marathons, but I remember every single time I was struggling and another runner helped me along.  I remember countless kindnesses and laughs.  

Yesterday I was fortunate enough to find myself among the spectators at the Boston Marathon.  That’s a distance I’ve yet to run, a feat that seems amazing to me.  The dedication of those runners impresses me beyond expression.  Which is why, when I heard the news of the bombings at last year’s marathon, I thought it was the most cowardly act imaginable.  I thought of that community of runners - of the sacrifice and hard work on the part of everyone involved, of the tide of positive energy that’s carried me through every race I’ve ever run - and those bombings seemed to me the smallest, darkest acts of terrorism possible.  I was not, however, surprised by the reaction of those present.  The rush to help, the resolve to find the culprits.  That is how running shapes a community.

Yesterday, I watched all those runners crossing the finish line, all those loved ones and strangers alike cheering them on, all those teams of volunteers making the world’s greatest marathon possible.  I watched thousands of people prove that hatred and cowardice never win.  Determination wins.  Hard work wins.  Love wins.

In some ways, I am the same gawky kid who loathed gym class.  I still tortoise-along at my own slow pace, but running has changed me.  When I think of how strong running has made me - in body, mind and spirit - the overwhelming display of resilience I saw yesterday is no surprise.

Of course Boston is running strong.  That’s the only way to run.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

• Read about marathon champ Meb Keflezighi
 (ditched by Nike, winning in Skechers).

• Check out this touching story about my heroes, Dick and Rick Hoyt.

Up, Do

A teacher, a romance writer, and a physicist walk into a book shop…

The start of a clever joke?  Sorry, no.  Just the company I was keeping as I went to the Up, Do reading at Books on the Square recently.  Appropriately enough, as the evening unfolded, it struck me that the personalities gathered in the standing-room-only crowd seemed as diverse as those in the pages of the collection being celebrated that night.

Up, Do accomplishes one of my very favorite things: it brings amazing women writers together and gives them free reign to do their stuff.

And this is excellent stuff.

The draw for me was Kathryn Kulpa, one of my favorite local writers and arguably one of the best authors of flash fiction working today.  You may recall my earlier post about her collection of short fiction, the perfectly-entitled Pleasant Drugs (and if you don’t, go ahead and link to it here).  Her contributions to Up, Do once again showcase her keen sense of human nature and her ability to use words with razor’s-edge precision.  “We Decided” is deliciously sharp, and “Lights Out: Zelda at Highland Hospital” tugged at my heartstrings, underscoring the dichotomy of my admiration for both F. Scott Fitzgerald and his tortured bride.

While Kathryn’s work was a known quantity that did not disappoint, I was thrilled to discover countless new authors to add to my list of favorites.  The collection opens with Jessica Lynne Henkle’s “To the Israeli Who Danced with Me on My Twenty-First Birthday,” a beautiful depiction of self, anonymity and longing.  Theo Greenblatt's “Seven Years” is simultaneously unflinching and sympathetic.  In “A Matter of Time,” Tania Moore brilliantly depicts the bittersweet way the passing of years catches us all off guard.  Ronna Magy’s “Sounds in the Night” chills to the core, as does “Made For This” by Amanda Larson.  “Supermom” by Donna Hill rings painfully true. Humor, realism, and even science fiction commingle seamlessly here.

I’m doing a disservice by failing to name all the authors and stories in this collection.  There is not a single piece that hasn’t earned its place in Up, Do.  If, like me, you enjoy reading excellent literary flash fiction, this is a collection you will savor.  If, like me, you aspire to write excellent literary flash fiction, is a collection you will treasure.

In her introduction, editor Patricia Flaherty Pagan asserts: “The next great flash fiction writer is out there writing, revising and honing her craft.  Her ideas will inform us all.  Go ahead.  Find her.  Go ahead.  Be her.”

Yes!

www.kcwilder50ways.com

A 'Tail' of Two Friendships

I spend a lot of time encouraging people to write.  I've been known to nudge even those with little interest in writing.  We all have our stories, and I believe there is great value in putting them down on paper.  Which is why it's a little odd that I am so very glad Jan Bowden earned a BA in English, intending to write, and instead went into an entirely different line of work.

I met Jan in 1993.  I was working as a nanny at the time, in a house near the terminus of a dead-end road.  I looked out the window one morning and saw an unfamiliar dog at the edge of the property.  He had classic Rottweiler coloring, but his build and posture were something altogether different.  He was rail-thin, his head bowed and his tail tucked.  He limped, holding one rear foot high.  I knew he didn't belong to any of the neighbors.

A handful of cookies and some gentle encouragement were all it took to coax him into the garage.  Up close, I could see how scrawny he was, and that the injury to his foot was just one of many.  I went to look for his tags and made a horrifying discovery: the dog had a rope embedded so deeply in his neck, skin had grown over it.  Shaking, I found the number for the local Animal Control Officer and placed the call.

The woman who arrived in the ACO van was the definition of no-nonsense.  Short hair, L.L. Bean attire, and an air of capability that made me certain she would know what to do with the poor dog who stood between us, alternately wagging his tail and cowering if we moved too quickly.  I asked her what would happen to him.

She told me she worked for an animal hospital and would take him there immediately.  She said his injuries were so extensive, though, that it was likely he could not be saved.

"If he makes it, I'll take him," I said impulsively.

I wondered if she'd heard me.  She went about her business, securing the dog in the van.  I repeated myself.

"Okay," she said.  Her tone reminded me of the way my younger brother would snarkily say, "Yeah, right…"  Capable though she seemed, this woman was starting to rub me the wrong way.

I took her card: Janet W. Bowden.  I called incessantly to find out what had happened to the dog.

He made it.

I went to see him as soon as he was moved from the hospital to the animal shelter.  I named him Clifford, after the small red puppy in Norman Bridwell's children's books, the runt who is so loved, he grows larger than a house.  I figured this dog could use that kind of love.

Because of the indeterminate nature of his injuries, Clifford had to be quarantined at the animal shelter.  Every day, I went to walk and feed and play with him.  Eventually I figured I might as well walk and feed and play with the other dogs while I was there.  I became a regular volunteer at the shelter.

I learned that Jan Bowden, the Animal Control Officer who'd seemed brusque when we first met, was actually just about the biggest mush on the planet.  She adored animals, and in her job, she'd too often seen some horrific treatment of them.  She'd also seen more than her share of well-meaning people who promised a pet a forever home, then failed to follow through.  I learned she'd been surprised when I'd called about Clifford, and was even more surprised when I came to spend time with him daily.

Clifford healed and thrived.  Much like his namesake, he grew - not to the size of a house, perhaps, but he put on enough weight that it was a bit of an issue that he thought he was a lap dog.  (Ever have 100 lbs. of Rotti mix perched on your lap?)  He had minor medical issues that lingered throughout his life, but he managed them well.  His injured foot never healed, but running on three legs seemed fine to him.  He loved children, other dogs, and even our family cat, Licorice.  He thought boat trips on the Bass River were the best.

And Jan Bowden?  She became one of my dearest friends.  She worked as the Animal Control Officer for the Town of Seekonk, Massachusetts from 1977 until 2006, and she left her mark on the position and the town.  She fought to have a shelter with modern equipment built, and to have a state-of-the-art vehicle purchased.  She started the volunteer organization that supports the work of the ACO to this day.  And if that wasn't enough, last fall she celebrated 40 years of work at Warren Animal Hospital.

Talk to Jan about animals - her own or those who've passed through the shelter - and she's liable to get choked up.  She has so many stories, it seems she might put that BA in English to work after all.  If she ever slows down enough to sit and write, she's lived volumes.

Clifford spent nearly 10 years enhancing the lives of everyone he met.  And when he became terminally ill, Jan made the drive out to the Cape for one more visit.  Clifford had a boat ride on the Bass River, then he went to sleep at home, loved.

"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." - Antoine de Saint Exupery, The Little Prince

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Modogamous

Which single girl among us hasn't wanted to put dating in the doghouse?

Kate Adams is five years out of college and settling comfortably into her life.  She owns her own home, enjoys her work, and appreciates the tidy order of her world.  Then her best friend Evette needs a soft place to land while suffering a bitter divorce (her hubby has knocked up another woman; sort of a marital deal-breaker).  She moves into Kate's guest room and drama ensues.  Literally.  Deciding she's had enough of men, Evette decides being modogamous beats being monogamous - so she adopts a pug, names the little dog Drama, and announces that her primary relationship will be with him.  But Evette is still a grief-stricken mess, and while she steeps herself in pity and alcohol, Kate - never a fan of dogs to begin with - finds herself walking Drama in the early morning chill.

Her tidy life upended, Kate reveals herself to be just the kind of heroine I love.  She's flawed and funny, a smartass with a good heart.  She thinks she's an excellent karaoke singer (she's not).  In a moment of weakness, she falls into bed with longtime buddy and coworker Mitch, then agonizes because she's ruined their relationship.  And then there's hunky JP...

Or has she?  Author Karen E. Martin tells the story of the love triangle - or is it a quadrangle? - that follows with a keen sense of human nature and the sharpest, snarkiest sense of humor I've found in a novel in recent memory.  Her depiction of female friendship is real and entertaining, perhaps especially because she doesn't shy away from all those naughty things we ladies discuss.  To say that laugh out loud moments abound in this book is an understatement.  And happily, there's no shortage of steamy stuff, either.

Love doesn't always come in the neatly-wrapped packages we've requested.  Okay, actually, it almost never does.  Sometimes love is a pug named Drama (I doubt it's a spoiler to say Kate's view of that little guy softens), and sometimes…  Well, just read the book.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

{Karen E. Martin is a seasoned traveler, having served as a Peace Corps volunteer for two years in Morocco and having worked for the U.S. Department of State in Romania and Jordan, among other adventures.  Fittingly, her next work is the second in her "On the Road with Karen" series - a new travelogue, tentatively titled “A (St)roll Through South America” will follow her journey through Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina with her mother – in a wheelchair.}

Do It Right

Two weeks ago, the New York Jets signed quarterback Michael Vick to a contract worth a reported $5 million.  This is a man convicted of long-term involvement in a dogfighting operation so brutal and sadistic, I will not go into details here.  If you need specifics, you can link here to the case study by the Animal Legal Defense Fund, but be warned; I wish I did not know people could enjoy such cruelty.

And Michael Vick, this convicted felon who personally participated in the torture and killing of animals bred for companionship and loyalty to humans, was not only reinstated by the NFL, but continues to be extremely well-paid.  He is held up as a hero.

It’s a notion I find difficult to reconcile with my general view that life is good, people are good.  Dogs have consistently enriched my life, often leaving me in awe of their capacity for trust, loyalty and forgiveness.  The idea that a person could enjoy causing harm to such amazing creatures is beyond me, and that such a person could be embraced by a team sports community to the tune of many millions of dollars is unfathomable.

In my heart, I’ve held my own little boycott of the NFL since Vick was reinstated in 2009.  But as the Super Bowl is the only game I’ve ever watched in full (and okay…I admit it…I watch for the commercials), I suspect the NFL isn’t exactly missing me.

What, then, could I possibly do?

As I laced up my shoes for a run the other day, the light bulb went on.  That little Nike swoosh on my running shoes, my socks, my swim suits, even my sports bras.  That’s the logo of a company that has defended their continued relationship with Michael Vick.  As the saying goes, every dollar you spend is a vote for the kind of world you want.

I realized that with every dollar I spent on Nike sports gear, with every step I ran or stroke I swam adorned with that swoosh logo, I was voting for Michael Vick.

Perhaps I should have thought twice about spending money on Nike products when they stood by the likes of Tiger Woods or Lance Armstrong.  Those are two deeply flawed people, and their actions certainly hurt others.  The distinction, though, is an important one.  Are we really surprised when it turns out some sports superstars are self-centered egomaniacs?  That they would lie to their wives, cheat their fans?  Probably not.  But we should be surprised - and deeply concerned - when it turns out one is a sadist.

I’ve heard a number of arguments in defense of Michael Vick’s continued sports stardom.  That he made a mistake, for example.  We all make mistakes, right?  We’re all human.

Michael Vick did not make a mistake.  He didn’t have a bad day and kick a puppy in a moment of anger.  The sadism involved in the Michael Vick case is beyond disturbing. This is not a crime for which one can do his time and return to be a productive member of society. This is a violent individual who should not be held up as a hero in any sphere. And make no mistake about it; NFL players are heroes to kids everywhere.  

I’ve also heard the argument that Michael Vick served his time and should be allowed to get on with his life.  Yes, he served his time (light as the sentence was).  That’s all well and good.  Let him live out his life in quiet infamy.  Preferably far, far away from me.  Don’t give him a platform and a pedestal.

As for the argument that Michael Vick is truly sorry for his behavior and intends to become a better person, that’s between him and a higher power.  He certainly couldn’t become a worse person, and I do hope he knows that.  I hope he thinks back on the torture he found funny (funny!) and feels a remorse equivalent to the suffering he caused.  I hope it’s true that he’s changed, though personally I don’t think I’d ever believe it.

Yet the fact remains: even if he has changed, Michael Vick did things too evil to undo.  He may be deserving of forgiveness, but he is not deserving of an NFL jersey.  He is certainly not deserving of the lucrative contract Nike has bestowed upon him.

Think of how many hardworking young athletes would love a chance to play as Vick does, to be adored as Vick is.  Michael Vick is not so special as to be irreplaceable.  I always believed the greatest lessons in athletics were about being one’s best self.  It’s time to teach kids that success means being not just a good ball player, but a good person.

So I bid adieu to my Nike gear.  I’m just one little person, a slow runner and occasional sprint triathlete.  I don’t imagine Nike will miss me any more than the NFL does.  But if you share my feelings about Michael Vick’s crimes, you can pile up your Nike gear and toss it, too.  You can vote with your dollars, your miles logged in training and races, the sweat you leave on the field of your favorite sport.

You and I can tell Nike that it’s not enough to “just do it.”

You have to do it right.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

P.S.  Brooks’ entire line of running shoes are vegan, if that matters to you.  They’re replacing the swooshes on my feet.

Check out this excellent New York Post opinion piece, Why We Can’t Forget Michael Vick’s Dogfighting Past.

And while most dogs rescued from dogfighting rings either die or are euthanized shortly thereafter, a few of the approximately 50 live dogs taken from Michael Vick's Bad Newz Kennels went through an extensive rehabilitation process and found new lives.  Dogtown documented their stories.  Just keep the Kleenex handy.

Beyond Desperation

Forgive me if today’s book blog post seems a smidge familiar.  A while back, I hosted author Anthony Paull for a fun collaboration: a conversation between the unlikely heroines of each of our novels.  My post this Tuesday was about failure, perseverance, growth and humor in ‘real life,’ and that got me thinking about those qualities in fiction.  This, in turn, brought me back to Anthony Paull and his novel Desperation Lingers.  It is arguably the second-strangest book I have ever wholeheartedly loved (The Love Song of Monkey by Michael S.A. Graziano holds steady in first place).  In spite of its surreal qualities, I found it immensely relatable.  I never thought I’d consider a plunger a symbol of freedom and defiance, but sometimes you really do need to break out the ugly tools to separate the muck from the men.

So here’s my (five star) review of Desperation Lingers, the e-book version of which happens to be on sale at the moment for only 99 cents.  Or if you’re feeling like a big spender, you can splurge on one of those paper-and-ink thingys.  Those who are my kind of weird will find this to be a book worth reading more than once.

Enjoy!

Where to begin?

How to describe Desperation?

Anthony Paull has created characters and a story unlike anything I’ve read before - and that’s a good thing.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have a personal love affair with Miami that may have slightly predisposed me to enjoy this novel. I was born there and my frequent return visits feel like soul-deep homecomings. That Paull so perfectly captures the flavor and quirks of the city that is my “woman hood” made me smile

That said, this isn’t a story for everyone. But it should be. Desperation Lingersreads initially like a farce, with characters and events so absurd and larger-than-life, it’s a cross between Shakespeare and Tom Robbins, with maybe a dash of community theatre and a hint of Miami-fied BBC sitcom.

Got it?

The genius of Desperation lies not just in Paull’s outrageous characters, hilarious observations, and perfect turns of phrase, but in his ability to turn the world of this novel on end every time the reader thinks she’s got a grasp on things. To be frank, this is a book with an unlovable protagonist, and if not for the colorful world Desperation inhabits, I might not have cared enough to read past the first few chapters. Desperation is a brusque, physically-unappealing aging alcoholic whose level of self-absorption is impressive even by South Beach standards.

Except that she’s not.

In Paull’s skilled hands, this unlovable woman is transformed. I don’t want to say too much, because the ultimate beauty of this novel is the stunning twists and turns it takes - particularly in the rollicking final quarter - but I will say this: tough it out past those points where you want to throttle Desperation and you’ll be rewarded. She has good reason to be hard and staid, and she could easily have remained the caricature she seemed at the outset. In the end, though, her absurd qualities are her most endearing and enduring, and this larger-than-life tale shrinks beautifully until it is just about heart-sized.

If you believe people truly can change, or if you’ve ever felt disapproval from a Frieda Kahlo portrait and wished you could change, this book is for you.

If not, this book is also for you.

Grab a plunger and wave it proudly. Desperation Lingers is not what she seems.

And neither are you.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Conscious Uncoupling

Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin recently made headlines when they announced the end of their marriage, perhaps less because of the split and more because of their use of the term "Conscious Uncoupling."  While some explored the concept earnestly, it was widely derided - this is, after all, a couple who named their first child Apple, and Ms. Goop is the poster child for all things flighty and New Age-y.

But it gave me pause.  We as a society love cliches and catch phrases when they're the equivalent of a battle cry toward success.  What repels us about the idea of trying to find civility in failure?

Back in the Stone Age, as I completed my senior year of high school, I was thrilled to be selected to deliver an honor essay at graduation.  Thrilled, but if I'm honest, not surprised.  The honor essay competition consisted of taking a quote provided by the powers that be and weaving words around it to a predictable, graduation-ceremony-appropriate end.  The quote, from Andre Gide, was standard commencement fare: "Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore."  I was good with words, better at leaping through hoops.  I took that quote, spun it in the direction my teachers and school administrators expected, and then spit the trite piece out from the podium at graduation.  I'm sure my classmates and their families alike fought to remain conscious as I went on.  And on.

The funny thing was, I knew what a farce the whole exercise was.  "Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore."  Well, duh!  Who the hell were these fools afraid to lose sight of the shore?  Who, at seventeen or eighteen - perhaps particularly at our provincial high school - wasn't utterly ecstatic at the prospect of discovering new oceans?  I, for one, was beyond ready.

Except, as it turned out, I wasn't.

I left my provincial high school certain I was destined for great things, and I went on to fail spectacularly.  I had a scholarship to an enviable college, and I let an eating disorder and depression take it from me.  I gained admission to another impressive school, and I let important paperwork slip, rendering enrollment impossible.  I married, had a child, and divorced, more or less in that order.  I made a career of a job I'd intended to hold temporarily.  I found and dated every emotional train wreck within a considerable radius.  I felt myself shrinking under the weight of the chip on my shoulder.  I was a master of self-sabotage, yet I wondered why my life wasn't improving.

And then, about a decade or so ago, a shift began to happen.  A friend introduced me to the work of Dr. Susan Gregg, whose approach to life I initially found insufferably optimistic.  Yet it's funny the way the human mind and heart work: once a door is opened, it can't be closed.  Considering the possibility of the world as Dr. Gregg saw it led to considering other possibilities.  Slowly, my very paradigm of life shifted.  I gave thanks for the short-lived marriage that gave me an amazing child to love and learn from.  I felt grateful for the career that sustained me as I began doing more of the creative work I loved.  I stopped dating the train wrecks and gave marriage with a reasonably decent human a shot.

And you know what?  I continued to fail.  I still fail.  All the damn time, to be perfectly blunt - it's part of this pesky business of being human.  But at least I now have a sense of humor about it.  I accept it as part of the journey, and I do my best to turn negatives into positives.

That was my gut reaction to the news of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin's "Conscious Uncoupling" - they were doing their best to turn a negative into a positive.  This pair of people so accustomed to success had failed at something important, but they weren't going to let the failure define them or their family.  There would be no knock-down, dragged-out battles to feed tabloid headlines.  They would protect their children and work through the failure of their marriage with civility and love.

Funny?  No.

Admirable.

I may not have had much use for the Andre Gide quote assigned to me at graduation, but this quote from Erich Fromm rings true:

"The task we must set for ourselves is not to feel secure, but to be able to tolerate insecurity."

Insecurity has been a companion for more of my life than I'd have liked.  But it's a companion I've learned to tolerate well.

Even as I edge the bastard off onto the sidelines.

www.kcwilder50ways.com