Howl's Moving Castle

By Diana Wynne Jones

5/5

(By the by the above cover is not the cover of the copy I read. That cover was an atrocity. I refuse to have such an eyesore on my blog. Thus my reasoning in finding a picture of another copy's cover.)

I can't believe I haven't read this book before now! I knew from the very first page it was just the sort of book I would fall in love with. I love twists on fairytales.

"...It is quite a misfortune to be born the eldest of three. Everyone knows you are the one who will fail first, and worst, if the three of you set out to seek your fortunes. Sophie Hatter was the eldest of three sisters. She was not even the child of a poor woodcutter, which might have given her some chance of success."

See what I mean? As soon as I had read that paragraph I knew that this was a book that would find a place in my heart. I grinned manically at the page muttering in Captain America form "I understood that reference." This book was referencing my childhood. My childhood of fairytales. This was a good book. I knew this already- and I was only on the first page.

The rest of the book did not disappoint. Howl was hilarious. I was actually giggling out loud. There's something so endearing about Howl, even when he's sulking like a child. Actually, perhaps that's what I found the funniest. Sophie waggling her finger and nosing around the castle, and Howl putting up a fuss and telling her to stop cleaning everything she touched. The way he's described sulking and then suddenly flashing a smile at her and prancing off! Goodness gracious.

Actually, I loved all the characters. Michael is such a sweetheart and Calcifer is interesting to say the least, dear Sophie, and of course Howl.

There was only one chapter that I felt was a little bit drawn out, but other than that it was entirely and utterly enjoyable. It reminded me of Patricia C. Wrede and I do, do love her books. I have the other two books in the Howl's Moving Castle series on my nightstand (at least I think it's a series? Perhaps they're only connected in some form rather than being a series.) Anyhow, I'm very excited to read them both. I think there's also an animated film of some sort? I haven't seen it, but I know several people who have and like it a lot. I'll have to find it.

If you haven't read Howl's Moving Castle you really should find it. (Try to find the copy without the atrocious cover. As I said, monstrosity.) It's funny, has enough fairytale in it to warm your heart, and is just all round adorable. That is all.

Matched

By Ally Condie

4/5

 

I think this is the first book I've read where I've found myself appreciating first person present tense. I was reading book reviews about Matched before I picked it up myself and I kept hearing the same things "beautiful writing" "like poetry" (paraphrasing) so that was something I was paying close attention to from the very beginning, and I would have to say I agree. I still dislike first person present tense as a writing style for the majority of the time but I think in this instance it worked. Especially when we look at the plot it went along with. It somehow fit the storyline and made the whole thing flow. It did remind me of poetry, very drifting and musical, feeding you the characters emotions through words that dwelled on the way the silky green dress felt and the way the lingering dirt on a rock looked. Most YA fiction is very plot driven so the writing style to this book made me happy. Not that I have anything against plot driven books, but it's refreshing to see books like this making an appearance.

 

( I guess part of the reason that I've been reading more YA fiction these days is because I'm a writer. I want to publish my own books someday. It feels a bit one sided, if that makes sense, to be dreaming of publishing my stories and hoping to have them read, when I have hardly read any of current titles. It's also been really interesting, and I've found quite a few of them that I've enjoyed. Plus, it's fun to review YA. There's always plenty to talk about. You have things that you really enjoyed and things that you really disliked. It's no fun to talk about a book that you found nothing to dislike in. You end up just repeating "I just really loved it. You really ought to read." This got a bit off topic but I was really just going to say that as a writer I really enjoyed the writing style in Matched. Bravo, Ally Condie, and I approve of all the book reviews I've read commenting on the writing.)

 

Can I just say that all dystopian novels that I've read have had the same affect on me? I end up walking away feeling very, very thankful. Sure, there's a lot of problems in our world today, but lets take a moment to count our blessings, shall we? Yes, we still have cancer, but would we want to live in Matched where the government is saying who you should marry to ensure good genes matching with good genes leading to a population of perfectly healthy people and thus eliminating cancer? Sure, there's a problem with over eating and under eating, but just take a moment to feel thankful that you know the taste of deliciously baked food, and that your diet isn't being overseen and restricted to the perfect amount of calories. Sure, there are rotten books and music out there, but gosh am I thankful there are if it means that we have an equal amount of GOOD books and GOOD music being created. Would we want to live in a world with just one hundred books and one hundred songs and no creating of anything new? I say long live that rotten paperback being sold at the grocery store if that means a book as good as that one is bad is being written at the same time!

 

Also, I think Matched presents a very good example of what happens when we lose our value for human life. In this story the government sets a year that you get to live to (I think it's eighty) and you get to live till that birthday- and then they kill you. They say it's eliminating all the horrors of old age, sickness and dementia etc. YOU SEE WHERE I'M GOING? It's a very slippery slope, people. First we convince ourselves that abortion is okay, suddenly we're saying it's okay to say "hey, you've reached your eightieth birthday, that's it. Done. Over." Where's the line? /Pro-Life speech for the day.

 

I will say I found the love triangle a bit annoying. I mean, it was better than most. It actually had a point to it, which most love triangles don't, but why are you playing with my emotions like that, book? I don't need this right now. I always, always end up feeling sorry for the poor little third corner of the triangle even if I originally liked the second corner better. Pet peeve = love triangles.

 

On another note, I would like to mention that there was nothing holding me back from recommending it wholeheartedly. No violence etc. (unique in the dystopian genre...) I wouldn't say it's my favorite book of all time, but it's won honorable mention on my list.

 

 

Devergent

By Veronica Roth

4/5

Oh my goodness, I could not put this book down. I read it in less than twenty-four hours and it's a thick book. (Actually, I have to say it's the perfect size. Nice and plump and yet not so thick that it would smash your face in if you dropped it while holding it over your head. Of course, it might give you a bruise but as long as the danger is not life threatening, allowances must be made for plump books. Besides, it would technically be our fault dropping books on our heads. Obviously I don't trust myself when it comes to anvil like books in close proximity to my head.)

Divergent is a dystopian novel (I've read a couple of these the past couple weeks and Divergent has been my favorite so far. That is, if we're not counting Fahrenheit 451. It's an interesting genre.) In this book society has been split into five different factions, each dedicated to upholding one particular virtue: Selflessness, Intelligence, Courage, Peace, or Honesty. On their sixtieth birthday the children of this society must choose which fraction (and virtue) they wish to dedicate their lives to. They may either choose to stay with their parents in the faction they've grown up in, or choose a different faction and separate themselves entirely from their previous lives. A person who is "divergent" shows equal strength in more than one virtue (basically a normal human being, right?) and thus considered dangerous.

What I found fascinating about this book was the idea of dedicating your life to one virtue. It's really thought provoking. Right at the beginning I found myself wondering alongside Tris which faction I would choose if given the choice. I started comparing the value of each virtue; comparing the lifestyles. Which really proves the point doesn't it? The people of this story weren't being forced into submission by an all powerful government (something you see in dystopian novels) they were choosing this life for themselves. (Of course, if they hadn't chosen something bad would most likely have happened, but that aside, THEY WERE CHOOSING) The problem is that all virtues are tied together; out of selflessness comes courage etc. and when we eliminate the other virtues we have an incomplete virtue. The whole point is off. Instead of valuing intelligence as something to be used for the benefit of others, it is used to gain power and riches. Besides which human beings are by nature complicated, their decisions and the conclusions they come to are created by a massive amount of different factors. When we look at a people focused on one thing and one thing only, we are looking at a very disturbing image.

It's a good example at why extremism is so bad. There needs to be some middle ground, a place where people from both sides can come to a compromise. I was doing some research recently for an essay I had to write on political gridlock, and this reminds me of that. Even if something might be good to begin with, when it is blown out of proportion and taken to extremes it loses the original object.

In the end, I started thinking about how beautiful humanity is. God gave us the ability to feel more than one emotion at a time, to think more than one thought. We were given free will and intellect, the ability to be compassionate as well as honest with one another, courageous as well as selfless. People are complicated, and that's what makes them so beautiful. We have the ability to go above and beyond any calculated expectation.

I probably would have given this book 5/5 except for the amount of violence. Too much. There were a couple bits that would make me hesitate to recommend it to everyone. Also. Can I just take a moment to say how much I dislike first person present tense? Ugh. Why is this writing style so popular right now? Present tense is pretty and poetic when used in small doses. VERY small doses. Please, dear young adult authors, no more first person present tense. I'm begging you. It's not poetic. It's robotic. Thank you.

I'm thinking...

I've often thought how hard it is to write down what you are thinking. It's almost nigh impossible. Thoughts are fickle things, you see. At the present moment I am thinking of half a dozen things, and yet I can only write on one. In the object of order and coherency it is necessary to stick to one train of thought, and yet the thoughts in your mind are in no such order. Thoughts, they flit in and out of your mind with no particular care for coherency. I'm thinking of rain falling on the pond, it looks like spots appearing as if a disease all across the pond's brown surface, or like spots on a Dalmatian. Then my mind goes back to the original thought and dwells on the shape of the raindrops falling. I remember watching a video about how the artists created the rain in Bambi, they filled a dropper with milk and watched slow motion videos of the milk dripping down and splashing into the bowl.
All of a sudden that train of thought is lost in thinking about the play I'm in. I think about how much I enjoy playing two characters in one play. I think about how I can make these characters as different as possible from each other, and how I'm planning on changing my hairstyle at least twice during the course of the play. I'm thinking about how easy it would be to talk too quickly, having each word we utter in the play memorized. Then I'm thinking about conversation. Sometimes I think out how conversations will go beforehand, I think about what I should say and how I should say it. In a sense I'm trying to memorize my conversation beforehand, as if it were simply an act in a play. But life rarely gives you an opportunity to speak that memorized speech, or at least as you planned it. Life is an adventure, not a play to memorize. We might think we know someone, but we will never know for sure what goes through their mind, what words will come out of their mouth. I suppose that's what makes me nervous about my interview for the scholarship on Thursday, I hope I do well, but I won't have a chance to think out my responses. I like to have time to think.
That's why I like writing so much. When you write you can put into words thoughts that you have been turning around in your mind for years and years. In most stories I've written I've found myself writing out thoughts about events from years ago. I always think what I'm writing is fictional, and then I read over it again and I find that I've put bits of myself into every character. Bits of me are scattered throughout the stories, the best of me and the worst of me. I remember talking about this a while back with a good friend, she asked if a part of my story was "real" and I said immediately "Oh no." because I thought it wasn't. It was completely from my imagination that story, I've never been in a situation similar to my heroine, I couldn't think of anyone more dissimilar than myself, but suddenly this heroine was spouting out thoughts I'd had myself. Those thoughts were mine and hers together. It's really interesting to think as you read of the author who has written this story. Writing is about digging into your soul. There is no way to write without sharing bits and pieces of yourself even if that is not your intention. I don't mean copying yourself and your life. No, that's not what I mean at all. I mean writing someone else's story, and then finding yourself in a brief thought or word that flouts through the story.
Now I've completely lost what I was thinking about when I started writing these thoughts on writing. I was going to talk about my interview on Thursday, but we'll leave that for now. It'll turn out as it turns out.

I'm reading...

Right now I'm reading Waking Rose by Regina Doman out loud to my brother. Waking Rose is my favorite of her books. I love that book because there's so many layers to it. Even though I've read it many times I still find something different in it. It's a story mixed with bits of reality and fantasy, with daily life at a Catholic College and with knights and ladies fighting for what is good and right. My favorite characters in it are the Knights of the Sacra Cor. They are funny and sweet, courageous and ready to stand up for what they believe. Then of course, there's Fish and Rose. Fish has always been the character I've loved most in her books, even in the first one. Which is funny because upon reading over them again he really isn't in the first book very much. Only two or three brief scenes, and yet I loved him best even then? Waking Rose is really his story. One of the things I really like about Regina Doman is that she doesn't pass over the after affects. You see characters in plenty of adventure books that have terrible things happen to them, and yet in the very next book they're back to their usual selves, tragic pasts being forgotten in the next adventure. Not so with the Fairy Tale Novels. We see Fish continually struggling with his past. His memories of the past are harder for him to deal with then when the actual event was taking place. When I read this book for the first time I didn't understand all that was going on, but now that I do I love it even more. It deals with some pretty deep topics, but what you're taking from it really depends on the place you are in when you're reading it. I also love Fish and Rose's relationship and how it blossoms. It gives a very real picture of love and what it's about. It isn't sappy love at first sight, nor is it a case of mutual dislike turned upside down (ugh it drives me nuts when this happens). It's shows love as a choice. My favorite bit about this is how Fish doesn't come to care for Rose in that way till he consciously opens up to her. He makes the decision to trust her and that is the beginning of something beautiful. Their relationship is that of a friendship blossomed into something that much closer and more beautiful.

I'm wearing...

A blue dress.

Outside my window...

The canoe has been hoisted half way up the hill and is now resting in the daisies between the pond and my window. Just beyond it a shadow divides the lawn. Dew drops can be seen on each blade of grass in this shadowed area, beyond the great divide the sun has dried all morning dew and the daisies have unfurled themselves. (Now that I have put you to sleep with my description of the outside world I shall proceed. Such a description would only be interesting if I tossed a character or two in there. Perhaps a dark and mysterious figure in the shade and sunny faced pleasant character in the sun. Don't mind me. I'm babbling.)

 I'm creating...

I'm determined to finish the letters I've started writing. I really do need to get them in the mail. I'm a fearful procrastinator sometimes and I've been neglecting my correspondence horrendously. Then I'm wracked with guilt.

I'm thinking...

Isn't it funny how things can change over the course of a year? Everything changes. It changes as a year passes, as a month goes by, as each day turns into the next. We change- but never entirely. We grow from the single building block we were to begin with to a castle of blocks. Parts of that castle are knocked over, our clumsy hands have knocked down what we were trying to form, but the blocks are lying on the ground waiting to be picked up and placed back into position. Each event, each memory, each success and each mistake, meshing together, forming our castle. There's the story Mom and Dad told me of how I sobbed when I first watched Hercules at age three, saying "He shouldn't leave his Mommy and Daddy." Time passes and I'm ten, waiting for my parents to return from a weekend trip, knowing that my grandparents are worried because I've been sulky all day long. "I just want to go home. I just want my parents home." I mummer grumpily to a pillow. Time goes by yet again and I've just turned thirteen. I'm laying in a bunk bed at a summer camp repeating over and over again to myself "I don't want to be here. I'm calling Dad and Mom in the morning. I'm not staying here. I don't like it." Then all of a sudden I'm sixteen and on a bus traveling through Europe. I glance out a window and let myself sniffle a bit. I miss home and my family, but as I look out the window I know I wouldn't go home that instant if I could. I would still wait till my trip was ended, even though it hurt. Then I'm seventeen, kneeling in a little chapel on a college campus, thinking this is where I want to be. I want to go here. Isn't it funny how people change? Funny, and beautiful.

I'm reading...

Rapunzel Let Down by Regina Doman. Wow. I don't quite know what to say. Everything feels real in this book. It breaks your heart. The world seems very dark and everything has gone black. There is so much very real pain. It hurts. Really, really hurts. Then you are filled with peace and there's beauty coming out of the darkness. The whole theme of this book is how God can take something bad, something ugly, and through His grace, something beautiful is brought about. It's very- real. That's all I can say. Her other books are books that I read over and over again because I love them. They make me happy whenever I read them and go to them when I'm looking for an old favorite. Rapunzel Let Down isn't like that. It isn't the sort of book you would read again and again because you enjoy it, but it is the sort of book that will last in your mind. Something to think about, to ponder. It's because part of it hurts so much that what follows is so beautiful and makes you feel so peaceful. It goes back to how without suffering we wouldn't understand what joy is, without dark we wouldn't understand light, but that doesn't make you stop wishing that it hadn't happened. If only they had chosen differently, if only sin didn't exist. Because their lives were destroyed before something beautiful came from the destruction, and it doesn't have to be that way. It shouldn't be. I'm probably putting this badly and I haven't quite finished it so I haven't yet finished sorting out my thoughts, but...I just, wow.

Outside my window...

Everything is looking very, very green. Green grass. Brilliant green leaves. Darker Green trees. Green bushes. Green.

I'm listening to...

the Loreena McKennett station on Pandora. I love this music because so much of it is old poetry that's been put into song. I love listening to the words of this music.

I'm creating...

I started knitting again at the last rehearsal of Much Ado About Nothing (did I mention I'm taking part in a play?) and I want to keep going with my red slouchy hat again. I always forget when I'm not knitting how much I enjoy knitting. Though, I'm not watching murder mysteries while knitting late at night again. I don't think I've quite recovered from last time I was silly enough to do that. Miss Marple, indeed.

Also, on a creative note, I thought it would be fun to try and make one of those video book reviews. I always write them, and it would be sort of fun to try making them in video form for once. At least to try it out.

A picture thought I'm sharing...

This is one of the pictures of the tulip fields that Mom took yesterday. Look at the gorgeous tulips!

In the Name of the Star

By Maureen Johnson

2/5

(Aaaand I feel like I'm going to be negative for my first of the book reviews. Sowwy. Last book I read)

When I began this book I literally had no idea what it was about. It was one of three books that were placed in my hand by someone at work about a week ago. I don't think I had even heard the name before that moment.

Basically the story is about a seventeen year old named Rory. She is going to London to attend school for a year. London is in a panic because there's a bunch of murders taking place- murders that seem to be mimicking the murders of Jack the Ripper.

Basically, gruesome is a good word.

Very, very gruesome.

(Can I just take a moment to say I am very confused by the cover after having read it? First of all I really have no idea who the girl is supposed to be. The main character does not have red hair and never does she curl up in a ball on the ground. I mean. Wut. There is a girl mentioned in a newspaper who is said to have red hair but she is mentioned only once during the entire story? Why would the cover picture depict her? Secondly, the shadowy figure in the background is clearly dressed in regency garb and I can only assume it is supposed to be the original Jack the Ripper but as he is not the real villain of this story I am again brought to...why? I don't know, the cover just doesn't make sense to me.)

SPOILERS BELOW.

So I guess it should have been obvious to me from the beginning that this was a ghost story. Actually, it sort of was, but I kept hoping I would be proved wrong and it was all some mastermind plan created by man. You know, non-dead man.

I guess this is a personal preference and I just really don't like ghosts in stories. I find them very unbelievable and I'm not sure why. I'm not usually that person who complains about believability. For the most part I'll swallow anything. You could tell me that the main character jumped from a flaming building, turned part cyborg, had an obsession with unicorns and ate only celery and I would nod my head happily and go along with it. So I'm not sure why it is that as soon as a ghost is mentioned I roll my eyes and sigh. It doesn't bother me much as long as they're nonessential to the storyline, but if they're heavily involved in the plot of the thing I find it all rather a bore. I guess that this is because I feel like it's a bit of an easy way out. "Oh so all these murders are happening but nobody can see the murderer in any of the security cameras? SURPRISE WE HAVE A GHOST."

My other problem with this story was that we don't find out for sure that this is a ghost story until half way (?) through the book. I think this was intentionally done but for me this added to the unbelievability. For half of the story we see a normal girl going to a normal (ish) school and everything is normal (we have some questions in our minds as to the weird kid who sits in the dark, sure, but questions are what keep our interest) and then the entire story turns around at the half way point and we have a ghost story.

This brings me to the part of this book I like the most; the relationships between all the characters. (Which is funny because I honestly didn't feel all that attached to any one of them individually) However, I found it very interesting thinking about how Rory's viewpoint changes over the course of the story. Everything changes for her. At the beginning she forms all these normal friendships, with Jazza and Jerome, but after seeing ghosts she just can't go back to these normal friendships she had. What I liked about this was the parallel I found myself drawing with this fantasy situation and a real life one. Rory's friendships at the beginning were the friendships of a child and you could compare the changes that affect her once she starts seeing ghosts with the changes of a child that is forced to quickly grow to an adult. Watching her try to slip back into her friendships with Jazza and Jerome were like watching an adult trying to pick up a friendship with someone who hasn't grown up yet, who is still a child. I found that an interesting thought. Sad, but interesting.

In the end I don't think I would read this book again, and unless I was really desperate I don't think I would be searching out the sequels. My overall reaction was "Eh."

In it's favor I did read it all the way through, but I felt like I was forcing myself at times.

I'm thinking...

I really want to start blogging on a regular basis again. Not just journaling pages, but real blog posts. Especially book reviews. I frequently say I'm going to start posting book reviews- but then I read so many books that I get overwhelmed and don't know what to say. This time I'm really going to start writing them. I am. I love reading other peoples book reviews and they always make me want to post some myself. They will be book reviews with plenty of spoilers however, so be warned. (I shall put a spoiler warning at the top of each post). My favorite book blog is Sarah's and I really like her method of rating books (See: http://thearomaofbooks.wordpress.com/about/ratings-method-of-fictional-work/)

I also made a new GoodReads account: http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/12739408-emily so if you have one do do find me because it's much funner if you know plenty of people.

Outside my window...

Looking outside today makes me long for summer. Of course, I don't exactly want to skip spring, but I'm so looking forward to long sunny days, curled up in a patch of sunlight reading. Yes, this is the way I think about summer. I think about reading in a warm patch of sunlight.

One of my favorite things...

This video is pretty much my favorite thing on the Internet right now. Yep. Pretty much.

I'm reading...

Divergent by Veronica Roth. *emits inhuman squealing noises* I don't know how else to put it but keyboard smashing AIUGHDGKHAGKH. (The Internet has taken it's toll on yours truly.)

I'm wearing...

Jeans and a grey dress over top. Undignified, yes. Comfy, also yes. Besides this dress is too short to wear without pants, but it's too comfy to throw away. I wear it only at home days. Now you know my secrets. Guard them well.

A few plans for the rest of the week...

I shall write my first book review this week. There it is, written in black and white. No backing down now. Not even if procrastination and laziness swallow my soul and I whither up beneath their evil claws. Wow, that sentence went melodramatic, and I'm not even going to backspace. What is the world coming to?

Also, schoolwork.

Also, reading.

Also, writing. I'M A NOVEL WRITER (...I cry pathetically as unwritten words wrap around me and crush me to the floor) I SHALL NOT BE DEFEATED.

Obviously, I'm in a melodramatic mood.

A Quote I'm sharing...

My birthday is coming up this week, and that made me think of this quote. I remember stumbling on it a little while ago and loving it. I've never read the story it's from, but I like the quote so much that I am definitely planning on it. I believe it's from a short story called Eleven by Sandra Cisneros. Beyond that I really don't know much about the story, but it's a lovely quote. Bear with me since it's a little longer than quotes I would normally post. It's the perfect quote for the week of a birthday.

"What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are — underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is."

Muddy Roads and Books

Outside my window

Today is a day that verges along the edge of a boundary, a line, that separates Fall and Winter. Perhaps if I lived somewhere else I would definitely describe it as Fall weather; cloudy skies, green grass tipped with frost, muddy roads, but for us, it has a hinting of Winter. Not that Winter is even supposed to begin until the end of the month (doesn’t that seem rather silly to you? December seems such a wintery month to me, and yet Winter doesn’t even begin till the last few days.) When I look out my window what I really want to describe most is mud. Dark, chocolaty brown mud. I like mud. That is, I like mud when I slip on my extra tall boots (courtesy of last Christmas and my increasing need for boots) and trump about in a road of mud. Mud that squishes, squelches, and sticks to the bottom of the old boots.

 I’m reading

The Book Thief (so far I’m really enjoying it. I’m about ten chapters in I think, and it’s really well written and absorbing. I dislike how the book is broken up with these bolded sections between paragraphs, it’s rather jolting, but so far that’s my only complaint. Then again I’m still near the beginning)

Skipping Christmas (This is a reread. I recommend. It always makes me laugh.)

A Wodehouse story from my Just enough Jeeves story collection.

I’m  finding my list of books increasing by dozen as I’ve been going through Sarah’s book blogs, and really, I want to read anything she suggests. I have a great big long list of books to find now.

From the Kitchen

Cold coffee sitting on the tabletop.

A few plans for the rest of the week

I’ve been filling out a new address book, slowly but surely. Who knew it could take such a long time? I’m about half way through. I also need to finish filling out Christmas cards, but extra envelopes are necessary. Also, I would like to create some Christmas ornaments and things. That’s always such fun.

I’m creating

Well, I believe I covered what I’m creating in the prompt above, but I do also need to finish up my doll. I want to have it all ready to give to Ella on Christmas.

I’m listening to

Squealing children running up and down the stairs, thump, thump, thump.

 

 

Of Writing and The Hobbit

I'm reading...

Perhaps I should begin with what I'm reading, as that is what is on my mind at the moment. Sorcery and Cecelia Or The Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Patricia C. Wrede and Caroline Stevermer. Don't you just hate it when you reach the most absorbing and altogether interesting point in a story, and it's just at that point that you have to put it down? Now I don't mean to complain, but really. When you are forced to leave your heroine in the most horrendous of circumstances how are you supposed to put your mind to anything else? You may appear to be thinking about the many things you ought to be thinking about, but really you're just thinking of the book.
This is especially the case if it's a good book such as the one I'm reading right now. At first I was rather put off by the fact that it is written in letter form, which is really a difficult way to tell a story, you know. Because just when you're getting into the telling of the story, and you forget that it really is a story at all, you are reminded by the ending of one letter and starting of the next. So, yes, it's a harder style to write without loosing your reader's attention, but I think the authors of this book succeed at it. Now that I'm reaching the end I'm really hooked (I must admit that the letter styling did bother me till a good six chapters into the story.)
I was also a trifle unsure about the regency setting, considering that it was also a fantasy story (not usually a pairing one finds.) I do think that it sounds a trifle funny to be having references to Lady Jersey and talk of enchanted chocolate pots in the same sentences. It makes me laugh. No wonder the dedication was to Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, and J.R.R. Tolkien.

I'm creating...

(Or, in other words, NaNoWriMo update!) Dear me, um, I do believe that I may possibly be starting over? *ducks head and hides from all bystanders* I know, I know, remember what I said, what was it two days ago? Keeping on with it and all that rot? Well, you see, I just can't stand my main character. It isn't that she's hate-able (I might be able to stand her if she was) and she isn't likable either. One can't connect with her. Then I started reading an old story of mine, about a character called Mary-Agnes. Honestly, she's probably my favorite character that I've ever written, and yet the story feels rather badly written I wrote it so long ago. So now I'm writing a whole new story about her. Starting NaNoWriMo over again five days into it? Bad done, Emily. Badly done. (Did I really just quote Mr. Knightly, there? Yes, yes I did. Changing Emma for Emily and there we are.) How shall you ever catch up on 8,334 words while still maintaining a consistent 1,667 words a day besides that? I really don't know. All I can say is I better get back to writing.

Also, on a slightly differing creative note, I just restarted my knit dress for my knit doll. (Dear me, that's a lot of starting again on things, isn't it?) but I dropped some stitches and I needed to unravel the whole thing so there we are. I do think it's going to turn out rather cute though.

I'm listening to...

The Brave soundtrack on youtube. I really like it. It's my favorite right now.

Outside my window...

Don't you just love fall? *sentimental sigh*

One of my favorite things...

Holiday coffee cups. They're just lovely. They make me happy.

A few plans for the rest of the week...

Having a smashing good week of school, work, and being generally productive (such as writing out some essays for my college application.) Other than that NaNoWriMo takes over.

I'd also rather like to go down to Barnes and Noble since I have a gift card (Is this a yes, Mama? Yes, please?)

I'm wearing...

Jeans, a cream sweater, and a grey vintage looking hat (I'm rather in love with this hat). Also, on the subject of hairstyles I've figured out this way to put my hair up in a bun and it's really quite lovely. You twist it all up with the cuff of a sock (that you have cut down for that purpose) and tie it off with a rubber band or two. It really makes me feel quite happy.

A picture thought I'm sharing...

Did I mention we carved Avenger style pumpkins?

 

Also, (because everyone needs to get as excited for The Hobbit as I am)...

 



EVERYONE. HOBBIT. THE HOBBIT. LESS THAN TWO MONTHS. EVERYONE. THE HOBBIT. ARE YOU EXCITED? I'M EXCITED. SO EXCITED.

MARTIN FREEMAN IS THE PERFECT BILBO. HE IS ADORABLE PERFECTION. AND RICHARD ARMITAGE. MR. THORTON. DO YOU SEE HIM?

Okay, sorry, capslock.

BUT THE HOBBIT, PEOPLE. READ THE BOOK. WATCH THE TRAILER. LISTEN TO THE MUSIC. DRAW LITTLE HOBBITS IN EVERY NOTEBOOK. GAWK AT THE POSTERS. WATCH EVERY MOVIE THE ACTORS PLAYING IN IT WERE EVER IN AND TRY TO ENVISION THEM IN THEIR PARTS AS CHARACTERS IN THE HOBBIT. THE. HOBBIT.

Basically, this is amazing. At the time the Lord of the Rings movies came out I was obviously not old enough to watch, but now I'm going to have that time of waiting for each new movie and properly hyperventilating the whole time. I expect to enjoy tremendously.

Breathe, Emily, breathe.

But, you do realize how amazing this is, right?

Anyhow, must start up on some math and SAT studying. Have a lovely Monday, dear reader!

Baking Day

This morning I woke up and made my carrot cake (you know, the one I've been talking about for days on end) and then I was having such fun in the kitchen I decided to make some homemade bread as well. There's really nothing like the smell of homemade bread in the oven (a lovely smell which fills our kitchen as I'm writing this.)

I thought, to finish off my adventures in the kitchen, I should write a post about my baking day.



 

Carrot Cake

(From the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook)

 

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

3 cups shredded carrot

1 cup cooking oil

4 eggs

 

 In a bowl combine flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and cinnamon. Add carrot, oil, and eggs. Beat with an electric mixer till combined. Pour into a greased 13x9 inch baking pan. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 30 to 35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean. Let cool. Makes 12 to 15 servings.

 

 

Cream Cheese Frosting

 

6 ounces of cream cheese

1/2 butter (softened)

2 teaspoons vanilla

4 1/2 to 4 3/4 cups sifted powdered sugar

 

In a bowl beat together cream cheese, butter, and vanilla till light and fluffy. Gradually add 2 cups powdered sugar, beating well. Gradually beat in enough remaining powdered sugar to make frosting of spreading consistency. Frost cake. (I topped mine with chopped pecans.)

 

 

Easy No Knead Honey Oat Bread

http://sweetannas.com/2012/04/easy-no-knead-honey-oat-bread.html

The other day when I was shelving books at the library I came across a book I thought would go well with this post.

Fannie in the Kitchen

It's really the cutest book. I love the illustrations. You must go look at it.

 



Dear Laura Ingalls Wilder,

Oh Laura. As long as there's been books in our home and stories for bedtime... there's been you. Countless are the times I've heard your stories; they drift through the room as they are being read aloud or played in CD form, they sit waiting on various bookshelves and nightstands, even those too little to read flip through picture books telling your same stories in simple sentences. You are more than just a story on our bookshelf, for your stories were real and so the little girl on the pages sprung to life and she too became more than a character on a page. We knew that while we could peep in on part of her life, listening to the words that you wrote for us, there were times where she slipped away into history and we could not follow. After a while our little Laura character would come prancing back, after helping Ma with some chores or playing with Mary, perhaps you would tell us about those things, or perhaps you would let a few days of things that seemed uneventful slip away and tell us instead of a story that Pa told you on some cold winter's night.

Both character and writer were you, and perhaps that is part of your magic. There is a time when almost every child reading a much loved book has whispered out "Oh I wish it were real." and has been disappointed, but not with you, Laura. For you take that child by the hand and lead them back into your real life, teaching them what it was to churn butter and live in a dugout.

If you had not been the writer you were your stories might have fallen flat. A person may have beautiful and wondrous stories to tell, but unless they have the words to tell them with their stories will remain, forever trapped in the past. Oh how glad we are that we have you, you who knew just how to tell those stories to us. You knew what memories to tell to us, you knew which were the ones to retell and which were the ones to keep locked away as your own. Your stories lived before our eyes. With each word our imaginations gained a better image of Pa playing his fiddle, Ma and her busy hands, Mary with her goodness, baby Carrie who grew out of being a baby before our eyes, Grace who wasn't even alive till we reached later books, but most of all you. Even when you were telling about being naughty, it was naughtiness that we all knew we would have committed if we were you- for you gave us a little girl who was both lovable and real. Real because she was you.

It seemed as if we could practically smell the pies and cakes that Almanzo's mother always made, that we could hear the rustling of the skirts at the dance at Grandpa's house, and it seemed to me that if I just closed my eyes I might open them again to see you and Mary perched on pumpkins playing with your rag dolls.

You grew up from being our playmate, to a school teacher, to a mother and wife. It seemed like we grew up with you. As we got older we went from book to book, traveling with you away from the little house in the big woods, across the prairie, into town; everywhere you went we went with you. Yours will be stories that last with us for always. Stories that we will want to read again and again. You see, not only were you a character we admired, a heroine of a lovely story, but you were a real women who's story was not a fairytale. You inspired us, but it was not heroics that were unattainable. You showed us your failings, most of the time those were what you were trying to show us, but you were a dear, good, courageous woman who we loved.

You and Almanzo, Ma and Pa, Mary, Carrie, and Grace will always be a part of our home. You take us back to a time in history that is now past, a time of traveling over the country in a covered wagon, knowing that you may never see the family you left behind again. I think this should make us (us as in your readers) realize how fortunate we are, blessed in that no matter how many miles we are separated by, we are only a relatively short plane ride away, when put into perspective. We are blessed with the soft beds which are ours to lay down in at night, the roof over our heads, the knowledge that we are safe and warm.

I think we should also question why when we are so blessed we still worry and complain and fret such an awful lot. If you had complained the way we do over every little thing you would have been unbearable to live with, perhaps, that is what we are more than a little of the time. Perhaps we need to have more faith; faith like the faith that kept such a family as yours going though you knew not what was going to happen to you from day to day. You knew that you had each other, that you were safe wherever you were, and that God was watching out for you.

We are blessed with our families, with our home, enough food, and the faith that whatever happens God is watching out and taking care of us. Why should we worry more than you?

With much love and gratitude to you, Laura,

Emily

Dear Noel Streatfield,

I'm sorry to say that I really don't know you all that well, Miss Streatfield. Our acquaintance has been of a limited sort; you haven't been one of the author's who I have come to know extensively through biographies and such. As it happens, all I really know about you is that you have written the Shoes books, and I have read- but really, isn't that the usual connection between author and reader? The author writes, and the reader reads. Perhaps the reader becomes so enthralled in that person who has written a book that has become so beloved to them that they go searching for every book they can find about that person and their life. Perhaps the book is enjoyed for an hour, and then set away, and both author and book are forgotten.
I think the true test of a book though, is not the book that sends the reader running for ten others by that author. Or the book that has the reader finding biographies and searching for information on the Internet. It is the book that comes to the reader's mind when someone asks about "good books," years after that book has been read.
You're books are just that.
It has been years since I was about ten years old and reading Ballet Shoes for the very first time, but if a little girl of about ten-ish years were to come and ask me for a recommendations, I would think of Pauline, Petrova and Posy right away. It was only about a week or so ago when I was shelving books at the library that I came across a little hardback book with the title of Party Shoes, and I put it in my stack of books to take home with me because I remembered how much I loved the other Shoes books. I'm still going to read that other book of yours, actually, I just discovered what a quite a lot of books you have written that I haven't read yet. Isn't it such a nice thing to think how many books out there that are yet to be discovered and read? I hope I will never be without a stack of fifteen books to read, it would be such a waste of time when there are so many out there that there sometimes never seems enough time.
Perhaps someday I shall even find a biography about you, but for now, know that those books of yours that I have read I would recommend for everyone, no matter what their age. Know how much my ten year old self loved those books of yours, and how three of them still remain on my crammed bookshelf, though the books surrounding them have changed from American Girl and Boxcar Children books to Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell. (Of course I still have my American Girl and Boxcar books, they're just being read by younger siblings now days.)
I'm trying to think which of the three was my favorite...I believe when I was younger it was Theater Shoes (For a while it was the book that convinced me that I wanted to be an actor) but the one I remember the best now is Ballet Shoes. Dancing Shoes is the third book that remains on my bookshelf and I love it as well. I hope when my baby sister gets old enough she will love them just as well as I always did.
Sincerely, Emily

Dear Lucy Maud Montgomery,

Dear Mrs. Montgomery,
There are many authors who I could have chosen to write this first letter to; authors who I regard with more than a little awe. Authors who's work I have loved, that has inspired me, and makes me want to write- to create the beauty of those words strung together for my own. (Though at the same time striking such awe into me that it seems a desecration to even think of calling myself a writer, when they are called such.)

You were the only one I considered though. You have the first place in my heart, the first mention in my ramblings, and this, my first letter of October, belongs to you.

Your books have been such friends to me that through them I feel as if we were friends. I can imagine you wandering through the fields muttering dialogue to yourself, and sitting down to write. To write Anne, Emily and Valency, those characters so very real to me that they, as well as you, feel to be my very dearest of friends.

If I were ever to have met you, I would no doubt, have said "Mrs. Montgomery," in such a way as I begin my letter, and it would have been all that is most horrendously forward and presumptuous to even think of referring to you as "Maud." (Doesn't it make you just cringe when you hear someone who is writing an article or biography refer to that person by their first name? I always feel rather indignant "How dare you refer to Jane Austen, JANE AUSTEN, as Jane. As if you had that right. *indignant sniff* That's Miss Jane Austen, to you Sir or Madam." but as I am writing a letter, a letter that is already traveling back in time to reach you, I feel that it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to go back further to when you were a little girl and "Maud" and me being of much the same age as you, I would be "Emily." I think we would have been the best of friends.

I remember reading once that you always felt that you identified the very most with "Emily" out of your characters. Do you know, growing up she was one of my least favorite. I loved all your books of course, but back then I was especially attached to Anne and the Story Girl. It's been a while since I've read your Emily books (I have them on my nightstand, and I'm going to be reading them again next) but as I've gotten older I've appreciated Emily much more, and, I think, started identifying with her in a way I never did growing up. Maybe it's because Emily and I have much more similarity than I ever thought we did, that I always liked Anne better? You know, how you can be friends with the most dissimilar of people because you each admire the other for their strengths, while they might not be your own. Kindred Spirits, even though personality can be very different. Perhaps what draws me to Emily now is not personality (though there is some of that) but that Emily has more than just a liking of writing, she has this need to write. It was part of her- in that way that it is a part of me. I think too, that while Emily enjoys being surrounded with people, enjoys spending time with those she cares the most about, after a while she needs to be on her own and sort things out.

Your writing is beautiful, dear Mrs. Montgomery, I would read anything you wrote. In fact I think I've read practically ever story of yours (I especially love your short stories). I love reading stories about you too, but I couldn't read your journals. It would have been different if you had gotten around to editing them for the public, but those were yours, they weren't intended for any eye but your own. It almost makes me sick to think about prying eyes falling upon your heart and soul that you had transformed into words. I wish, oh how I wish someone had kept them from being published. I remember when I discovered them I read your recordings about your childhood days quite happily, and I was so happy to have discovered something about you in your own writing, but I decided after a while that you wouldn't have wanted me to read any further. So I stopped. I wouldn't have wanted anyone reading those words that I had clearly written as a way of thinking- a way of sorting through emotions that seemed impossible to understand and letting go of things that I had been bottling up inside. Those journals weren't for me to read, and they weren't for anyone else.

Much as I should love to keep writing to you, dear, I'm afraid I must finish off here. I only want to add how thankful I am that you wrote, and that you wrote such dear beautiful things as Anne and the rest. Thank you ever so much. You will always remain one of my very favorite authors, and have been ever since my Mom first read me Anne of Green Gables such a very long time ago. As I have grown older I have learned to love other books, but yours will always have that special place in my heart as being one of my first loves. Books that only get better with each reading.

Much Love,
Emily

"Emily, Awaken!"

The clock on the wall is ticking steadily on. Watch the second hand makes its round, now the minute hand is moving too, and now the hour is a thing of the past. A blog waits for promised posts, the girl who has promised to write so consistently? Nowhere to be found.

 

I beg pardon, this girl is quite easily found. It is true, however, she is not to be found with her fingers tapping away at her keyboard, but asleep on her bed.  She has gone off to have a long fall nap, a winter hibernation, and as she is properly bear like, she is not to be woken easily.

There she goes, hiding from the sunlight in a mountain of blankets, a fan roars like a hurricane, blowing the icy winds about her. The covers move, out pokes a bare foot, testing the open air. Will she awaken? Is the sunshine enough to open her eyes? Your question shows how little you know of Emily.

The door to her chambers is opened, her mountain of covers has been destroyed by a merciless hand. With a swift twist of a knob her hurricane has been silenced. “Emily, awaken!” comes a voice, much too cheerful when used in such a purpose. Oh cruel world, that wakes one with no true loves kiss to soften the blow.

On second thought, even true loves kiss is most definitely not worth waking up for. Sleeping Beauty and Snow White must have been awfully nutty.

 

 

As for Emily, she sleepeth on.

 

 

I’m listening to…

 I have just discovered how much I love listening to poems put to music. For the past week my favorite station on Pandora has been the Loreena McKennit one. I think it’s so beautiful because besides being lovely to listen to, each song is a story. Well, that can be said of almost every type of music, but it’s like reading a classic in comparison to a recent bestseller novel. I'm not saying one is better than the other, but listening to beautiful ballads of brave knights and fair ladies is quite delightful. I have to say, when simply reading poetry my mind sometimes wanders. I have a harder time of slipping into the story and living and breathing it like I do with prose, but with a musical accompaniment I find it easier to imagine out the story and enjoy the meter and rhythm to it. I'm not entirely sure why this is, but all I know is I find it much easier to sink into the tale when hearing it sung to me, rather than reading it myself. Though, I do like having the poem on hand if I miss a line or two.

 

 

 

I'm reading...

 

 

 

 

Emily of New Moon: Oh, my dear L. M. Montgomery, you know I can only survive being parted from your books for so long. I remember a time when 'Emily of New Moon' was one of my least favorite, actually, but with each reading I love it more.

 

 

Common Sense 101 (Lessons from G. K. Chesterton): Again, a post due soon. Again, really a must read.

 

Party Shoes: NOEL STREATFEILD WROTE A BOOK THAT I HAVEN'T READ YET? MUST READ.

 

 

Decline and Fall: After reading Brideshead Revisited I've always wanted to read another of Evelyn Waugh's books. I'm excited to start this one.

 

The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald: I'm only about a hundred pages away from the end of this book. I've really enjoyed these. There's a couple that I've liked especially. My favorite are the few where he bamboozles you (isn't bamboozle an interesting word?) with some outrageous happening which turns out to be all the work of the character's imagination, and trickery of some other character. (The Offshore Pirate, Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr-nce of W-les) I also quite like Bernice Bobs Her Hair. I just bought the movie Midnight in Paris which has Scott Fitzgerald as a character, so it's been fun to read some of his stories after watching that movie again.

 

Brideshead Revisited: I just really want to read this book again.

 

The Fault in Our Stars: I just finished reading this one and honestly I haven't really sorted out my thoughts on it entirely. I felt like the book captured the characters very well, without my ever feeling precisely fond of them. Perhaps simply because they and I would not be "Kindred Spirits," if we were to meet. We would have different life-styles, values and what-not. That doesn't make me not appreciate them, as characters I felt very much as if they captured a very real sort of person, and also exemplified the author's main focus of questions on life and death. I got rather tired of the amount of sentences begining with 'and' or 'but' (which really ought to be an exception to the rule rather than the rule itself) and fragment sentences. (I feel rather guilty writing this as I know I'm a far from perfect writer myself...but...) Anyhow, I'm still deciding what I really think about it, so enough for now.

 

A Picture thought I'm sharing...

 

 

I just felt like taking a picture of some crayons.

 

 

 



 

 

 

A First Day of School

I'm Thinking: this is my first "journaling page"of the year. Even though I'm going to be writing up more blog posts of a classical styling (*cough* a fancy phrasing for writing out long blog posts with perhaps a more specific point to them than the journaling pages, which allow you to jump from subject to subject) I'm still going to be writing up a weekly journaling page on Mondays. I was also thinking about another sort of weekly post that I could come up with. The past couple days I keep coming across blogs where people have challenged themselves to take enough pictures a day for a blog post compilation of them all, and while I don't think I could do that daily, I thought it would be a fun thing to come up with once a week. Perhaps Fridays? Yes, I think Fridays I shall make up a post of just pictures, and try to keep from writing anything in such posts but just let the pictures speak for themselves.

I'm Listening to... The movie soundtrack from the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice, Mom reading out-loud a book on Venice to Jack and Riley, and Marcus listening to a Math lecture.

Outside My Window... From the kitchen table one looks out at the front yard (or perhaps it is the backyard, it really is hard to decipher which should be labeled which.) Of course, it really doesn't affect a description whether I label it back or front, the real point to the thing is that it is a yard. A thing dry grass, blooming dandelions, and large puff balls that are dandelions that were. I might perhaps describe the road directly across from the yard, or the brambles that hang above the said road, but as I set myself out to describe the yard, and the yard I have described, I shall here finish off my sentence.

I'm Reading... Commen Sense 101: Lessons from G. K. Chesterton, which I plan on writing out a blog post all of it's own so I shan't write anymore here. If you haven't read it though, go find a copy for yourself as soon as possible. It's just that good. Oh, by the by, on the topic of G. K. Chesterton, here's a link to enjoy American Chesterton Society. I haven't yet had a chance to spend as long as I should like exploring that site (it's the sort of site that you really need to spend hours exploring, you know.) but I was so excited when I found it. There are bunches of his essays and things. Everyone needs more G. K. Chesterton in their life. Would you believe our library doesn't have any of his works?! The outrage. So I shall do my part to spread about his name *takes on a newspaper boy voice* READ ALL ABOUT IT. READ CHESTERON.

Common Sense 101

A Few Plans for the Rest of the Day... I am simply going to write about my plans for the rest of the day as writing them up for the rest of the week would be rather a lot to write about (lots of plans.)

1. Finishing cleaning up the school room.
2. Cleaning my room.
3. Taking a walk.
4. Another Math Lesson?
5. Coffee drive?
6. Folding laundry.
7. Finishing up this Journaling Page.

As you can see, lot's of cleaning and getting everything all lovely and ready for a new start of the school year.

 

She is the Queen of Crime

(and by that you know, of course, I speak of Agatha Christie)

 

 

When the time comes that you walk into your local bookstore and find yourself giving an enthused lecture about a particular author to the lady at the cash register- you may be just a little bit obsessed. Now I'm not saying this is a bad thing, especially considering that my example happens to be (as you may have guessed) a true story. However, you might come away feeling just a little bit embarrassed and scolding yourself about keeping your mouth shut as you creep towards the nearest exit with a reddened face. One does not just give lectures to perfect strangers about your author of choice. You were of course just trying to be helpful and set her straight as she remarked "Why, I didn't know that Agatha Christie wrote under a pen name."

 

"Oh yes," you say as you scribble your name down on the recite. "Mary Westmacott. You see, she made such a big name for herself as a mystery writer that when it came to her novels that weren't mysteries her publishers..." Here you break off your sentence as you realize that the lady is regarding you with a bored expression and nodding as if she understands entirely and you needn't continue. You complete your sentence with a hurried nodding of your own head and take up your purchases in their brown bag and scuttle towards the door.

 

Outside the door you scold yourself severely and decide to keep all information gained from a certain autobiography to yourself in the future. Oh the troubles of an overly enthused reader! You think to yourself, but then a little voice in the back of your head prompts you to add, ...but she does work at a bookshop. Honestly. People these days. You would think someone working at a bookstore would be interested about these things. I know I would! and you walk away unrepentant.

 

Of course, other signs that you might be a wee bit obsessed are that you have written up great long list of all of Agatha Christie's ninety plus books and are slowly but surely crossing your way through them all. (As soon as I heard that she wrote that many books I instantly felt it was a challenge calling my name to read them all. A goal I mean to accomplish, you know.)

 

 



This goal is getting to be rather a challenge these days, just in finding books of hers I haven't read. She's written plenty of them of course- the thing is just finding them. I've exhausted our library's stock, and our local bookstore (of course, I can't really afford to buy  as many as I should like anyways. More's the pity.) so I suppose I shall have to be patient and wait for three of them to come through inter-library-loan, but it takes ever such a long time!

As you can tell, I'm just rather in love with Agatha Christie's books. It's not so much the fact that they're mystery books, as I never really liked mystery books before I found hers, but I love her way of writing. They're clever and well written, and what I like most about them is the characters. (Yes, that could have been a statement to be predicted from me. More than anything I have a love of well written characters.) And her characters are well written. Her books give you glimpses of all sorts of different characters- what makes them human; their good qualities and their weaknesses. She allows you to step into another's shoes and see the world through their eyes- which can be a bit of an unnerving experience considering some of the people she writes.

 

To finish this off I believe I shall make up a list of my top ten favorite Agatha Christie's so far (of course this is keeping in mind I might not remember them all at the moment and may come up with one two days later and say "Oh no no, I like this best out of any of them!")

 

Emily's Top Ten Agatha Christie's (in no specific order)

 

1. The Secret Adversary.

2. Murder on the Orient Express.

3. The Man in the Brown Suit.

4. And Then There Were None.

5. N or M?

6. Why Didn't They Ask Evans?

7.The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

8. The Secret of the Chimneys.

9. Cat Among the Pigeons.

10.  The Mysterious Mr. Quin.

 

*pictures from google images