In a perfect world, I'd never go anywhere, do anything, or talk to anyone, ever again. This is a blog for the people who, on any given occasion, 'would rather stay home.'
Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it. Then write. If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out of the window.
Jennifer Saint follows in Sophocles' footsteps by painting the titular character as merely vengeful, but crafts beautiful and emotional narratives around her secondary characters.
⭐⭐⭐/5
Elektra is a simply written yet well-written novel that offers readers intriguing insight into three iconic female figures in Greek mythology: Elektra, Clytemnestra, and Cassandra. It is an especially satisfying read for those looking to dive deeper into the stories of the female characters on the periphery in Madeline Miller's Song of Achilles.
Where Elektra suffers, unfortunately, is in its depiction of the titular character. While the explorations of Cassandra and Clytemnestra are dramatic, nuanced, and frustrating in all the ways a reader craves to be frustrated while reading a good drama, the exploration of Elektra is frustrating in its one-dimensionality. This is not necessarily the fault of Jennifer Saint, however. Anyone who's read Sophocles' Elektra knows that Elektra kinda... sucks. She only wants one thing: revenge. A revenge-obsessed protagonist is not inherently lacking, but they need sufficient justification for their vengeful spirit and other complex personality traits to make readers care about their fate. Unfortunately, Elektra lacks both.
Elektra’s desire for revenge stems from the fact that she loves her father, Agamemnon, more than anything in the world, and she hates the people who took him from her. However, Saint never shows her readers why Elektra loves him so much. The two lack a compelling relationship in this book. Furthermore, her desire to avenge her father is her only personality trait. If Saint had found a creative way to better develop Elektra and Agamemnon’s relationship and make Elektra more complex, she could have broken Sophocles’ curse and enabled readers to empathize with this character.
The creative freedom to enhance famous myths is what makes these retellings fun to read, and Saint does not capitalize on the opportunity she has to flesh out this character. In contrast, the reason I ached for Achilles so much in Madeline Miller's Song of Achilles is because of how many other aspects of his personality were spotlighted, beyond his pride: his sense of humor, adventure, ability to love, compassion, etc. Seeing these things in broad daylight makes readers all the more furious at him for becoming so blinded by his pride. I do not ache for Elektra because she is only shown to be a hateful, vengeful person.
Conversely, Saint succeeds in giving dimension and color to Clytemnestra and Cassandra. Readers see Clytemnestra transformed into a cold-hearted tyrant in the wake of a truly devastating event, and seeing that transformation play out in-narrative is gripping. Likewise, Cassandra is burdened with a horrific curse of being able to prophesy, but always written off as insane by those with whom she shares her visions. With both of these characters, Saint evokes emotional investment from readers that is on par with Madeline Miller’s works. If you are a lover of mythology, Elektra is worth the read for the great storytelling around Cassandra and Clytemnestra. Just be prepared to think, "Ugh, girl, shut up," every time Elektra opens her mouth.
Not the cozy fantasy you expect it to be, Wildwood suffers from too many characters, a bloated plot, and an amorphous moral of the story.
⭐/5
They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but in the case of Wildwood by Colin Meloy, doing so is the most generous way I can judge. Carson Ellis’ cover art exudes the cozy whimsy of a Wes Anderson film, and it is the best thing about this book.
Colin Meloy is the reason I picked up Wildwood. He is one of the great songwriters of his generation, and I've been a faithful fan of his band, The Decemberists, since I first heard their 2005 album, Picaresque, as a teen. Unfortunately, Meloy’s ability to tell gripping yet succinct stories in songs does not translate well into novels. Wildwood is far too long, the narrative is tedious and tiresome, and the tone teeters awkwardly between a whimsical middle-grade story, a grotesque dark fantasy, and socio-political drama — but it doesn't succeed in any of these genres.
Wildwood follows Prue, a young girl who ventures into a fantastical woodland world to rescue her kidnapped baby brother from the clutches of a vengeful sorceress. She goes on to fight the forces of evil with a number of woodland creature allies by her side. The story attempts to position itself as a metaphor for negligent governments, with everyday folks rallying together to fight against systems of oppression. These themes aren't uncommon in fantasy, so there is nothing inherently wrong with Meloy selecting this subject matter. The problem, though, is that there is simply too much of everything, resulting in a bloated fairytale with a far-too-complicated political plot and a pace that feels like trudging through a swamp of molasses.
A typical hero's journey has maybe three or four supernatural aids, mentors, and helpers who guide the hero through their story. Wildwood feels as though it has hundreds of these characters. Prue encounters one Wildwood resident or talking animal after another, tells them her plight, and then they scoot her along to the next one, and the cycle repeats itself. Meloy attempts to infuse the story with quirkiness by creating dozens of government agencies, policies, and bylaws in the world of Wildwood, diving into an exhausting level of detail that is wholly unnecessary for the plot. There's an Avian Principality, inter-wood commerce, the People’s Collective of North Wood, territory disputes… and none of it is essential to relaying any kind of clear, cohesive moral or message.
Don’t be fooled by the gorgeous cover art. This book, unfortunately, is not the cozy fantasy it appears to be. In an effort to always say something positive, though, I highly recommend the music of The Decemberists, and I reiterate that the artwork of Carson Ellis is simply stunning.
Despite a somewhat inconsistent tone and a predictable mystery, its A+ protagonist makes Solitaire a lovely and enjoyable read.
⭐⭐⭐/5
In Solitaire, author Alice Oseman brings to life the character of Tori Spring, whose brittle exterior and hidden heart of gold make her one of the funniest and most relatable teenage protagonists I've read in a very long time. She's a misfit without being a cliché. She's awkward in a way that feels real and honest, and not like an author's desperate attempt to make her relatable. The painstaking steps she takes in her efforts to build relationships are all too familiar to those of us who over-analyze every single word of every conversation we have with other people, living in constant fear that we are somehow ‘doing it wrong’ — ‘it’ being, well, life.
Tori is a wallflower learning how to lean on others, but the narrative does not villainize her for being a wallflower in the first place. Her introverted nature is not framed as a vice. Rather, it is framed as an inescapable facet of her personality that must be balanced in a healthy way if she is to protect her own mental and emotional well-being. Her journey is made all the more touching and relatable by her interactions with an ensemble of colorful supporting characters. As Tori navigates her relationships with her timid younger brother Charlie and his kind-hearted boyfriend Nick, her oddball classmate Michael, and an assortment of other high school archetypes, we learn that these characters in Tori’s life contain multitudes, just as she does.
Amidst some truly exceptional character-building, Oseman also presents readers with a mystery to solve. We follow Tori as she seeks to expose the culprit behind a number of eerie pranks that are occurring at her all-girls school, Higgs. Unfortunately, the mystery is a bit too obvious to be enjoyable. Having solved it within the first quarter of the book, I found myself wishing for a more challenging puzzle to serve as the book’s central conflict. Furthermore, the two threads of the story — the mystery thread and the coming-of-age thread — weren’t very well woven together.
In certain chapters, Solitaire feels like a cozy coming-of-age story, and in other chapters, it feels like a dark, psychological thriller. While it is perfectly acceptable to write a book that mixes these genres, Solitaire doesn’t quite succeed in striking the perfect blend. The inconsistent tone may make it difficult for some readers, like myself, to stay fully engaged in the story from the first page to the last. Despite these minor gripes, I found Solitaire to be an enjoyable read with an absolutely winning cast of characters.
In her unforgettable memoir, Viola Davis offers a raw and unfiltered look at poverty, Hollywood, and how the arts empower us to find our voices.
⭐⭐⭐⭐/5
Viola Davis' memoir Finding Me is a harsh yet uplifting story that everyone — regardless of their race, ethnicity, socioeconomic background, or station in life — should read. In a voice that is uniquely her own, Davis offers a raw and humbling look at how poverty impacts children and families throughout the entirety of their lives, and for multiple generations. On a personal level, Davis’ story revealed to me just how often I make unfair assumptions about how and why poverty remains a cyclical, inescapable burden for many people. It is a story that subtly and without judgment urges readers to reckon with the parts of ourselves that allow those unfair ideas to persist. Furthermore, it encourages readers to begin the uncomfortable process of actively dismantling those ideas.
In addition, Finding Me is also an inspiring account of how the arts — specifically, the performing arts — empower people to find themselves when they've lived their entire lives being pushed aside, oppressed, and rejected by others. Davis shines a much-needed light on the importance of arts educators in particular, recognizing that when they use their knowledge and authority to lift their students up, they can literally change those students' lives. Her own life was forever changed by an arts educator who urged her to pursue performance, and as she recounts that experience in this memoir, readers will undoubtedly find themselves reflecting on the selfless and compassionate educators who’ve made a difference in their own lives.
Finally, Davis brings her story full-circle with a fascinating and brutally honest account of how the entertainment industry works. She examines its virtues, vices, and enduring biases. She details how she, a Black woman, achieved success in the face of an unjust system that historically alienates people who do not fit the industry's reductive definition of beauty.
The writing style is informal and conversational in a way that occasionally makes it difficult to follow, and the timeline of the story often jumps ahead or rewinds in confusing and unexpected ways. However, in a way, this style of writing makes Davis’ story feel all the more intimate, like we are reading pages straight from her own, personal, private diary. Finding Me is one of the most impactful memoirs I've read, and I'd recommend it to absolutely everyone.
Comforting in its predictability, Book Lovers is perfect for when you want to curl up with a story that will tick every box of a classic Hallmark movie.
⭐⭐⭐⭐/5
If you adore the cozy predictability of Hallmark movies, Book Lovers by Emily Henry will delight you through and through. This is a fun, fluffy, and comforting read that might not change your life, but will certainly put a smile on your face.
Book Lovers is a story shamelessly founded on clichés, but Emily Henry makes sure readers are aware of this from page one. Opening the book with a direct, in-narrative reference to the Hallmark movie formula, Henry presents protagonist Nora, who fits right into the “big city girl boss” archetype we all know and love. The story follows Nora on a journey that takes her temporarily away from the big city where she works as a hot-shot literary agent and into a quaint, quiet, charming little town where — you guessed it — romance awaits with the smart, sarcastic, grump-with-a-heart love interest, Charlie. Along the way, we meet Nora’s sister, Libby, members of Charlie’s family, and a number of colorful characters who round out the romantic comedy landscape.
Nora is a cool and capable professional, but she's also witty, kind, and a bit bumbling. Charlie is not the typical grump; he's a grump who contains multitudes. As these two individuals move from a rival-esque relationship, to friends, to eventual lovers, they each undergo their own very satisfying journeys of personal growth. Each has emotional baggage to unload, but the emotional aspects of their stories are complemented by all the trappings readers adore about this genre: clever banter, flourishing friendships, cozy bookstores and coffee shops, small town shenanigans, and just a hint of “spice.”
Nora’s personal journey involving her relationships with her sister and her late mother takes center stage for a significant portion of the book, and at times, I found myself hurrying through those parts to get back to Nora and Charlie’s romance, which I found much more compelling. Additionally, I found it odd that Nora is described by both herself and other characters as being a ruthless “shark” of a literary agent, but Henry does not show us that side of her. She certainly shows us that Nora is intelligent and able to hold her own in a negotiation, but she is always pleasant and professional, never vicious or aggressive.
Ultimately, though, this cozy romantic comedy won me over. Book Lovers is a delightful read, perfect for those moments when you want to curl up with a story that will tick every box of a classic Hallmark movie.
Ever since 2016, my evenings and weekends have been filled with theatre. And I don't mean watching it — I mean creating it. Directing, performing, dramaturge-ing (is there an actual word for that?), flipping from hanger to hanger in closets stuffed to the brim with vintage costumes, rummaging through mountains of props, building up confidence in bright-eyed young actors, pacifying my fair share of divas... and holding my breath as the music fades down, the lights fade up, and the play begins.
All of this was crammed into the hours of the day not occupied by a nine-to-five job. Theatre is not something I have to do. It's something I choose to do because of the joy it brings me. I've been asked many times over the years by family and friends, "Don't you get tired?" And my honest answer has always been, "No way. I love it."
But today, in the year of our Lord 2023, as a 30-year-old woman who's been involved in something like 17 productions since graduating from college, I am officially tired.
It's kind of weird when I think about it, because I know people twice my age who are hustling just as hard — if not harder — than I was, and they don't seem to be burnt out. Then again, what's that thing people always say, something about how "the only person you should be competing with is yourself"? Pretty sure someone said that. Once. Maybe. Anyway.
This doesn't mean I don't adore live theatre, or performing, or directing. It doesn't mean I want to stop forever. But life has taught me that when intuition speaks, I'm a fool if I don't listen. When I picture sitting down at my desk to block a show, when I imagine finishing up my day job only to jump in the car and drive off to a rehearsal that will stretch all the way up to (and nowadays, past) this gal's bedtime, I feel visceral resistance, with two simple words permeating every ounce of my being:
Maybe you've got something in your life that has burnt you out, like theatre has burnt me out. Maybe your intuition is telling you it's time to take a break. If that's the case, consider this your sign to listen to that intuition. I did, and after politely declining a few opportunities in 2023 that — while lovely on paper — sent my gut running for the hills, I feel like I've just taken one giant exhale.
Without any further ado, and because we love a list in this house, here is a list of five things I'm going to do this year with all the glorious spare time I'll have in light of my lil hiatus from the stage.
Number 1: Literally Nothing
Jerry: "So uh, what'd you do last night?"
Elaine: "Nothing."
Jerry: "I know, 'nothing,' but what did you actually do?"
Elaine: "Literally nothing. I sat in a chair and I stared."
I firmly believe that we as human beings should be shamelessly vocal in our desire to do nothing. In 2023, I will be blocking off entire evenings to do nothing. Get home from work, make some dinner, futz around with jigsaw puzzles, rewatch Gilmore Girls for the billionth time. And if someone asks me, "Hey are you busy Tuesday night? Wanna hang out?" on a night when I've scheduled nothing, my answer will be, "Yeah, sorry, I'm busy Tuesday doing nothing."
Here's the way I look at it: My husband and I want to have a child soon. This may be the last year for the foreseeable future that I'm not responsible for the survival, happiness, health, and well-being of a helpless potato sack (albeit a cute potato sack whom I will love with all my heart) of a human being. So yeah. I feel like I deserve a year where, several nights per week, I do absolutely nothing.
Number 2: Read a Bunch of Books
I used to avoid reading for leisure at all costs. There are a few reasons for this. First and foremost, I was usually too busy reading scripts so I could come up with production concepts, block shows, conduct research, memorize lines... all that jazz. Second, I hated the ergonomics of reading. I was always uncomfortable, and I was too busy fixating on my discomfort to process any of what I was attempting to read. And third, I have this thing where I hate the way pages feel between my fingertips. Sacrilege, I know.
Then, a year or so ago, I gave an e-reader a chance. And dangit, if that thing didn't change the trajectory of my entire life.
I dislike Jeff Bezos as much as the next middle class citizen, so I gerrymander my ethics by adoring my sticker-covered sage green Kindle Paperwhite, drawing the line at actually buying books from Amazon. Instead, I've turned into a Libby app addict, renting the e-books from my local library. And you know what? I can live with that. Especially because it's led to an approximately 3,900% increase in the number of books I read annually.
I set a Goodreads goal to read 30 books in 2023. It's Feb. 1, and I've already read 12. I'm no mathematician, but all signs point to yes, devouring works of fiction is a way that I actually want to spend my time.
Number 3: Paint Silly Little Pictures
I'll keep this one short, because there's really no big story to it. Painting is one of those things that makes me feel warm, fuzzy, and fulfilled inside. Am I an expert painter? No. Are there hundreds of millions of better painters than me in this world? Absolutely. Do the images I paint make my heart happy? Yep. They really do. There is something so darn cool about seeing a thing or a place in my head, and then creating it out of thin air. That's what painting is for me. I just love it, plain and simple, but I've so rarely had the time to sit down and do it regularly. This year, Imma do that.
Number 4: Climb (Fake) Rocks
Physical fitness is the worst thing ever, period. I don't want to work out. I don't enjoy working out. I don't feel healthy or happy or accomplished after I work out. I'm also 30, and I'd like to, you know, survive for a while yet. So, against all odds, I found a workout routine that doesn't make me want to curl up in a dark corner and die: rock climbing.
Rock climbing holds a special place in my heart as the one activity in high school gym class that I actually enjoyed. And when an old college friend and I recently reconnected, and I found out they were a member at a climbing gym, I thought, "Hmm... maybe. Just maybe."
Am I any good at it? Hell no. But is it tons of fun? Is it a challenge that for some reason keeps drawing me back in for more? Is the chalk bag I bought very adorable and aesthetically pleasing? Do I feel kinda sexy and adventurous while doing it?
Hell yes.
And you best believe getting home from rehearsals at 10:30 or 11 PM every night was draining my already non-existent motivation to exercise well below zero. Thus, the year of no theatre becomes the year I try (and probably fail, but who cares?) to become a semi-decent climber.
Number 5: Make Music
I'm pretty darn lucky to have grown up in a musical household. Both my parents can play the piano, and I started messing around on a baby grand (I know, right? Privilege for days) when I was about 5 years old. I'm no Mozart, and I'm definitely not the best pianist in my family, but I can play pretty darn well, and I miss the days where I used to be able to sit at the piano for two, three, four-hour stretches and just play. Stumble through sheet music with my mediocre reading skills, figure out favorite songs by ear, play old classics that my muscles refuse to forget. I never want to say to someone, "Oh, I used to play all the time, but I can't remember any of it anymore." So this year, we're setting aside designated time for piano therapy.
In January, I learned how to play "Rocket Man." Solid start. So maybe I shoot to learn one song per month. That'd be pretty cool. And if a song a month is too much, that's okay, too. The chance to even sit and improv for a few hours after work is something that completely fell by the wayside when evenings were all booked up, and on weekends, exhaustion caught up to me and deterred me from using any kind of creative energy. The idea of waking up early on a Saturday morning and plucking away, no schedule, nowhere to be, no one to tell me it's time to stop? Yes, please.
Well, I guess that's it. Or as the kids say (I think they say this?), "That's it. That's the Tweet."
For those who love introspective, existential fiction about the finite nature of life as we know it, The Measure will not disappoint.
⭐⭐⭐⭐/5
One day, the world wakes up to find that every person 22 years of age and older has received a box. Inside the box is a string that represents the measure of that person's life. This is the ambitious premise Nikki Erlick presents to readers in the first few sentences of The Measure. I have to admit, I was skeptical as to whether or not the author could pull this off. My immediate thought was, "This plot is going to be too big, too full of holes. It's not going to cover every base. I'm going to be frustrated that it doesn't answer every question I have about how the entire world — religious groups, governments, corporations, health care providers, scientists — reacts to this fantastical phenomenon."
Never have I been so satisfied to be proven wrong. The author does a commendable job of filling every hole, answering every question, and painting an entirely convincing picture of what would transpire if such a phenomenon actually occurred.
Beyond the impressive execution of such a complex plot, the beautiful character-building is the real heart of The Measure. Each chapter is told from the perspective of a different character. A young architect whose box was opened against his will; a schoolteacher who would rather live without knowing the length of her life; a politician leveraging the phenomenon of the strings for his personal gain; a couple whose world is shaken by the realization that one of them will live a long life, while the other's life will be cut short within the next decade.
Over the course of the story, we see how all of these individuals' fates are woven together, for better or for worse. Each interaction between these characters invites readers to think about what our own legacies will be, and how much of an impact we can make if we spend our lives sowing seeds of good. The story also invites readers to ruminate on the question of what we would do, how we would react, how we would choose to move forward if faced with the revelation of how long we have to live.
The Measure is an emotional read, but not excessively so. It's also contemplative, conflicted, and even uplifting.
In certain chapters, the story’s social commentary is a little too on-the-nose for my liking, and some of the ways in which the characters "come together" feel contrived and too coincidental. But, for the most part, Erlick crafts believable and compelling reasons as to how and why characters connect in the ways that they do.
The Measure evokes emotions similar to those stirred in the 2016 film Arrival, in Kazuo Ishiguro's novel Never Let Me Go, and other introspective media about the finite nature of life as we know it. Nikki Erlick has dutifully earned her place among the storytellers bold enough to venture into this topic. This is a beautiful novel that, for lovers of this genre, will not disappoint.
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