A continuation of previous themes.

Belle Prater's Boy is just about the epitome of perfect novels for the 10-14 age range. Although those at one end of that spectrum would love to be included in that group, those at the other would scowl at it. But that fact of childhood/early teens aside, Belle Prater's Boy is PERFECT. By the author I can't seem to stop talking about...Ruth White, the Fannie Flagg of the younger generations, the Robert Harling without the Sally Field and Julia Roberts reminders...this woman can write. Her words drip like butter and honey off a biscuit...her prose draws you in and smacks you upside the head. And then you cry, but in a good way. Love. Her....and can't wait to (hopefully!!) meet her, Mo Willems, Lowell Cunningham, and Merillee Liddiard at the...


The Children's Festival of Reading!

Yes, I'm excited. Yes, I'm nervous my agoraphobia will kick in. But no, I'm not freaking out. Just yet.

And a little side note, of course Francesca Lia Block's Guarding the Moon is blowing my mind right now. That's two parts of my life she's managed to put in a little purple box and wrap up with a ribbon that's so very me. This work, an autobiographical account of very early motherhood, is making all those floaty memories come back of Xander's very first minutes/hours/days/weeks/months here on Earth.

The true meaning of "Shhhh!"

"Shhhh" is actually a dirty word in the children's room. Children are encouraged to talk, to ask questions, to enjoy themselves....however, I am well aware of the archetypal shushing librarian...and think I might know the root of this occupational mannerism.

It's because librarians/library aides/pages/circulation people are bookish. That's of course no surprise. We like books. We work in a library. To play Devil's Advocate, I used to work at an acquiring bank and didn't particularly like...um, acquiring. So it really doesn't go without saying, although usually in a library, it does. Here's the hypothesis: people who work in libraries are REALLY into what they're reading. So they don't just enjoy reading, reading makes them drool and be distracted. Sort of like being on Benedryl.

For the past few days I have been (in between my library duties of course)reading the 1996 Newberry Winner The Midwife's Apprentice by Karen Cushman. It's a short little thing, maybe only 120 pages and I am completely enamored and immersed in it. How could I not be with quotes like, "She learned that newborn infants are readily seized by fairies unless salt is put in their mouths and their cradles."...and Cushman writes so practically, as if she were there in 1290 England...as if she were a fly (among many) in the dung heap that we first meet Alyse in. The simplicity of movement of plot that Cushman uses is so very unvarnished but total brilliance as well. What she does is she changes the main character's name during different points of plot and character development. Our heroine goes from Brat to Beetle to Alyse. That bold little plot tool proves that sometimes the simplest stories can pack the biggest wallop....and that's one reason she won the Newberry.

And I need to finish it now!!!!!

But I left it at the desk.

Mind, the feeling of needing to read this bantam is not as intense as, say, the first time I read The Shining or any of the aforementioned books in the Books I Can Read Over and Over Again blog entry...That feeling of manic desperation and total absorbing joy that monopolizes your being for the whole time you're reading the book. It's there, but not too terrible. Not enough for me to shush at patrons.

**I just found my notes I jotted down while reading The Midwife's Apprentice and noticed the line, "X is wicked..." and it made me laugh for obvious reasons. Because he is wicked. Wicked awesome.**

A very late edition of J-Fiction Thursday

...and I'm questioning whether I should call it that anymore, since the past few have diverted from that. Picture Book Tuesday is fine and dandy, but I think Thursdays have evolved into a higher level of thematic review.


When I was in the seventh grade at the purple-laden Van Buren Junior High School in manicured Kettering, Ohio, I had Mr. So and So for Science. I don't remember Mr. So and So's name, only that we had to draw cross-sections of fish and watched this movie (I can't recall the name either) where a man lived in Alaska and studied rats. He then ate the rats when he started to starve. Then he ran around nekkid after getting cabin fever. This was a different teacher then the one that made us watch Hoosiers every year in Health class.
My point being: In this 7th grade science class I realized I wasn't ugly. Now, don't feel all sorry for me. Most 7th grade girls feel ugly. When they realize they aren't is the potentially sad part. Luckily, I realized it somewhat early. I knew I was pretty awkward and spindly, but not ugly. I had what they call in Hollywood (or my 7th grade vision of Hollywood, which was the movie Fame, which was in New York, potential ...)
I remember the day like it was 16 years ago.
It was the day after I bought some cheap eyeliner and lined the top, the bottom, and the insides of my eyes with Wet and Wild Kohl Black... I even winged it at the ends a bit, which I had read in one of my sister's fancy fasion magazines was all the rage again (which as most of you know, I still do a lot of the time, even when it's not all the rage, I am forever trying to channel Audrey Hepburn on that one...) I recall sitting in my seat (I think I sat towards the middle of the room?) and someone telling me I looked pretty. I think I was tan. It must have been near the end of the school year...I remember feeling this rush of (power? calm? dementia?) anticipation of just possibly maybe could I really be pretty? And I'm certain I was such the sight of pure vogue in my (I'm sure heavily smudged) eyeliner and lack of glasses. Seventh grade was when I stopped wearing my glasses during school hours except when we watched a movie or I had to read the board. I have been very myopic my entire life, so this was challenging, and I had a constant headache. Not to mention with my astigmatism I can look a wee cockeyed when I don't wear contacts or glasses. So I'm SURE I was the HEIGHT of glamour. But for that one day I was a diva, a goddess, downright sortof sexy even. Nevermind my awful really short haircut hadn't grown out yet (Why? Because Ghost had come out earlier that school year and I had to have Demi's short haircut). Nevermind I started living up to my horrid nickname, "Paul Pfieffer" after my hair was shorn. That day I was the Sophia Loren of VBJHS.

But I seriously digress.

Coming of age books. They're important. They (along with all my Wrinkle in Times and other assorted Newberry winners and books about the Romanovs...) got me through some REALLY awkward times. Thank you Judy Blume.
Today's girls can also thank Pam Munoz Ryan. So here's the review: I just read Becoming Naomi Leon (no, not one of her more recent works, but her books check out really fast, so I grabbed what I could when I knew I was going to write about coming of age) and let me tell you I was engrossed from start to finish. Her characters rival the richness of E.L. Konigsburg, the depth of situation of Judy Blume, and the imagery of Sue Monk Kidd. If you have a little girl, or were a little girl at one point, I am officially sticking my seal of approval on her body of work. Give her or yourself a copy of Esperazna Rising and a stick of Wet and Wild Kohl Black Eye Liner.