The Obligatory Christmas Gift Post

Believe it or not, I'm literate. I spend a lot of time reading pop novels, because that's what I like to read. I'd like to think that one day I'll battle through Ulysses, or even engage some of the Hemingway tomes I've bought for my boyfriend. I have books by Virginia Woolf and fully intend on reading them. It should be noted here that one of the reasons I have yet to read Mrs. Dalloway is that my emotionally unstable siamese peed on it (along with Microserfs by Douglas Coupland and Averno by Louise Glück) when I left it out on the kitchen counter, which is, apparently, her new favorite place to assert her authority. The truth, however, is I probably wouldn't have read it yet anyway. Though, it may be noted, that I have a ton of books by decorated poets. And I've read most of them.

The point is, I think, that pop novels make for great holiday gifts. I've read all of these books, and thusly can give my stamp of approval. I'm even gifting some this year (I feel safe saying this because my giftees either have an aversion to internets or to blogs). And, as tacky as it is, Happy Holidays to all two of you who read this blog. And a happy new year, or whatever.
( And, yes, I'm aware that I'm a bit late for Hanukkah, but that never stops the cashiers at Macy's from saying "Happy Holidays." I recommend avoiding that place right now, it's a zoo. A zoo filled with steroid-enhanced wildlife that may or may not have recently snorted cocaine.)

A Tale of Two Sisters by Anna Maxted
I read this one last year, picked it up because it's by one of the only chick lit authors I enjoy, Anna Maxted. But it surprised me. This is as much a warm, heartfelt book about taking responsibility for one's own place in life as it is a punchy comedy. The story takes turns between the perspectives of two sisters, Lizbet and Cassie, as they struggle through their relationships (Lizbet is single but committed, whereas Cassie is married but questioning her vows), their jobs (editor and lawyer, respectively), and their feelings for eachother just as a surprise, followed by a tragedy, hit the family. Perhaps it sounds a bit cliche, but trust me when I say that this is Maxted's best book, rife with wit and cynicism, and a great gift for any woman in the family.

The Seas by Samantha Hunt
What I love most about this book is its insane romanticism. Let me pause. It's not insane because it's romantic, it's romantic because it's insane. Or is it? The narrator has a special idealism in the face of imminent tragedy, and is convinced of certain paranormal experiences - most prominently she believes she's a mermaid - that really define the ebb and flow of the story. She is engaged a doomed love affair with a much older Gulf War vet, and lives in a small ship-building town, that, despite giving no specific geographical location, reminds me of northern Maine. It's the spirit of this book that has caused me to already gift it twice.

Hey Nostradamus! by Douglas Coupland
It's not really about religion. Its characters, in various states of spiritual decomposition, don't have a platform on Christianity. In the wake of a high school tragedy, the four narrators of this story are all determined to move forward. Some get there faster than others, and, like you might expect from Coupland, each character's progress is interwoven with the others'. Like most of Coupland's work, this novel leaves both an apocalyptic and a hopeful aftertaste.

Songbook by Nick Hornby
This was actually given to me a few years ago, by my childhood best friend. It's nonfiction - part memoir, part music journalism, with Hornby's musings on his 32 favorite songs. This makes a perfect gift for a music-lover - the friend who has a story for each of his favorite songs. You know, the "Oh the first time I heard this I was driving down Congress Street with Joe..." friend. It's also a quick read, so it's not like you'd be burdening him with the chore of reading War and Peace. Unless, you know, he's into that sort of thing.

Cockatiels for Two by Leo Cullum
Leo Cullum is among my favorite New Yorker cartoonists. And cat cartoons never cease to be funny. This book, comprised entirely of his cat cartoons, is a no-miss gift. Unless your recipient is a dog person. For him, there is Cullum's book of dog cartoons. But that one doesn't interest me nearly as much.


Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot
For lovers of fixed-verse poetry and cat fanatics alike, children and adults, this Eliot classic is a pleaser. I mean, who wouldn't love a poem about Jennyanydots, or Macavity the Mystery Cat? These poems are entertaining and nostalgic, and most fun read aloud!

Beasts by Joyce Carol Oates
A coworker recommended this book to me as she said it reminded her of having gone to college in a rural, eastern location, much like I did. It takes place at an all-girls college in New England, where one girl's obsession with a professor of literature, and, in turn, his wife the art teacher, quickly becomes unhealthy. While dark, Beasts is a compelling read that draws a narrow line between art and self.

Big Mouth and Ugly Girl by Joyce Carol Oates
When I initially purchased this book from half.com, I suspected that it might be a young adult novel. The cover art, I suppose gives it away. I mostly didn't care, as a) Joyce Carol Oates is awesome and b) I like kids' books. What surprised me was the careful, strong narrative Oates crafted using two teenage misfits as protagonists, and, in the aftermath of so many school shootings and bomb threats in the 90's and 00's, the way she tackles such an incident without gimmick or glamor. This is the sort of smart, funny novel that teenagers should be reading, and that adults can certainly get a kick out of, too.

Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami
This was the first Murakami book I read. I know, he's a huge buzz name right now, but hear me out. Your contemporary-literature-loving friend probably doesn't have this one. It's not one of Murakami's more well-known novels, but perhaps it should be. I admit, I chose it not on its merit, but on the fact that it was the shortest of the Murakami novels that were on sale at the Strand. I don't regret this. It mostly takes place on a remote island off the coast of Greece, in search of a woman who has disappeared, seemingly, without a trace. While Murakami is, arguably, hard to read, once you discover the elaborate mystery and romance of this novel, it's difficult to put down. I, for one, missed my stop on the train at least once while reading it.

Latin for Even More Occasions by Henry Beard
Okay, this was geek-love-at-first-sight. Henry Beard may not be a creative genius, but I can't say I haven't enjoyed this book a little too much. And I'm certain that anyone with an interest in Latin, language, or Greco-Roman studies will get a kick out of this. This is especially useful for the holidays: Cogito sumere potum alterum.

Slam by Nick Hornby
I haven't finished reading this yet, so I can't give you an absolutely definitive opinion. But, I can tell you that Nick Hornby's first young adult novel is a hoot. It takes on both heavy and light-hearted subjects with the sort of narrative voice that I have enjoyed In every other Hornby novel that I've read through the eyes of Sam. Sam is a 16-year-old skater (not an ice-skater, mind you, a skateboarder) living in London. He has girl trouble. And there's very little not to enjoy about his story.

Miss Wyoming by Douglas Coupland
Another Coupland novel that I devoured this past year, Miss Wyoming is as delightful as it is frightening. Frightening in the sense that, yes, this is the human condition. It skips about in time, narrating both the history and current affairs of a former teen pageant queen and a washed up movie star. Susan Colgate has survived a plane crash followed by a year-long disappearance, John Johnson has survived a drug overdose followed by months of self-prescribed homelessness. They both have survived, as you can imagine, some extremely odd family dynamics. As the story switches perspectives and carves out each surprise, you find yourself putting faith in the aforementioned human condition, and the odd little mission that this pair ultimately have set out to achieve.

There you have it. Happy shopping (read: may you not venture into any malls or department stores). And, if you're wondering what to get me, here's my very own Amazon wish list. I like presents.

Body of Evidence

Women are fat.

We're not chubby or plump. We're not hefty or big. We're fat.

Men can be jolly or whatever.

I've decided to be squishy.

Most of the time I'm okay with squishy. My boyfriend is okay with squishy, he's really only ever known me squishy. Of course there's the inevitable return-to-the-hometown desire: I hope everyone else is fatter than me. The truth is, I would love to be tiny for my 10-year reunion. And recently I've discovered that some pants don't fit like they did six months ago. Being happy with your body is just really bad for dieting.

And I don't believe in dieting. This whole culture of feeling in control of our lives by controlling what we eat is weird. The Atkins diet shits me - the guy DIED from cardiac arrest and put a ban on vegetables but people still want to eat steak steak steak to lose weight weight weight. And then there's Weight Watchers where you go to meetings, which, I presume is something like AA:
"Hi, I'm Judy Jones, and I'm FAT."
"Hi Judy."

"Hi, I'm Katie Clarke, and I have been thin for six months!"
(thundering applause)
And of course Nutrisystem, which, apparently, costs a damn fortune (their prices don't include a lot of parts of the "meal" they send you - like the meat).

And there is, of course, the idea of skipping food control all together and going straight to appetite control. Pills! We have a pill for everything — AND YOU NEED THEM. We have celebrities to endorse them all, too. FAT celebrities, who got skinny.

I don't think Americans — Westerners, even — will ever have a healthy relationship with food. We think of food like something naughty, an indulgence, a vice. Food is not something we eat to sustain ourselves, but to satisfy ourselves. And there's no balance. If we are satisfied, we must have had too much. My weight loss plan is this: don't think too much about it, do some pilates, walk more. I don't want to think about my snacks in terms of calories and carbs.

My friend Amelia has this theory on feeding children: kids' bodies know what they need. If you make good food available, they will, usually, get what their body requires. Her daughter seems to eat like a pigeon, but, if you watch closely over several days, you see that she gets everything she needs from several food groups. I don't see why we, as adults, can't function similarly. Eat what we want, when we want, listening to our bodies instead of the ingredients list on the backs of packages. And if I want I need I must have McNuggets, so be it. If I never lose this extra weight, I'm okay with that, too.

When I grow up

Summer time can be a veritable wasteland for cable viewers - our network favorites go into reruns and new short-season summer series are often no more than a flash in the pan. Thankfully TNT developed The Closer a few years ago providing at least one night a week with some clever crime drama. Army Wives, while airing amongst the notoriously sentimental and uninspired shows on Lifetime, is an intriguing new series that lands it a good few notches above mediocre. But every summer, without fail, the Discovery Channel alone can boast an event with both reruns AND original programming that would completely beat out a week with new episodes of House, Criminal Minds, Grey's Anatomy, and CSI - at least on my TiVo.

Shark Week makes me want to go back in time and become an ichthyologist.

These animals are brilliant and beautiful. I just finished watching Top Ten Most Dangerous Sharks, which I remember watching last year. The narrator talked about all these amazing experiences, and shows biologists and divers doing the most exciting things. I want to go swim with sharks, get bitten by one or two (nothing fatal or damaging, just enough for a cool scar and a story), experience the awe and adrenaline of sharing the ocean with them.

When I was young I was obsessed with whales, and I feel like I missed out. If I had had a poster of the various species of sharks on my wall, instead of whales, perhaps I would have stuck to my guns and become a biologist of some sort instead of crapping out in high school and giving up on the sciences. It's not likely, as the science programs, even in my school district in coastal Maine, weren't exactly deep sea expeditions.

I found myself writing a poem about shark predation on the train last week, in anticipation of the Shark Week extravaganza. I felt like a cheat. I've never seen a shark in the wild, only in aquariums (and according to the aforementioned program, it was most likely a sand tiger, as they survive best in captivity and their needly teeth make for a great spectacle). My experience on boats is limited to Portland Harbor and the Staten Island Ferry. I once went on a whale watch - I was about 14 - and wound up seasick and vomiting and not seeing more than a dorsal fin. I will take whatever drugs necessary to go on a shark watch so that I can record their majesty in earnest.

I promise not to get eaten.

And so it begins...

Inspired by my many "serious" blogger friends, I am hereby abandoning my past as a "casual" blogger. Blogging is, as some might say, serious business, after all, and there are a lot of serious things to be said.

My name is Emily, but some of you may have read my poetry published under the moniker E. Kristin Anderson. You know, as in ekristinanderson.blogspot.com. Yes, it's a penname, don't fault me for it. Some other Emily Morse got there first and published screenplays with my name. I know, I know, it's a tragedy. But I figure this is a great way to take advantage of my grandmother's maiden name. And she's an awesome lady, so why not be an Anderson? And as to prevent further confusion with the billions of Emily Andersons that must exist, I decided to shorten that first name to E. and use Kristin. Of course, this has caused just the slightest bit of agony. It seems that the popular way to spell Kristin is with an e: Kristen. Funny story: my Dad can't spell. And having not discussed spelling with my mother before she was put on infinite painkillers, I was born and my birth certificate was filled out wrong. And never corrected. I'm a walking mistake, in some sense of the world. No wonder I'm a hate-mongering tart.

Emily is a great name, though. The first person I shared my name with was Miss Emily Dickinson. I mean, clearly, there were millions, no, billions, of Emilies running amok in the world at the time, but when i was seven or eight I was standing in line at the book store with my mum and saw that there was a book with my name on it with all the other bargain books: the Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson. It MUST have been a bargain book because it was a massive hardcover tome with roses on the cover, and I can't imagine even my, who was and is a great advocate of reading and the arts for kids, spending more than ten bucks on a book of poetry that I wanted just because of the author's name.

I fell in love with poetry that summer. I read most of Emily's poems (I'd like to say all, but I know that's not true), which of course I thought were all about love of nature and wanting to live in the ocean as a mermaid and such - the naiveté of childhood blocks out the ideas of depression and suicide that are so predominant in such works - and that fall I started telling people that I was named after Miss Dickinson. A total lie: if I was named after anyone, my mother said, it was her "Aunt" Emily, who was actually just a favorite babysitter who spelled her name E-M-I-L-I-E (another spelling mistake on my parents' permanent record) and, truth be told, it wasn't so much that I was named after her but that my mother really liked her name. I kept lying, much like I had when I found out that Emily had once been a nickname for Amelia and started writing Amelia Morse on all my school papers.

Nevertheless, Emily Dickinson and her twee poems about the birds and the ocean and her deep, dark heartache built me as a writer. Her superfluous use of the em dash and her impenetrable meter may not be my shtick, but she gave me my first taste from a cup that I just can't seem to put down. Over and over I asked my mom why she never showed anyone her poetry, why she hid it (I imagined that she kept it with a few hand-made sachets of potpourri in her underwear drawer) and it was only published after she died. I can't remember what my mother answered with, only that it was unsatisfactory. Poetry is art, and art is meant to be shared.

Recently I began my quest to share my poetry in a serious manner (i.e., not just posting it on the web for my friends). On the right, much like my pretentious poet friend James, I'll post journals that have picked up my verse for publication in their pages. For the time being, some of my poetry is also available at my deviantART page, but it is quickly disappearing these days, as it finishes its time being workshopped and is mailed off to literary journals. Literary journals to me are worse than crack-cocaine and I hope never to go to rehab for this addiction. I hope that literature will be the problem that takes me over and puts me in the ground. It is, after all, so much like love.