I wish I had some sort of glamorous excuse like globe-hopping, or maternity leave, or being trapped in a bottomless trunk while my captor assumed my identity a la Mad Eye Moody, but the reality is that I've been cheating on my blog. In the pursuit of more google page results on my name, I've recently started work on my first book, so my blog has gone quiet while I've been developing ink stained fingers and a 4 cup a day coffee addiction.

I'm coming back though I promise! In the quest for literary notoriety and full time gainful employment, my best blog ideas have been relegated to several legal pad pages.

I've also been tooling around with the design, and what direction I want this site to take, so check back on Monday, July 14th to check out the changes!

Happy reading! 

It had never occurred to me that I might actually encounter any of my literary idols wandering around the suburbs of Chicago, or the rolling hills of Central Missouri where I spent my college years. Because of this, I never had the time to properly prepare my chamingly witty, yet unique introduction to my idol, so that when the day did come, in October 2005, I pretty much ended up looking like...well...read on and see...

One late summer day in 2005 my program coordinator for the Summer Publishing Institute at NYU sent out a mass email asking which of us over-eager book nerds might be willing to give up a Sunday volunteering for the New York Times' Great Read in the Park, celebrating the 75th anniversary of the Bestseller List. I had no idea which authors were to be present, but they did promise a free t-shirt, so I was down.

Sunday dawned unseasonably warm for early October in Bryant Park, where the festival shenanigans were taking place, and I showed up as mandated in brown pants, my complimentary long sleeved t-shirt, clutching a bucket of coffee in my left hand. I scanned the events program that the volunteer coordinator stuffed into my hand, before taking off in 4" heels, screeching at one of the many minions present. It all looked pretty interesting, and I had heard of, and enjoyed most of the authors that were scheduled to lecture and do book signings, but then, I came to HIM. If this were a novel, I would have sputtered on my latest sip, and dropped my coffee to the pavement, splattering someones chic shoes.

Instead, I pulled the gaping guppy face. I was dumbstruck. HE was going.to.be.HERE. In Bryant Park. Right in front of me. Mr. Angela's Ashes himself, in the flesh, Frank McCourt.

I first read Angela's Ashes in December 1997 while bed-bound recoving from a tonsilectomy, and I fell in love. Even heavy doses of  regular painkillers and a slew of anti-biotics couldn't tear me away from McCourt's dry and brutally honest prose. This was the first book in my adult reading life that I truly devoured. I even chose to write my undergraduate thesis for my capstone on 20th Century Irish Literature on McCourt's two previous books (This was 2004, and Teacher Man had not been published yet).

In interviews and reviews of McCourt that I had read over subsequent years described him as dumbfounded by, and fairly annoyed by his literary successes, and all the fame and adulation that followed. I witnessed this firsthand when following a reading from his upcoming book, Teacher Man, a gaggle of middle-aged women grouped around him like a flock of hyper hens, cooing and clucking their praise and compliments. McCourt looked visibly annoyed and uncortable, and while polite, he made moves to get away from his groupies as quickly as was politely possible.

By some act of God, and my strategic positioning during his reading, I was tapped by Ms. Jimmy Choo volunteer coordinator to escort McCourt to his round-table discussion inside the New York Public Library just off Bryant Park. As he walked towards me, I steeled myself, attempting to look as professional and put-together as possible, though difficult given that I had just spent the past 7 hrs trotting all over the park in a long-sleeved shirt on an 82 degree, sunny day. Our exchange went something like this: 

Me: "Hi Mr. McCourt, my name is Jessica LeTourneur, and it is a pleasure to meet you. I'm here to escort you to your next presentation over there in the library."

Him: "Hrrmph, hello. How much time do I have?"

Me: "You have 45 min sir."

Him: "You see that bar over there? (Bryant Park has an outdoor bistro/bar set up just steps from the library in the summertime), I'm going over there for a drink...come back for me in 45 minutes."

(As we walked towards the bar...)

Me: "You know, I have read both Angela's Ashes and Tis several times, and I just wanted to tell you that I think you are a wonderful writer, and I really loved your books. In fact, I wrote my undergraduate thesis on them."

Him: "Oh God, don't tell me you wrote one of those fucking English student 'deeper meaning' papers that are always full of shit on my books..."

Me: (chuckling nervously) "Heh, actually, I did."

Him: "Oh Christ. And you work in book publishing now?"

Me: "Yes....."

Him: "Jesus Christ. I'll be at the bar. See you in 45 minutes." 

First it started with Anna Karenina, which I was happily enjoying. Then 87 pages in I got distracted and picked up The Persian Bride. 54 pages into that, and I wandered towards a tattered copy of Le Mariage that I picked up at my library's book sale 2 yrs. ago, and have not touched since I brought it home. Then halfway through Le Mariage I found myself in the car heading towards Barnes and Noble to purchase a copy of I Was Told There'd Be Cake. Somehow I managed to make it all the way through, though I have a sneaking suspicion that was entirely owing to the fact that I Was Told There'd Be Cake is a collection of quick-reading essays, and the entire book was only about 220 pages long. Now I am forcing myself to plow through the last 90 pages of Le Mariage, though I swear I'm this close to packing it in, and donating it to my local trade-a-book shop.

Did I also mention that I currently have about 13 requests/holds at my local library? Not to mention the 7 books I already have checked out.

So in the absence of any better term, I've diagnosed myself with Literary ADD/Overload. There are just too many books, and too little time! When perusing at B&N this morning, I felt my pulse quickening, and all of a sudden, my light sweater seemed just a bit too warm. Was it the grande cup of coffee I held in my left hand kicking in? After spending the past week wondering what in the world was wrong with me-why couldn't I just sit down, read, and make it through just one novel? The answer came to me in the Biography section, as I scanned the titles, and thought to myself "own it, own it, on request at the library, own it, on amazon wishlist, etc..." 

The problem isn't that I can't find anything to read, it's that there are too many things that I'm desperately eager to read. And every day as I read more reviews, publishing news blogs, author interviews, etc...I keep finding even MORE books to read! So what happens is that after reading a raving review of the latest installment in Stephen Clarke's Merde series, my literary flavor of the week turns from its original Ben & Jerry's Dublin Mudslide to Kroger brand Mint Chocolate Chip.

I don't see this as a problem of sorts, say on par with gainful, secure employment, or rising fuel costs, but it sure is bugging the crap out of me.

Now if you'll excuse me, I better get back to finding out whether or not Anne-Sophie and Tim will follow through with their wedding, and if Gabriel really stole the manuscript before I decide to donate the novel to the geese wandering just out my back door.

Happy reading!   

In my absence from my trusty Dell laptop, I've managed to get bunches of reading done, all of which I will post more about in the coming days. In the meantime though, I've learned that hauling that legendary brick of a novel-Anna Karenina to the beach in Florida will elicit a few strange looks from fellow sun bathers, and a sigh from ones mother.

In the words of my junior high's namesake..."I shall return."

Happy reading!

Most would describe those writers such as Stephen King, Nicholas Sparks, Jodie Picoult, and John Grisham as "successful". Commercially, they are. But on from a literary point of view, I think they all just flipped on the 'auto' switch after their third novels, and climbed into a hammock on the beach, waiting for the next royalty check to arrive. Reading any of their later books is akin to eating a bowl of Kraft Mac and Cheese. It's easy, predictable, and comforting.

Yet at the same time their commercial successes makes it possible for less lucrative, and literary writers to be published. So while I most definitely will pass on The Notebook v.17, I appreciate that millions of readers still find the formulaic and bestselling authors pleasurable, because without them, I'm not sure that I would now find myself in the middle of one of the most brilliant novels I have read in many moons, The Bastard of Istanbul.

The moral of the story here is that while I, and many others may constantly lament the amount of drivel that's regularly published, the truth is that this is what's paying the publisher's bills, allowing the house to occasionally expose us to the next truly great read.   

Last year a friend of mine, Derek Landy, published the first in a series of young adult books following the story of a very unique Irish girl named Stephanie Edgley titled Skulduggery Pleasant. Now because the author is Irish, and resides in Dublin, he is much more well known and commercially successful in his native Ireland, and in the neighboring United Kingdom.

His second book in the series, Skulduggery Pleasant: Playing With Fire will be available on May 6th, 2008 from HarperCollins, and if the second book is as clever and well-written as the first, then readers are in for a real treat. I have a feeling that if HarperCollins' U.S. publicity team pushes this book as hard as their UK counterparts currently are (the book is already on store shelves in Europe), then Derek Landy should be a recognizable name on our shores in the not-too-distant future.

You all should get out there, and read for yourselves what HarperCollins did when they signed Landy for a seven figure advance and a multiple book deal, something nearly unheard of in the publishing industry for a first time author. Not even JK Rowling received so much fanfare when she signed her first contact for Harry Potter.

Skulduggery Pleasant tells the story of young Stephanie Edgley, and her unconventional association with a "snappily dressed, razor-tongued wit, crackerjack sorcerer, and walking, talking, fire-throwing skeleton" named, you guessed it, Skulduggery Pleasant. It is set in modern day Dublin, but there is an underground magical world that is much more than meets the untrained eye, and Stephanie and Skulduggery Pleasant  work together to solve a myriad of magical and fantastic mysteries.

Many authors who set out to write a series, such as Philip Pullman, Jasper Fforde, and JK Rowling often found critical and commercial fame and success around, or after publication of their second books. I anticipate, and hope the same will happen for Mr. Landy.

So years from now, after all the books, films, calendars, and action figures have sufficiently inundated us in Skulduggery Fever, wouldn't it be great to be able to say "I was one of the first?"

What's been neat about this is that through quenching my news thirst, I have stumbled across some really great book reviews, literary blogs, and have had my radar attuned in ways that it wouldn't have been otherwise had it not been for some of these international news sites such as, my personal favorite, the UK Guardian whose bloggers and staff writers update the Book section on a daily basis, unlike the weekly New York Times Book Review section, which most think of as the Lord of the Literary Kingdom.

Yet were it not for The Guardian, the London Review of Books, and even some translated Dutch, German, French, and Italian papers that I got into the habit of reading on a regular basis when I worked in international program development, I might never have heard about Salman Rushdie's upcoming novel, or learned more about Nazi Literature in the Americas, or discovered with small and obscure American publisher was distributing one of my new favorite authors.

So while I'm not intending to impugn great American book review sites in any way; indeed my hometown paper has a wonderful literary blogger that I enjoy reading on a regular basis, there are some brilliant international reviews and bloggers out there across the pond that can deliver a fresh breeze of news and ideas.

So for those of you who are online, on the lookout for the next Carlos Ruiz Zafon, or perhaps want to know what someone besides Michiko Kakutani thought of The Book Thief, then I say get thee to a Google and roam away!  

Happy reading!

Some people decide to quit watching TV for the year to devote more time to reading, but I say, what's wrong with doing the opposite? I've spent so much time reading and writing, over the course of my whole life really, that I've missed entire seasons of shows like "Name That Fruit", or "Sell Your Granny"

So enough is enough I say! I've spent too many hours rotting my brain with books like Charlotte Gray, or Suite Francaise. Bring on the "Flavors of Love 17", and "How to Catch a Kitten Snatcher". Plus think of all the money I'll save on gas by staying home and on my tush all day long! Not to mention the eye strain I'll save from reading all that tiny print, and scribbling away on my laptop all day long.

So for the next 365 days, if you need me, I will be on the couch.

Oh, and Happy April Fool's Day everyone

Are we really such snobs that we will chuck a person like stale leftovers into the trash just because they'd rather read The Historian over A Prayer for Owen Meany? While it's true that what a person chooses to read can be a strong indicator of their tastes, personality, and character, I think that what this article didn't take into consideration is the type of reader an individual might be.

Here's what I mean...a close friend of mine is a brilliant, independent, and logical chemistry professor at an East Coast university, who in her spare time happens to love reading what I like to refer to as "bodice rippers". You know, those cheap scintillating paperbacks that you find little old ladies hoarding piles of at the weekly library book sale. Now if someone saw her reading one of these say in a coffee shop, they'd probably look her up and down, raise their perfectly tweezed eyebrows, smirk, and walk away with their $4 frappachino, relishing in their supposed intellectual superiority.

Sometimes people purposely read things that are outside of their comfort zone, so to speak. Exposing oneself to new genres, authors, and subjects is not only how we grow as readers, but as human beings.

So as we're taught in kindergarten not to judge a book by its cover, I think that we shouldn't necessarily judge a reader by their books.

After all, in this fast, fast, fast, get-it-to-go society, shouldn't we simply appreciate the fact that someone is taking the time to take a seat, slow down, and let themselves be carried away by a nice story?  

With the exception of the most devoted of Literature graduate students, and scholars, who isn't guilty of committing such an infraction? I've all but worn out my VHS copy of Sense and Sensibility, but I can only remember reading it a handful of times over my entire life. Does this make me a "bad English major?" Should I be worried that my alma mater is going to break down my door, pull my degree of the wall, and toss it in the fireplace?

This past Easter weekend, my college roommate and I were discussing film adaptations of Jane Austen's novels. While most women I know are all mooney about Mr. Darcy, and will continuously manipulate those "Which Jane Austen character are you?" online quizzes until their answer is Elizabeth Bennett, I personally am much more inclined towards Mansfield Park, and Sense and Sensibility, which I know puts me into the minority, at least amongst the women I know.

When I told her this, she admitted that she's never read any Jane Austen novels beyond Pride and Prejudice, but that Masterpiece Theatre airing the BBC adaptations of all six of her novels this past winter has made her all the more eager to actually read the books.  

Back in my more "books are vastly superior to films" snobbish days, I was always appalled when someone would voice preference of a film adaptation of a novel, or to seeing the movie first, then coming to the book later. Just look at the Harry Potter phenomenon. But as our society is reading less and less, I don't think it really matters anymore how people come to read; the point is that they are reading. Synergy...it can be a wonderful thing.  

I know that I'm likely leaving many worthy books out, but I'm going off of what is currently on my bookshelves, most of which I purchased while in college, and haven't gotten to in the years since. Feel free to leave any suggestions...

1. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

2. Nicholas Nickelby by Charles Dickens

3. The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins

4. Shirley by Charlotte Bronte

5. Villette by Charlotte Bronte

6. Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

7. Far From the Maddening Crowd by Thomas Hardy

8. Tess of the D'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy

9. Bleak House by Charles Dickens

10. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Or I wonder if I shouldn't just read the copy of How To Talk About Books You Haven't Read that I received for Christmas, and save myself hundreds of reading hours? Hmmmmm..... :)

Ashamed as I am of this fact, I must come clean and admit that I have never read Wuthering Heights. I purchased the Dover Thrift edition about seven years ago, and it's followed me about the country ever since. I picked it up the other day, made a cup of coffee, and sat down in my favorite reading chair, made it about eight pages in, then put it down thinking, as a Chicago Cubs fan does each September "wait until next year." There was just something about the sweet warm air, and the sunny skies that completely put me off of reading about misty windswept moors, and damp country houses in Yorkshire.

This in turn had me thinking about my summer reading list, which I will write more about in a later post. In my office right now I have a pile of about 7 library books, and about 17 books on my "to be read in the immediate future" shelf, all of which I've received as Christmas gifts, or have randomly purchased over the past 6 months. And I wondered if I am the only person who does the following...

I'll hear, or read about a particular book that sounds fantastic, so I'll either get it from the local library, or purchase it thinking "Oh, I can't wait to read this!" About 40% of the time I'll read it within about a week or two of getting it in my hands, but the majority of the time it ends up on my bookcase, not quite forgotten, but just pushed back a bit in the line. Then a year might go by, because in the meantime, each time I come to it, I'm not quite "in the mood" to read this particular book, excited as I still may be to read it.

I think that this scenario has to do a lot with the season, and geographical location and that it happens to more than just a fair share of us. When living in Arizona, I took a course in 20th Century Eastern European Literature, and as much as I enjoyed the reading material, I found it difficult to really get into the guts of Solzhenitsyn, as I read Cancer Ward under a palm tree on a 97 degree day in Tempe.

So my apologies go out to Miss Bronte; I am afraid that she will just have to wait for me to join the ranks as one of her fans until the next snowfall. In the meantime, I will be keeping company with the literary equivalent of a fresh summer salad.     

I enjoyed the "ooh, I get that obscure literary reference, aren't I clever!" feeling that I got reading the first novel (The Eyre Affair), but now, a quarter of the way into the second of the five in the series, I'm beginning to find it a bit annoying.

But because I feel compelled to find out what the end of the story is, I'm going to hang in there, and read through all five. Not that these novels are bad, per se, but just....long. I feel like if Ffordes editor had been on top of their game, they could have saved us all a lot of time and unnecessary prose.

So this got me thinking about the nature of series', and their increasing popularity as of late. Harry Potter, The Chronicles of Narnia, His Dark Materials....what is so unique about a story that it cannot be contained within just one book, but must spread out across half a dozen or so brick-weight novels?

*Disclosure* J.K. Rowling could go on with Harry Potter for as long as she lives, and I'd be a happy camper*

So my real question is, where does the story end? Many writers say that they could go on forever about their characters, but they choose to end their novels at a point that they deem appropriate. Then some other writers will simply ramble on about the same people for thousands of pages, given a multiple-book deal. For some this is appreciated, and as for others, well, let's just assume that their agents are VERY good at their jobs. 

Some writers have described going through a grieving process when they finish a novel. They have spent many months with these characters, and to let them go is akin to losing a member of the family. I know that as a reader, I have felt this at times when I've become extraordinarily immersed in a particular story, and I'm reluctant to say goodbye to these characters that have become a part of my daily life for a brief period of time. Yet, like a party, I would sometimes rather leave a story early, than stay too late. Because once the lights come back on, and the streamers have fallen to the floor, no matter how good the party was, I wind up feeling tired, disappointed, and relieved that it's all over.

This is how I'm starting to feel about this series, and series' in general, excepting Harry Potter. The initial buzz of excitement has worn off, and now I find myself checking my watch, and hoping last call will come sooner rather than later.

What interests me most about WW2 may seem obvious to say, but it's that so many different countries were involved, and each country's people have very diverse perspectives on the events that occurred. An English Royal Air Force pilot making drops over France will have a completely different tale to tell from the Greek villager living under the Italian occupation. And what it really all comes down to me is the people. After all, history is nothing more than a collection of people's stories.

Below I've listed some of the better historical novels whose events take place during WW2 that I have read over the past year. An interesting side note: not a single one of these writers is an American, and many were translated into English from the writer's native language. This speaks all the more better for the translator's talents, as these novels are profoundly, and beautifully written.

The list, in the order that I read these books in, is as follows:

1. Winter in Madrid by C.J. Sansom. I picked up this book in Amsterdam last year, where it was a bestseller in Britain. It takes place in post-Civil War Spain, and follows the tale of Harry Brett, who finds himself over his head, and far from home in this thrilling tale of love, betrayal, and espionage.

2. The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. While it's not technically "a WW2 novel", large parts of it take place in the years immediately leading up to, and during the war. A young boy, growing up in Barcelona during the 1950's loses himself in a book, and gets caught up in the intrigue, mystery, and danger that surrounds the novel's origins.

3. Tamar by Mal Peet. This novel is actually intended for a young adult audience, but once I read it's description in the Barnes & Noble "Discover Great New Writers" brochure for Spring 2007, I could hardly resist picking it up at my local library. It tells that tale of two of two young Englishmen assisting the Dutch Resistance effort in Holland during the last years of the war. What adds to the novel's mystery, is its parallel narrative structure. It's a compelling and brilliantly written novel.

4. Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. A heart-wrenching international bestseller that you have no doubt heard of. It consists of two novellas, but they come together so seamlessly. The first half, entitled "Storm in June" describes the 1940 exodus of thousands of French citizens fleeing Paris when the Nazi German occupiers arrive. The individual chapters are short; each illustrates the individual crises and situations affecting several different families. The second half, "Dolce" narrates the story of a French village under German occupation following the armistice in 1940, and how each villager comes to grips with the choices they make in a time of fear, uncertainty, and desperation. Nemirovsky intended her novel to continue further into five parts, but her life came to an abrupt end when she, a Russian Jewish immigrant, residing in France, was deported to, and perished in Auschwitz in 1942.

5. Atonement by Ian McEwan. Readers hoping for meaty military battles and despondent war widows will have to look elsewhere. This haunting and gritty read focuses on perceptions of reality, and the elasticity of truth. The story takes place at a country estate during pre-war England, and later in war-time London. The feelings that McEwan's lush narrative evokes in the reader are unparalleled.

6. Charlotte Gray by Sebastian Faulks. A rarity among wartime novels, the protagonist in this story is an Englishwoman, Charlotte Gray who finds herself a secret agent for British Intelligence, drawn into the French Resistance when her lover, a pilot with the Royal Air Force is shot down over the German-occupied Franch countryside. Faulks' well-crafted prose, and knowledge of military history is both moving and impressive.

7. Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Bernieres. What I loved most about this novel is that each chapter is told by a different character, allowing the reader to see many different sides of a single event-the Italian occupation of the Greek island of Cephalonia. The novel follows several different threads, but the meat and potatoes of it, so to speak concerns the relationship between native Cephalonian beauty, Pelagia, and the charming, mandolin-playing Italian captain, Captain Corelli. The outcome is pretty predictable, and the plot formulaic, but what kept me reading was the story of the minor characters, and the obviously well-researched historical details.

8. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. WOW. That was what I kept saying to myself, over and over, as I read on. Like Tamar, this book was written for a young adult audience, but when I saw it just lying on a table in a bookshop, I couldn't help myself. It looked too good, and really, it was, Absolutely. Brilliant. The novel is narrated by Death, and he follows the trials and tribulations of Liesel Meminger, a young German girl who is taken on by a Jewish-sympathetic family in Molching, Germany. Besides the unique narrator, what makes this book so different and special from other WW2 novels is that it is about a German family, and never once does the author vilify, or condemn them. Their childen are members of the Hitler Youth, to be sure, but only because to defy the Nazi's rule would be tantamount to suicide. There are parts of the story that disturbed me, as a 20-somethings woman, and so I would not universally recommend this book to all young adults, but this in no way detracts in my admiration of what Markus Zusak set out to accomplish, and overwhelmingly achieved.  

Not that I was reading these authors at age seven; like most American children I learned to read the Disney classics, and the infamous "Little Golden Books". But as I got older, and began to discover what I really wanted to read, as opposed to what was read to me, my Gramie sat me down in the library, and fired "the canon" at me.

In college I studied English Literature, with an emphasis in World Literature. Somehow I managed to get away with only taking one American Literature course, choosing instead to focus my undergraduate thesis on Modern Irish Literature.

When I took my first job in book publishing, in the international publicity/sales department of W. W. Norton & Company, I learned that only 6% of all books on the market in the United States are translated into English from another language. Yet around 80% of the international market are books that are translated from English into a given country's native language. Basically this means that every year there are thousands of phenomenal books being published by non-English speaking writers that will never find their way into the American reading public's hands. And this bugs me. A lot.

Fortunately I'm not the only one cheesed at this disparity, and there's a great group of people working hard to turn this situation around. They are the members, employees, and supporters of the website WordsWithoutBorders.org.

WordsWithoutBorders.org works dilligently to bring international literature to the English speaking world. I personally have discovered many great new writers as a result of this site.

I never intentionally set out to disparage American writers. As a writer, and an American myself, I hope that someone will read my books someday! I think that as Americans, we are sometimes apt to forget that there is a great big wide world out there, and that it is filled with wonderful writers. Writers who can enrich the literary market, and our minds in new and creative ways.

As international travel and cultural understanding increases with each passing year, I sincerely hope that this will also trickle down to the literary maket, and bring great international writers onto the bookshelves of American readers. Sometimes the cheapest plane ticket to an exotic new culture costs no more than a new paperback.