Weather in the Tries:
Why yes, thank you, we are having some this coming week.

On a Personal Note:
“Hawkeye” Pierce died this past week at the age of 88. Rest in Peace Donald Sutherland, thank you for so many wonderful characters I would have loved to meet and get to know.

Great Stories v. Great Literature: 
I subscribe to the Substack of Sherman Alexie. Because I pay, I get to see more of his writings than if I subscribed to the free version. I also get to leave comments on his writings, which range from poetry to short stories to memoir. I am in awe of the man’s talent. The other day he wrote something about wanting to write great literature. Of course, I couldn’t let that go without a comment. I told him to continue to write great stories, and if they happen to be great literature, fine. But if not, to my way of thinking great stories are more important than great literature.

Great stories are accessible to anyone who can read. Great Literature is often dry, dull, and boring, the characters are not interesting or fun, just ink on a dead processed tree. Margaret Atwood writes great stories, and great literature, but her literature is first and foremost a damn good story. 

My book group read a debut novel by a young author. I gave it the requisite 60 pages (I read once that a book editor will read the first 60 pages and if they like it, continue. If not, the great Letter of Rejection is mailed. Actually, I doubt if they read much past 10 pages today). I didn’t like any of the characters, I didn’t care what happened to them, I just didn’t care. I seldom read past page 60, if it’s not my cuppa tea. Sometimes I put the book down, wait a few months and try again, and then I get all the way through and can’t figure out why I disliked it the first time.

I did, once, read a book almost to the middle, and put it down. Not one likable person in the book. Worse than the Godfather. That book I could hardly put down and the only likeable person were the two women Michael Corleone married. Anyhow, back to the one I closed slightly before the halfway mark, I picked it up a week or two later, and I committed a venal sin. A misdemeanor if you will. I read the last chapter. Although I didn’t like anyone, I kept worrying it, and decided I had to know the end. 

Literature is character driven. Fiction is plot driven. Perhaps I never had the right literature books, or the right teacher to teach the class, but I feel about most literature I’ve tried as Oprah does about books with happy endings! She will never recommend a book with a happy ending, I heard her say one day during a tv interview. If it’s fiction, and you want me to read it, it had better have a happy ending, with few exceptions. I get too many sad endings in the news. And in my life. 

I have a book by George Steiner, Errata: an examined life. It is a collection of essays. I bought it for the first paragraph, which begins thusly: “Rain, particularly to a child, carries distinct smells and colors. Summer rains in the Tyrol are relentless. They have a morose, flogging insistence and come in deepening shades of dark green. At night, the drumming is one of…”

I love essays. I have several books of essays. They are (except for the John McPhee ones) usually short. And interesting. So, I buy a book based on one paragraph, the hook as it’s called in genre writing, and was enthralled all the way through. I also subscribe to magazines based on similar things. I just subscribed to The Paris Review, based on an article they pulled from a past issue and sent out, about Chinua Achebe. I don’t believe I’ve read anything by him, but after reading the article, I will give him a try. (The article was open to one and all, to read the interview, one must subscribe.)

Just what I need. More processed dead trees coming into our house. I am so jealous of my housemate at times. ALL of his books go to his Kindle. Only fiction and the now and then craft book, come to mine. I want the white space of poetry as it’s shown on the page. And if it’s non-fiction, I want to write marginalia in it, well, sometimes. I want to go back to earlier pages and check something. Yes, I can do that on my kindle, but it’s difficult, and I’m special (okay, I’m probably a bit spacey, too) and I can see the page if it’s paper, but not if its electrons. What can I say? I also like the feel and perfume of paper and ink. 

Back to Sherman Alexie, if he does write the great literary novel, it will probably be very well written, and interesting. But I hate the idea that he goes into his office one day, sits down at his computer and purposely writes literature. I want him to write stories. I’ve yet to read one of his stories that wasn’t well worth the time and money. Maybe I’m just lazy, and don’t want to have to figure out what the writer is writing about. Maybe I’m tired after a long day, and I want to escape my reality for a few minutes when I go to bed at night. Maybe I want a poem about a father and son at the ice cream store to be just that, and not have 37 metaphors that need to be decoded. Yeah, he writes kick-ass poetry as well as fiction. 

Photos of the Week:
Mallard Hen out for an afternoon swim, enjoying the pond to herself

Silver Linden tree at the Library. Several trees, all in bloom. Shedding pollen and perfume like crazy.

from the desk of the big chihuahua;
my human says to buckle up savvy pup, because it’s gonna be hot and not so hot this week. she forgets this dog is a desert dog. my forebears came out of the chihuahua desert down south of the border, down Mexico way. will you look at that. the computer put a capped letter in for me.

Earworm of the Week courtesy of YouTube:
South of the Border (Down Mexico Way by Patsy Cline

Quote of the Week courtesy of azquotes:

“Carnegie Hall was real fabulous, but you know,
it ain’t as big as the Grand Ole Opry.” ~ Patsy Cline