Isla McKetta, MFA, Author at A Geography of Reading

Seeking Redemption in The Art of Crash Landing

September 13, 2015 by Isla McKetta, MFA 4 Comments

Reading the first page of the review copy of Melissa DeCarlo’s The Art of Crash Landing where self-proclaimed “fuckup savant” Mattie Wallace details how long it takes to cram your entire life into plastic garbage bags and outline some of the circumstances that got her there, I cringed. I thought, “Oh, great, a self-indulgent, first-person narrative about how the world done her wrong.” But I could not have been more wrong, and instead The Art of Crash Landing turned into a wild ride through a life wasted where redemption and forgiveness burn on the horizon.

Inside a Disaster

Despite my initial misgivings, it’s not long before we gain real insight into where Mattie’s thirty years of living went wrong as she packs up her car and heads on over to the last friend she has in the world—her former stepfather, Queeg. By the time she shows up on his doorstep pregnant, starving, and out of cash and options (page five), Mattie’s voice stopped grating on my nerves and I’ve started to worry for her. Now that’s an art.

There’s something about the way DeCarlo unpacks Mattie’s experiences—including the death of her alcoholic mother—that made me (and Queeg) want to cradle this wounded bird and nurse her into a better life. Part of it is how much Mattie owns everything that’s happened to her—even the things that were way beyond her control. She knows she’s bad news. She also thinks she was bad news when she and her mother first met Queeg seventeen years earlier. She doesn’t feel entitled to this man’s help—she simply has no other choice.

As plots usually go, another choice emerges and Mattie is somewhat shoved by fate to visit the town where her mother was born, raised, and seemingly run out of a long time ago. She runs into characters from her mother’s mysterious past and a few ghosts of what could have been, too. The resulting story, always tinged with Mattie’s over-ownership of the disasters around her, is a poignant unwrapping of how one person’s disaster can take down all their loved ones. It’s also a look at how to escape the life you were given and thrive on your own. Most importantly, it’s a look at how we all have reasons for becoming who we are—our parents, our grandparents, and us—and how to live in the part of that cycle we have control over.

Pacing a Narrative Race

I should have known from DeCarlo’s opening words, “Twenty-seven minutes is, if anyone ever asks, exactly how long it takes to cram everything I own into six giant trash bags” that this book would be fast-paced. What I couldn’t anticipate is that at just over 400 pages what a fast read it would be and that it would cover such a short time period—about a week.

When I saw the day markers dividing sections of this book, I did do the math and worry for a minute that The Art of Crash Landing would be filled with a Proustian level of detail, but thankfully I was wrong. Instead, DeCarlo delves into the myriad threads and subplots of small town life that came to make Mattie’s mother’s life (and consequently Mattie’s) what it is. So while on the surface the narrative covers only that short week, it actually uncovers three generations of secrets and daily life—the things that make us all what we are. I won’t spoil any of that for you here, but the tight narrative does not disappoint and the cast of characters is round and wonderfully nuanced.

The Personal Side

I’ll admit that 86% of my judgment of Mattie comes from the fact that I was watching her wreck her life and the life of her unborn child just weeks after giving birth to my own baby. Plus, coming from a background where I feel responsible for, well, everything, I saw some of myself in Mattie. And I did not like what I saw. Mattie’s story fits perfectly in with the narrative of my generation—a generation that far too often had to shout, “I’m supposed to be the kid not the parent.”

Reading this book helped me let go of some of the responsibility I feel for the entire world and helped me channel that feeling into the appropriate place—taking responsibility for what I do today for myself and for my child. Which, now that I am the parent, is pretty good timing.

Is The Art of Crash Landing a quick read? Yes. Could it be called “chick lit”? Yes again, but in the best of ways. Despite my initial reservations, I really enjoyed reading this book. Most importantly, I learned something from it.

For a fast read with a lot of heart, pick up a copy of The Art of Crash Landing from Bookshop.org. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Wet Silence – The Poetry of Widowhood

September 6, 2015 by Isla McKetta, MFA 3 Comments

How many ways can you write about widowhood? In Wet Silence: Poems about Hindu Widows, Sweta Srivastava Vikram explores every nuance of what life is like for a Hindu widow in India. It’s as much a human exploration as a cultural one as Vikram delves into the aftermath of the complex relationships that underlie arranged marriages. Some of the widows in this collection are devastated that their beloved husbands have passed. Others rejoice in their new freedom from abuse and adultery. Still others face new complications in their relationships with the families to which they have now become burdensome.

Marriage in India

Indian marriages are still predominantly arranged by the families of the bride and groom. Although there’s an increasing trend toward the couple having a say in the choice, that is not always the case. The result is sometimes a lasting bond where two people come to know and love each other inside a marriage they have been committed to by their families and culture, and sometimes the result is a very unhappy couple who cannot face the shame of divorce (which carries a much deeper burden of stigma than in the US).

Wet Silence explores the aftermath of both types of marriages from the “rum handprints” of “Wet Silence” to the “touch gentle as velvet” of “My Husband is Leaving”. We also meet servant girls others who lost lovers not strictly their husbands.

I water my memory of you—
it is all I have of youalong with your empty words
in the home we never built
where the mosquitoes feast on my skin.
– Sweta Vikram, “I Water My Memory of You”

Indian Widows

Visiting India last fall, it was easy to spot the widows (at least those who adhered to tradition). In a country full of bright colors, they wear white. They no longer wear jewelry or red vermilion (one of the signs of a married woman) in the parts of their hair. And their heads are sometimes shaven. They eat a restricted diet and are considered burdens to their families and bad luck to the world at large.

This removal of all that is feminine says a lot about the status of women in India and Wet Silence takes the reader inside that restricted world on an intimate level. Each poem contains a first person narrative by a widow and the book as a whole is the result of a series of interviews Vikram conducted with Indian widows.

Clarity vs. Abstraction of Language

In Great With Child, Beth Ann Fennelly recounts some writing advice she received where a poet told her about a city that experimented with blue taxis that had a more expensive fare but took you straight to your destination and red taxis with a cheaper fare that meandered. “Take the red taxi” he advised her about her poetry. The degree of directness is a choice every poet, really every writer, must make for themselves. One of my favorite moments of abstraction in Vikram’s poetry is in the poem “Pretense”:

When I hear belts unbuckle,
I say your name to taste you.
The sound cuts
through my brown flesh,
I become wounded again.

The abuse this woman must have suffered is present in the poem, but lingers perfectly in the background where we as readers can fill in our own details. Overall in Wet Silence, Vikram takes a more blue taxi approach—giving us straightforward poems that allow insight into what is for most of us a foreign culture. But I sometimes wish she’d meandered more—found more of a way to reach into the feeling of these widows’ experiences to find the inexpressible. Easy for me to say, I strive to take the red taxi but most of the time feel like a veteran driver of the blue.

If you’re interested to know more about the lives of women in India and like more direct poetry, Wet Silence might be just the book for you. But if you’re looking for a transformative linguistic experience that still explores the Indian experience, I’d recommend Bhanu Kapil’s Schizophrene instead.

To get your own insight into the experience of widowhood in India, pick up a copy of Wet Silence, from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Best Pregnancy Books for Writers

August 23, 2015 by Isla McKetta, MFA 3 Comments

Pregnancy is a time full of joy and wonder. It’s also full of terror and anxiety. If you’re a writer, add to all that the fear that you may never write again. So many famous women writers chose never to have children and I worried I couldn’t balance my all-consuming creative self with creating a whole new life. Sarah Manguso expresses some of this anxiety better than I could in a fantastic essay in Harper’s, but I wanted a baby badly enough to try to balance the two. One of the things that got me through the pregnancy and helped me nourish my creative self while transitioning from baby vessel to writer mama was surrounding myself with excellent and thoughtful books about pregnancy and parenthood by writers I respect and admire.

If you are pregnant, thinking of becoming pregnant, or know a creative person who is either, these are the books I recommend to nourish that creative soul while preparing for parenthood.

The Blue Jay’s Dance: A Memoir of Early Motherhood by Louise Erdrich

I’ve written more extensively about this book here. It’s a gorgeous amalgam of thoughts and essays about parenthood and writing by Louise Erdrich. She weaves together narratives from her three pregnancies with glimpses of how this National Book Award winning writer manages to write and parent at the same time. The book is also filled with quiet yet poignant observations of nature. The Blue Jay’s Dance is an excellent meditation and it’s easy to dip in and out of the book as you need inspiration and the comfort of seeing how other writer-parents do it.

Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution by Adrienne Rich

Most famous as a poet, Adrienne Rich is a deliciously rich thinker and this frank look at motherhood and the female experience from a feminist perspective helped me think more deeply about my own life experiences. It helped me understand how to inhabit myself as a woman and it gave me insight into my relationship with my mother. It was a healing book and one that made me think more deeply about the roles all of us play as parents, children, and fellow citizens. I will be a better parent because I read this book. I will also be a better wife and stronger in myself.

While looking at everything from literature to societal norms, Rich doesn’t shy away from difficult topics like abortion, but she also does not thrust an agenda upon the reader. This is an excellent book for any woman (or interested man) to read, it’s a must-read for any pregnant writer to find her own center and feelings about some very important issues.

Great with Child: Letters to a Young Mother by Beth Ann Fennelly

One of the blurbs on this book reads, “The best book ever to give for a baby shower” and I am so grateful that a writer friend gave me a copy at one of my baby showers. Originally written as a series of letters from Beth Ann Fennelly (then a newish parent) to a dear friend, it’s easy to feel like you are the dear friend as you read Fennelly’s stories about parenting and gentle advice. Advice is such a tricky thing for the pregnant woman (it’s everywhere but so rarely does an advisor allow space for the advisee’s experience rather than rehashing theirs) and Fennelly gets it just right. This poet writes beautifully about everything from conception to labor, with the occasional book recommendation along the way.

I actually read this book in the week following the birth of my son and in the reading rediscovered all sorts of memories from my pregnancy that might have gotten lost otherwise.

My Creative Work

He’s not a novel or a book of poems, but my son, Remy Lucas, was (finally) born just over a week ago. I’m realizing that what everyone says is true—nothing I’ve read could have prepared me for this experience. But each of these books opened me up to the experience in their own way and helped me think more deeply about this amazing life change.

early morning reading — Reading, writing, and parenting in the pre-dawn hours

Oh, and I’m still writing. Even with an infant napping in my lap in the hours before dawn. I think, like Manguso, that becoming a parent has deepened the way I experience the world and will continue to do so. It’s certainly changed what I write about for now as I’m working on a series of poems about pregnancy and parenthood. I think, with time, that I’ll get better and better at incorporating the writing me and the parent me so that even when I write about other subjects, I can carry the things Remy teaches me into my writing.

What books have you read that blend parenthood and the creative life? I’m slowly rebuilding my to-read shelf and need your help…

Creating and Sustaining Empathy in Alphabet by Kathy Page

August 9, 2015 by Isla McKetta, MFA 2 Comments

Picking up Alphabet by Kathy Page, I had no idea what to expect. I hadn’t read the back or the press release that accompanied my review copy. For all I knew, it was some experimental work based entirely on word play. It wasn’t, the narrative and language are much more conventional than that, but I’m so glad I went into this book blind because it allowed me that rare chance to encounter the story and the characters on the author’s terms with all the craft of reveal that entails. So if you want to read this excellent book as blind as I did, stop reading here. Trust me, it’s worth it.

The Man Behind the Crime

When we first meet Simon Austen, he’s being inducted into prison. His clothes have been taken and a guard is examining his property, which seems to consist solely of a sealed letter written by his mother and given to him by a social worker. We can tell from the language that the story is taking place in Britain. Simon seems young and shell-shocked. We have no idea what crime he’s committed or how long he’s in for but already Page has made him seem vulnerable and already it’s easier to care more about the man than what he did. An unusual slant in today’s society and one that makes the book.

“He thinks how he could die here. Be killed. Start using drugs and do the job himself. Just get old… and all of a sudden, how badly he wants what he’s not had, all of it, even not knowing what it is!” – Kathy Page

In the second chapter we see Simon trying to learn to read. I immediately had sympathy for someone who the system had failed and who was trying to make better of himself. It might help that my grandfather taught inmates to read, but watching Simon, at an age where he’s eligible for prison, learn the alphabet and how letters make sounds is truly poignant (without being sappy). We see touches of his concern for the health of his tutor and then we see Simon succeed well enough that he begins writing letters for others.

We’re getting to know the man behind the crime and we’re learning to empathize with his situation, even before we have any idea what landed him behind bars in the first place.

Ambiguity

Simon is not always on the up and up, and (based on my coursework in criminology rather than my own personal experience) this book shows a realistic picture of prison and prisoners. Simon tries to fill his need for human connection by starting a correspondence with a stranger. Trouble is he lies about who (and where) he is. As a kid, I remember my mom’s Avon lady was married to a man in prison so every visit we had with her included at least some amount of time talking about his wrongful conviction. This turn in the story made me deeply uncomfortable, but because I’d already bonded a bit with Simon, it served to flesh him out as a three dimensional character rather than turn me off completely.

We do eventually learn what Simon’s done, and it is not pretty, but by that time we understand who he was when he did it and where he was coming from. It doesn’t excuse his actions, but it does give a lot of context especially as he tries and both succeeds and fails at bettering himself.

One of the things I’m finding most interesting about writing this review is how much I want to judge him even as I want to humanize him. I think that says a lot about how we perceive prisoners/criminals in this society. Even though Simon is deeply human (aren’t we all) and in many ways a victim of his circumstances, a part of me still deeply fears his early lack of control.

The beauty of Page’s writing is she allows the wholeness of Simon to evolve in front of us without passing her own judgment. The story is carefully crafted, but because the range of experience was so rich, I never once felt emotionally manipulated. Instead I felt opened up and like I was being allowed to see Simon and his experience from new and interesting angles.

The Alphabet

One of the things I’m going to continue to ponder about Alphabet is the relationship of the title to the book as a whole. There are easy references like when Simon is learning the alphabet in order to learn to read or later when he constructs an alphabet-type narrative for a prison newsletter. There are also deeper references including the alphabet of women he learns from along the way and the alphabet of the words he tattoos upon his body. Still, I think there’s something more here and if you read the book and want to share your ideas, I’d love to hear them.

It’s not often that I read a book set in prison. It’s even less often that I read a book set in early 1980s Britain. Even more rare is that I’d enjoy the combination of the two, but Alphabet is a stunningly well written and deeply human book. The nuance of relationships and character development is hard to equal. Yet another first class book from Biblioasis that’s stretched my reading horizons, even if Alphabet falls as far from your normal reading subject matter as it does mine, I highly recommend trying out this book.

If this review made you want to read Alphabet, pick up a copy from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Reading Edith Wharton Against Henry James

August 2, 2015 by Isla McKetta, MFA 4 Comments

How many times in life do we really get to devote ourselves to tomes anymore? One of the projects I’ve been working on as I prepare to have my first child is getting through my to-read shelf, and, not surprisingly, some of the thickest hardbacks are the very last ones I’m getting to. That includes The Selected Short Stories of Edith Wharton (390 pages) and a collection of five novels by Henry James (Daisy Miller, Washington Square, The Portrait of a Lady, The Bostonians, and The Aspern Papers) (892 pages). Admittedly, I’m still working on the James collection, but after facing a truly embarrassing confusion between the two writers, I knew I had to write about it here.

Biographical Comparisons

Both transatlantic writers writing about a certain social class in the northeastern US and in England, I was a little surprised to learn (though I shouldn’t have been) that James (1843-1916) and Wharton (1862-1937) knew each other and that James was a mentor of sorts to Wharton. Both were American and spent considerable time abroad although I would have sworn that James was British. Their writing shares a similar sensibility cultivated by a social class where there are a lot of tacit rules to be followed and this gives the work of both writers a lot of subtext.

The Portrait of a Lady vs. The Age of Innocence

Was that biographical snippet included here just to absolve myself of the embarrassment I’m still feeling over conflating the two writers? Maybe. What happened was that late one night I started reading The Portrait of a Lady and, having watched more film adaptations of the work of Wharton and James than there could ever be books, I assigned Winona Ryder to the character of Isabel Archer. I was a little confused that the story was taking place on the wrong continent (in England) and eventually started to get annoyed that the introduction was so very long and became impatient to see the character of Countess Olenska.

I had completely conflated The Portrait of a Lady and The Age of Innocence.

My excuse (besides the fact that I’m sometimes a very poor reader) is that I strongly remember Ryder saying “Archer” a lot in the film (which makes sense because it’s her husband Newland’s last name). But it’s a pretty poor excuse considering I actually have read The Age of Innocence (though it’s been nearly a decade).

Not surprisingly, my relationship with The Portrait of a Lady changed a bit once I started reading it for itself. The book still feels overly long (I’m still reading it), although it’s a relief to read for what is happening on the page rather than what I think will happen. I can’t quite place Nicole Kidman in the book (that’s one adaptation I actually haven’t seen), and maybe that’s for the best.

I haven’t completely learned my lesson, though. I “watched” the miniseries for The Buccaneers this weekend while needlepointing a stocking for my son. God help us all if I ever pick that book up and try to remember if I’ve read it 🙂

Roman Fever

If I were to write a dissertation on James and Wharton, I’d no doubt find countless similarities (and differences) in their work. What struck me most, though, in reading these books so closely together is when they both brought up Roman Fever. I’d never heard of this curious thing before, but it seems to have been a fear that tourists had of Rome and particularly the area near the Colosseum that could prove deadly.

James wrote about the phenomenon in Daisy Miller, but Wharton’s treatment of it in “Roman Fever” is even more interesting where the fever has multiple meanings. The story really is quite wicked (in the most wonderful ways) and merits a re-read when I’m finally done with all these Jamesian novels.

Scary Stories

Both Wharton and James wrote ghost stories, they lived in a time where mediumship and the supernatural were part of high society. James is of course famous for The Turn of the Screw which I have not read but I’ve seen at least one film of. Wharton wrote enough ghostly short stories to devote an entire collection to them and while reading The Selected Stories I have to say that those ghost stories were still some of my favorites. “Mr. Jones” in particular chills me every time.

My Real Love

I’m probably always going to be team Wharton. Although both writers carefully observed the manners of their time, there’s something warmer and perhaps more human about the way Wharton portrays her characters. I believe she actually has sympathy for them, whereas I don’t think James always does.

It’s funny, I actually wrote about Wharton in my graduate school application essay because I so admired her work. I thought in my reading of all of this contemporary fiction since that I’d moved on from my somewhat archaic tastes, but in re-reading Wharton I found I still love and relate to her work whereas reading James feels more to me like wandering through a show of John Singer Sargent portraits—there’s beauty and I can relate to the pictures a little, but the characters and their time seem so far away.

I’m officially on maternity leave right now and it’s about 90 degrees in Seattle, so while I have loads of time (at least until the little one decides he’s ready), I can’t really go outside and no excuse not to read. I might actually finish this James collection. Although I’m not sure I’ll make it through that Peter Nadas book I’ve been looking forward to (1100+pages)…

If this review made you want to read turn of the last century literature, pick up a copy of the Henry James collection or The Selected Short Stories of Edith Wharton from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.