This Crazy Thing Called Love

I was trying to rearrange things on my bookcase to make room for my latest treasures after last week’s trip to the Friends of the Ferguson Library book shop (stoked I found an almost pristine copy of the Mitford sisters letters in hardcover but it’s a doorstop and a half!) when I managed to knock over the knee high stack of mass market paperbacks next to my dresser. I really need to buckle down and write those V.C. Andrews reviews I’ve been planning one of these days. But instead of settling down with Clan Dollaganger, I found myself putting aside Dominick Dunne’s The Two Mrs Grenvilles. But Friday afternoon found me combing the stacks of the Avon Free Public Library and adding This Crazy Thing Called Love: The Golden World and Fatal Marriage of Ann and Billy Woodward to my armload of books.

Now given my fascination with true crime and the life of the very very rich, you would think I would have reviewed  This Crazy Thing Called Love: The Golden World and Fatal Marriage of Ann and Billy Woodward ages ago. This weekend’s reading wasn’t the first time I’ve encountered the book. Back in 1992 when This Crazy Thing Called Love was published I was right on the library reserve list behind all the old ladies who where old enough to remember the case and in one or two cases, ran in the right circles to have met the Woodwards back in the day. The old ladies in my home town? Full of surprises!  What boggles the mind is there are people out there who devoured Truman Capote’s Answered Prayers and Dominick Dunne’s The Two Mrs Grenvilles and took those embellished stories as the gospel truth. That’s like reading Jackie Collins writing about her late night soap opera diva Sugar Anderson and assuming you now know all there is too know about Joan Collins and Shirley Maclaine. The true story is so much more interesting.

For those of you who have never heard of the Capote or Dunne books or even know who the Woodwards were, here are basics. In 1955, socialite Ann Woodward shot what she thought was an intruder at her family’s country home. Only, instead of an intruder who had been targeting their neighborhood, Ann Woodward had killed her banking heir husband Billy Woodward. The Woodwards had a stormy marriage with affairs on both sides and many people thought Ann Woodward had killed Billy Woodward in cold blood to keep him from divorcing her to marry someone from his own class. Billy Woodward’s family stood by Ann Woodward but she spent the rest of her life under a cloud of suspicion and died just before Esquire magazine published part of Truman Capote’s uncompleted novel Answered Prayers that included the story of a scandalous woman who shoots her very rich husband.

Thanks to Susan Braudy, the picture of the Ann and Billy Woodward is treated with fairness and a steady hand. Ann Woodward (born Angeline Luceil Crowell) wasn’t a saint, but she wasn’t the whore that Dominick Dunne and Truman Capote paint her to be in their stories. There wasn’t a secret hick first husband she was hiding from Billy Woodward. Given the changes in Billy Woodward’s will as their marriage crumbled, Ann Woodward would have been better off financially as the former Mrs Billy Woodward vs the Widow Woodward. Believe it or not…there really was a burglar prowling in their exclusive neighborhood the fateful night Billy Woodward died. And you can’t help but feel that if Ann Eden (the stage name Angleine Crowell used before her marriage) had never meet Billy Woodward or at least if their affair had been just a passing thing versus a marriage, both parties might still be alive and thriving in their own worlds.

If you’ve read Answered Prayers and The Two Mrs Grenvilles, make an effort to track down and read This Crazy Thing Called Love. Ann and Billy Woodward and their family deserve that much.

Rude Bitches Make Me Tired

Like my accent if you talk to me long enough, my reading tastes are over all the place. One minute I’m sounding like someone straight of an BBC costume drama and clutching my E.M. Delafield Provincial Lady omnibus to my sensible cardigan clad bosom and the next I’m sprawled on Mr Couch in one of Blacklight’s getting slightly seedy Skinny Puppy concert t-shirts reading Lovecraft and sometimes I’ve popped a cardigan over that concert t-shirt (cheaper than cranking up the heat), sipping hot tea and wishing Celia Rivenbark would materialize in my living room, jangling her car keys and so down with stopping at the Wallingford Sonic before hitting the Clinton Crossing Premium Outlets and cleaning the Lindt store out of every single Almond truffle in the place. Because Miss Celia? So my favorite Southern writer.

Now before you Sweet Potato Queens rise up as one saying “bless her ignorant lil Yankee heart” and trying to pour margaritas the size of an ocean liner down my throat to convert me, sit the bleep down your Majesties. I’ve read every single Sweet Potato Queens book, even The Sweet Potato Queens’ First Big-Ass Novel: Stuff We Didn’t Actually Do, but Could Have, and May Yet more than once. You’re a fun bunch, but dang, I find the whole Sweet Potato Queen thing a bit exhausting. All that bending and kneeling and kowtowing to your redheaded Amazon overlord…Celia Rivenbark  seems more approachable. And I think I could encounter Celia Rivenbark and not have my liver trying to make a break for it. In my head? I like to think Celia would be all “oh you don’t drink? The more for me!” and be glad someone could drive her home safely after a girls lunch out. My liver would be half way to Canada if I hung out with Jill Conner Browne for more than five minutes.

So I don’t need to go on and on about how quick I snapped up Celia Rivenbark’s latest book Rude Bitches Make Me Tired: Slightly Profane and Entirely Logical Answers to Modern Etiquette Dilemmas? But can I show you the cut from the book itself? I swear the library used razor sharp diamond edges in cutting the hard plastic cover they heat sealed on the blasted book. And of course I devoured the Rude Bitches Made Me Tired as fast as possible, like a pig at a Old Country Buffet, once I staunched my wound. I am this close to making a custom “Rude Bitches Make Me Tired” sign in PowerPoint on break tomorrow and putting it right next to Blacklight’s Clan motto at my desk. Because there are things we all could do to be nice//better people and Celia Rivenbark points out that way in the funniest way possible. Instead of going all Miss Manners and clutching the pearls and using an epic story about the Trashys to explain why certain forms of PDA are just beyond gross, Our Lady Celia gives it to us straight. And if Blacklight and I had been parents, you so believe we would be the ones cranking the music and car dancing to get our teen to behave just like Celia.

And for you Sweet Potato Queens who are still convinced, blessed my savage lil Yankee heart, Gwen is a demon? Turn to the bottom of page 16 and read to page 17. I swear Celia Rivenbark is referring to the obituary your Supreme Sweet Potato Queen Jill Conner Browne placed when her Very Own Momma died. You know? The one her sister Judy Conner (author of Southern Fried Divorce which I have read thankyouverymuch) approved of? How would I have picked up that reference I hadn’t read the Sweet Potato Queens books? Still not forgiven, am I? <sighs>

Hopefully Celia Rivenbark is hard at work on her next book. If not, maybe she’d like to come up to New England and check out our outlet malls? I promised to drive and not be a rude road hog bitch on the way.

The Asylum

Considering on any given day I’m wandering around in a Lands’ End cardigan with a plain white t-shirt, black pants/black skirt/grey skirt (depending on the season), maybe a silk scarf and a strand of fake pearls from Macy’s  (what Blacklight calls my “librarian look” and my coworkers call “Manager Blank Jr”-I don’t have the money to for trends and splashy patterns and the like), it might come as a surprise I devour every single Simon Doonan book I can get my little undead raccoon hands on. And I mean everything from his memoir Nasty: My Family And Other Glamorous Varmints to Wacky Chicks: Life Lessons from Fearlessly Inappropriate and Fabulously Eccentric Women to even why does my local library even have this Confessions of a Window Dresser: Tales from the Life of Fashion. Finding The Asylum: A collage of couture reminiscences…and hysteria at the library and shoving it into my bag, looking around like someone was going to snatch it away from me? Perfect understandable right?

You would think between his books and Slate column, Simon Doonan might not have anything more to say or reveal about the fashion industry. But Simon Doonan has more stories than oddly flowered shirts (and the man has oceans of oddly flowered shirts) and The Asylum was read in one great big swoop once I got home from the library. If Blacklight hadn’t figured out he has opposable thumbs and not made himself an English muffin for breakfast and come into the bedroom to rouse me to make an egg sandwich? I would have been standing at the damn stove with The Asylum in one hand and assembling an egg sandwich with the other and wishing I had a free hand to flip him the bird for disturbing me. Reading a Simon Doonan book is almost as good as spa day (and a damn straight cheaper).

The Asylum isn’t the biggest book or the most scholarly (waves to Tim Gunn and his epic Tim Gunn’s Fashion Bible) and I certainly don’t find Kate Moss a goddess (ughh, Kate Moss, just ughhhh) but damn if Simon Doonan can’t write in a gossipy way that makes me forget the sight of Kate Moss makes my teeth start grinding madly. Note: if you were looking at the Rimmel display in Target and heard what sounded like Tic-Tacs getting chomped into dust? Sorry…but blame Target for having the NYX and E.L.F displays so close to the Rimmel display. Note 2: I don’t like Rimmel even if Kate Moss isn’t their spokesface, Team NYX/Team E.L.F. forever!

Now to finish this review, “The Asylum is awesome and if you like fashion buy it already, really don’t waste your money on Nina Garcia books because ughhhhhhhhhh”, and watch Beautiful People (the TV series based on Nasty)on YouTube before Blacklight lurches into the living room, a Vicodin zombie demanding his egg sandwich breakfast…

WSIR: The Queen

Once when I was a wee little Gwen counting and recounting all the change in my piggy bank to see if I had enough money to get another Nancy Drew mystery, I found the weirdest coin. Now thanks to some business trips my father had brought back things like pesos and once a replica Spanish piece of eight. But this coin looked like a quarter but it didn’t have the funny ridges on the edge. I found my father and asked what it was. He wasn’t thrilled to be pulled away from his precious aviation newspaper but explained to me it was a Canadian quarter and the person on it was the Queen. I asked if she was evil and chopped off heads.  Yes, I was an odd little girl…

Now that I’m an adult I know Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith isn’t going to chop off my head. However, she may cluck her tongue over my extravagnce in throwing out my socks worn out at the toes versus darning them but I’d like to think she would totally understand my need to have my shoes just so and having all my shirts and sweaters organized by color. (Blacklight: “You my dear are so OCD…” Me: “Lean over… ” <adjusts Blacklight’s t-shirt sleeve that’s not even with the other>)

As many books as I’ve read about Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith and her extended family (trust me I could make a book fort from all the books on royals/royalty I’ve read) my favorite ones are a handful of fiction titles that make the Queen seem like the nice older lady who would nod with approval as I snap up a wooden darning egg from the craft/sewing section at the Wallingford Goodwill. Or would understand why I carry around several carefully ironed white lace trimmed handkerchiefs in my purse year round.

The Uncommon Reader: A Novella by Alan Bennett

A very quick and charming read. One day the Queen, on a hunt for her corgis, discovers a mobile library van at the palace and becomes a reader. Will Her Majesty be able to keep her new found love in the face of her Council and public?

Mrs Queen Takes the Train by William Kuhn

Imagine being on the train and realizing the sweet older lady who looks so familiar a few seats away might be the Queen. But Her Majesty in a hoodie? The mind boggles. Now try to the be courtiers tracking down the Queen who has gone AWOL. Will they find her before anyone outside the Palace realizes she is missing?

The Queen and I by Sue Townsend

In an alternative reality Britain, a newly elected party comes to power and strips the Royal Family of their privileges and forces the former Royals to life like the rest of us right down to council housing and vouchers. Some Royals can’t handle the changes, other Royals rise to the challenge. And the Queen shows no matter what the circumstances she can handle just about anything with grace, determination and the will to soldier on.

Queen Camilla by Sue Townsend

Set in the same universe as The Queen and I, the former Royal Family are still in the Exclusion Zone. The Duke of Edinburgh is sinking fast and Her Majesty is tired. If Her Majesty abdicates, Prince Charles will become King…but will his new wife Camilla be accepted as the Queen. Add a long buried secret coming to life and the antics of the Royal Grandsons and what will be of the former Royals now?

Have a book about the Queen I’ve forgotten or should read? Let me know in the comments!

 

 

What Should I Read?

Sometimes when I’m checking out at the circulation desk, the librarian notices a theme in what I’m reading. It’s funny how you can pick up one book and then of all a sudden just must read all the books in that same subject! Case in point. On Wednesday’s trip to the Friends of the Ferguson Library book store I noticed an interesting book on perfume but didn’t get it because a signed Helen Gurley Brown title took precedence. Of course, hours later at home I regretted not buying the darn book but found it was available in my library network and now I have about six different books about perfume and fragrance on hold/request.

Then the thought occurred to me. Why not make a regular feature of recommendations on various themes? So if you see a post tagged What Should I Read?, well that’s one of my recommendation lists! I know not all the themes or the books on them will appeal to everyone but if you find a treasure on a list or have a recommendation for a published list? Please let me know!

Happy Reading!

Gwen 🙂

 

Literary Boyfriends

Valentine’s Day in Moderate Income Apartments is an amazing day let me tell you. Blacklight is curled up on Mr Couch watching Minecraft videos on YouTube and I just woke up from a nap. So why not stagger into the living room, grab Mr Laptop and write about the book guys who make me swoon. <cue Blacklight eye-roll> The only rule? I have to have read you/about you so many times even Blacklight has figured out you’re a literary rival.

-H.P. Lovecraft

Come on, this should not come as surprise. He’s not handsome, he can be difficult to read and good molly Miss Molly he was opinionated. But I can pick up a collection of his letters during his New York exile and feel like I’m right with him getting that little stove for his room or trudging around through every discount tailor shop looking for just the right suits to replace his stolen clothes. Blacklight: “Gwen…you have strange tastes in men” Me: <raises left eyebrow and stares at Blacklight> “Yeah…and???”

-Doc (Cannery Row and Sweet Thursday)

The part angel/part saint owner/operator of Western Biological who is one of the vital parts of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. Without Doc, Cannery Row loses it’s heart. Heck, the main action of both Cannery Row and Sweet Thursday is Mack and the boys trying to do something nice for Doc. I’d slip over to Western Biological with some cold cans of beer any day no matter what Doc is collecting or get ready to send to a school.

-Charles “Pa” Ingalls (Little House series)

The Little House series has to easily be one of the most important book series in my life. It’s one of the things my parents read to me as a wee little BookGwen and I read it at least twice a year nearly forty years later. You television Little House come latelies can swoon all you want over permed hair Pa Ingalls. Actually… you can keep him and his lack of underpants. Seriously, I find Michael Landon as Pa beyond gross. The real Charles Ingalls has a kind of crazy intense look that reminds of Christian Bale going hardcore for a movie role (Blacklight: “I bet you think he’s hot” Me: <looks guilty>). The book version of Charles Ingalls isn’t a saint, and you know it could not have been an easy life being married to someone who dragged you and your children all over the damn country dodging Indians, financial ruin and the relentless weather. But those wonderful Garth Williams illustrations? Now that is one handsome man who could swing an ax as easily as he could play the fiddle. Maybe pulling up stakes…again…isn’t such a bad thing?

-Captain Brown (Cranford)

Cranford doesn’t quite know what to make of Captain Brown when he and his daughters come to live in the quiet town. For one thing, he’s a…man and well, he admits to being poor and loves The Pickwick Papers <shudders>. But he’s a good man who will do anything for his girls with his limited resources and his death? The man dies saving children from being killed by a train. Sorry Jim Carter, you did a lovely job as Captain Brown in the 2007 Cranford tv series but in my head? Captain Brown is Alan Rickman.

-Bernard Black (Black Books)

Okay so Bernard Black isn’t an author (his amazing response to a publisher’s rejection letter notwithstanding) and he’s not in a book but he’s a fictional character who runs his own book shop. He’s surly and loathes his customers and smokes and drinks. I should loathe him right back. But there is something about this cranky pants Irishman that makes me swoon and wish Black Books was a real shop to visit on my fantasy “Raid All The Used Book Shops In The UK” trip.

Now to spend the rest of Valentine’s Day with the only true rival for my books and Mr Kindle…Blacklight. 🙂

The Two Mrs Abbotts

Ever put down Miss Buncle Married and wondered what our old friend Barbara is up to now? I mean, it’s Barbara Buncle Abbott we’re talking about. She must have been up to delicious adventures…

Well, there is a third book in the Miss Buncle series, The Two Mrs Abbotts. Unless you had a very good library system or the luck of the gods at a used bookstore then you had to wonder. Luckily, the local library system was able to unearth The Two Mrs Abbotts but I was only able to get my little undead raccoon hands on it after Sourcebooks Landmark re-issued The Two Mrs Abbotts in trade paperback last month… <sigh>

When you first pick up The Two Mrs Abbotts, you might be tempted to shriek “Oh my gods! There’s two of them!?!?!?!”. Calm down. Of course there’s two Mrs Abbotts. Barbara married to the successful publisher Arthur Abbott and Jerry married to Arthur Abbott’s nephew Sam. Remember? Sam fell head over heels for Jerry in Miss Buncle Married. When we re-discovered our friends, it’s World War II and out of all the houses to host Sarah Walker (the doctor’s wife and who Silverstream thought was John Smith in Miss Buncle’s Book) during a Red Cross talk is the comfortable Abbott home. Sarah sees a picture and figures out her Red Cross talk hostess is the former Barbara Buncle in less time than it takes me to devour an Aero classic chocolate (seconds) while the former Barbara Buncle is her usual delightful confused self and almost needs a diagram to figure everything out. Arthur hasn’t been called up but his nephew Sam is in the army leaving his wife Jerry to batch it at their Elizabethan home.

Now let me address one of the most common complaints about The Two Mrs Abbotts. There are two major ones but I’ll address that later. The most common complaint and one that seems to have people scarlet is, for the book being called The Two Mrs Abbotts, you sure don’t get much of the senior Mrs Abbott (Barbara). This might make a devoted Barbara Buncle follower stop reading this post and declare me a total savage but I actually like getting Barbara Buncle Abbott in small doses. Her presence provides a support or frame for overall story but I don’t need it to be all Barbara all the time. The opening scene chez Abbott with Sarah Walker is delightful even though the Abbott children are just a bit too twee for my tastes. Even the best of the Miss Buncle books, Miss Buncle’s Book, is strongest when Barbara isn’t front and center. Barbara is like the almond extract in my favorite Lindt truffles, a few drops go a long, long way. Full on Barbara would be like licking the almond extract spoon when I make almond crescents. Gross and overwhelming.

But back to the goings on in war time Wandlebury. While life with the senior Abbotts doesn’t seem to be that much affected by the war, unless you count Arthur Abbott having Janetta Walters as an author with his publishing company. Given his reaction to her offerings, romances, I kept wondering if D.E. Stevenson was a having a poke at Georgette Heyer or Angela Thirkell. If she was parodying Georgette Heyer, that’s a laugh because you know how I thought the will plot in Miss Buncle Married was quite Georgette Heyer mystery-ish and had to double check to make sure I was reading D.E. Stevenson. Or I could just being having one of my Crazy Literary Theories. Why so mad about poor Janetta Walters, hmm Arthur?

Things are much different for the other Mrs Abbott. Sam’s off at war, and Jerry doesn’t have two darling moppets in her nursery being tended by Markie. Jerry and Markie are dealing with the stomp stomp stomp of combat boots from the local military camp that have turned Jerry’s kitchen into their clubhouse. And instead of trying to give Cook orders for dinner, Jerry is trying to keep an eye on her loathsome evacuees in the cottage down the way. Mama Evacuee is a blowsy bish who longs to go back home more than I longed for her to be off the page. D.E. Stevenson seems to “care” for evacuees as much as Angela Thirkell does. Then again in these ladies novels, horses and dogs always come off better than the lowest classes.

Mama Evacuee goes back to her sluttish lair dragged her spawn with her and before Markie can get the evacuee stink out of the cottage, evacuee spawn Elmie (government name Wilhelmina) is back and wants to better her life. And Jerry gets a paying guest Jane who has the most unflattering mannish haircut and no clue about housework. While Jerry tries to puzzle out Jane and see if she would make a good wife candidate for her brother Archie, the cottage gets the right kind of tenant, Colonel Melton from the military camp and his doting daughter Melanie.

Jerry wonders if Melanie should be in the running for Archie. But Archie has his own ideas and we find out Jane is actually the author Janetta Walters. I’m not sure if it’s because my main complaint about The Two Mrs Abbotts (in short…the book is too damn short and the plot is letting hanging in too many places) but even my stuffed Beanie Baby sized Minecraft Creeper figured out Jane=Janetta Walters. But I’ll forgive D.E. Stevenson for not making it harder to figure this out because she does give the reader a little plot straight out of the best Nancy Drew stories.

There are rumors of a spy lurking around Wandlebury. The military camp is on high alert and at one point thinks Elmie/Wilhelmina’s father on a mission to drag her back to their slum home is the spy. If the Germans did manage to invade? Mr Boles (Elmie/Wilhelmina’s father) is the exact sort that would be dealing with the Germans or on the black market. In my head? Mr Boles is Steve Buscemi at his most rough and weaselly.

Then one day on a walk, Markie, who is deaf but not stupid in the least even though she will not go to the damn doctor and find out if she has cancer or not already, stumbles across a man sleeping in the words. Markie takes one look at him, decides he’s German by the shape of his head, snatches up his gun and leads the military camp to him. Everyone is all “ohhh silly Markie” and then our sleepy hottie (played in my head by a blonde Michael Fassbender) wakes up and speaks in German. Markie is all “don’t be scared, and no sudden moves because we’re got your gun. I’m not kidding”. And then everyone is all “Damn…you go Markie!” Nancy Drew could not have done it better. Wait, Nancy Drew would have used her handkerchief, her spare handkerchiefs and her leather belt wrapped around her slender waist to tie up the “sleeping hottie”.

Now to my main complaint with The Two Mrs Abbotts. This book is much too short!!! The plot needs, no demands, at least 75 more pages to finish everything properly. There is one part where we see what the war is like for Sam, in his eyes and BAMMM! We’re back in Wandlebury and never see him again. I wanted more about Helen (Jane’s sister) taking over as Janetta Walters. I wanted to see if the creepy vibe I got from Colonel Melton and Melanie was just my fevered imagination and if Lancastre  Marvell could snake her away from Daddy Dearest. An abrupt ending like the one in The Two Mrs Abbotts is all fine and good for an Angela Thirkell novel since she churned out her Barsetshire series forever and a day. But unless you’re doing an epic and never ending series? Don’t do this. Seriously. Either write the book long enough to finish things off or don’t bother if it’s a one off. Then again? Didn’t I have the same it ended to damn soon problem with D.E. Stevenson’s Celia’s House? Feeling the book I was reading felt like a warmup or first half of a novel versus a whole novel.

The Two Mrs Abbotts is certainly worth reading even if the blasted thing is much too short. D.E. Stevenson captures certain wartime experiences to a t like when the Wandleburyrites marvel over an egg. Yes, the same things you can snap up for $1.49 a dozen at Aldis. But remember, in World War II England? Even in the country,  fresh eggs were like gold. And there were recipes even more gag worthy floating around than the cake the ladies make at Jerry’s or Markie’s recipe for macaroni cheese. I would not recommend reading The Two Mrs Abbotts as a standalone book because you truly need to have the other two Miss Buncle novels under your belt to get the best out of a much too short novel.

What I’ve Been Listening to…

I might not have the coolest job in the world. Some days I might collect paper cuts like Pokemon. But I can listen to my iPod all day long. And when I’m not listening to podcasts or trying not to sing along with Duran Duran, David Bowie or Skinny Puppy, I listen to audiobooks. Lovely, glorious audiobooks. Well, not every audiobook is for me (see the blog post about my issue with some audiobook narrators) but I’m willing to give most audiobooks a try to help whittle away the work day.

Something went very right in Library Land this past week because I received e-mails audiobooks I put on hold via OverDrive Media were finally mine. Well, mine for seven days. And lunge for my iPod and download away I went.

Now this might seem logical to the average person but unless you of very stern stuff it’s not the best idea to start listening to Max Brooks’ World War Z on your way to work around 5 am. Especially when you’re driving down lonely back country roads and you’re the only person on the road. You will freak the flip out when a cat slinks across the road. But once you’ve gotten safely to work, put the electric kettle on for your first cups of tea and it’s just you and a security guard down the hall? World War Z is amazing. I hadn’t been at work more than twenty minutes when I went online, found the cast list, printed it out and stuck it next to my monitor as I tackled Work Drawer Everest. I have never done that with an audiobook before. Looked up a narrator? Yes  I’ve done that before. I like knowing what other books a reader has done if I recognize their voice.

But World War Z? Oh my great Tulu the talent! I might have swooned (okay I did) when Jürgen Prochnow started his chapter. (Blacklight: “That’s it! You’re banned from watching Dune ever again!” Me: <ignores Blacklight as she creeps over to the DVD cupboard to find In the Mouth of Madness>). Sadly I didn’t realize until too late I was listening to the abridged audiobook of World War Z. I loathe abridged audiobooks something awful. But worry not! I am so getting the 10 disc unabridged version from the library this weekend if the snow ever freaking stops. Stupid New England winter weather…

Still rather bummed I didn’t get to listen to some of my favorite World War Z stories (if you can listen to feral child Sharon’s story and not cry? You are a monster! Or my brother Andy…), I moped around on Mr Couch once I got home. Then I checked my email. What did I find? Besides Groupon offering deals on wine and vineyard tours. Groupon…I don’t drink!!!!!! I had 48 hours to snap up the second hold I had placed weeks ago. If there is a land speed record for Overdrive Media sign in and downloads on an iPod? I might have set a new record.  The next morning when I logged into my computer at Company X, I had my ear-buds jammed in and was listening to The Astronaut Wives Club. Now Blacklight, who is a NASA nerd and thinks he knows everything about astronauts and outer space claims the best book about space is Mike Mullane’s Riding Rockets. He’s so wrong. Because Riding Rockets needs to stand in line behind Mary Roach’s Packing for Mars. And both those books need to bow down before Lily Koppel’s The Astronaut Wives Club: A True Story because without the support and superhuman efforts of their wives, those space cowboys would haven’t been able to set off a toy rocket let alone go into space. <cue Blacklight looking at me in sheer horror because I have just said the most horrid thing ever.>

Look I’m not a total savage. I’ve read books about space and astronauts. I had Starman: The Truth Behind the Legend of Yuri Gagarin reserved and read before Blacklight even knew the book existed. But for my money, The Astronaut Wives Club: A True Story is the book I want to have in my permanent audiobook collection. Yes, I giggled when Orlagh Cassidy did her best JFK voice (it sounded more Foghorn Leghorn than JFK to me) but damn if I didn’t tear up when Apollo 1 burned up and when poor Joan Aldrin should have just run like hell from her marriage (Blacklight: <coffee cup frozen on the way to his mouth> “Buzz Aldrin is a god! How dare you!”). You know a book is amazing when you go from wondering if the office will close early because of the snow to losing yourself completely in the stories of the ladies who did everything to get their men into space.

Now to figure out what to listen to at work tomorrow. Will this be the time I finally get more than two chapters into Queen Lucia without giving up? Do I re-listen to something from the permanent audiobook collection? Maybe Sybil Exposed? Or do I grab my iPod and see what treasures are available from OverDrive Media?

Careless People

Now it might not a be a huge secret I’m not the most literary person. Sure I read oodles of books, have planned vacation days around trips to bookstores and was just on the phone with the Most Evil Sibling Ever (Andy) last night planning a trip to the Friends of the Ferguson Library Book Store for Wednesday (hooray for flex holidays!) but just because you read books doesn’t make you literary. You’ll never find me singing the praises of the literary canon far and wide. Actually you’re more likely to find me proclaiming how Melville should have just made out with Nathaniel Hawthorne more than how much I enjoyed Moby Dick and Billy Budd (loathe both books so very much).

So imagine my surprise when I’m cruising by the New Biography section at the Berlin-Peck Memorial Library and snap up a book on F. Scott Fitzgerald. And not just any book about F. Scott Fitzgerald, but one about The Great Gatsby, a novel that is right up there in Gwen Loathes It list right next to Moby Dick, the complete works of Charles Dickens and Ernest Hemingway. If you love love love F. Scott Fitzgerald and think I’m a savage, it’s totally okay to stop reading now. Before you shriek too much, remember I have actually read The Great Gatsby (a horrid school experience against my will) and have of my own free will read several books about the Fitzgeralds. They’re my Kardashians, a train wreck of people who I know more about than I ever intended too. I mean, you can’t read about the Murphys or Dorothy Parker without encountering Scott and Zelda. And the best of these books? Explore the society the Fitzgeralds interacted with right down to the bootleggers and publishers and the rest.

Don’t check me for pod marks. The book in question is Sarah Churchwell’s Careless People: Murder, Mayhem and the Invention of The Great Gatsby, an interesting exploration of both one of my most loathed books and a unsolved murder from the 1920s that has intrigued me since I was a wee thing. True crime has always been in my wheelhouse and when you combine true crime with a greater look at society I’m in. With all my reading it never fully occurred to me a crime as well known (it was consider one of the crimes of it’s decade) as the Hall-Mills Murder would have influenced the fiction of it’s time. (For people who never heard of the Hall-Mills Murder, in 1922 the Reverend Hall and his married mistress Mrs Mills were found dead in a lane under a tree with love letters scattered around them.) Let alone a book many people (not me) consider one of the best books ever written.

But that is the basic premise of Careless People, the Hall-Mills Murders influenced and impacted F. Scott Fitzgerald as he plotted and planned his greatest novel. And Sarah Churchwell’s carefully researched details (right down to things from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s scrapbook that dispute certain details you come to expect when you read enough about Scott and Zelda) give you an excellent picture of what life was like as the Fitzgeralds partied and Scott tried to write and the horrifically inept handling of the Hall-Mills murder case.

Careless People: Murder, Mayhem and the Invention of The Great Gatsby, doesn’t solve the Hall-Mills Murder (sadly we are more likely to solve the Jack the Ripper murders than who killed Reverend Hall and Mrs Mills due to the bungling police work) but it does do something even my most dedicated professors could never do, made me understand and think about The Great Gatsby beyond something I was being forced to read to pass a class to get that degree. Any decent writer can make Scott and Zelda come alive on the page just due to the force of their personalities but it takes a talented and thoughtful author to make me care about Fitzgerald’s works.

Will Careless People make me snatch up Mr Kindle and buy The Great Gatsby right this second? Will I be tracking down a Norton Critical Edition to get the full Gatsby experience like I did after reading Dreiser’s Sister Carrie for the first time? Never in a million years. But is Careless People: Murder, Mayhem and the Invention of The Great Gatsby a book I would read again? Certainly.

A Life of Barbara Stanwyck Steel-True

Ever since I was old enough to check out books from the adult part of the library, I’ve read towering stacks of movie star biographies. Some are as told you autobiographies that for all they reveal about the star might as well be turned into those book crafts I see on Buzzfeed every so often. You might as well read their Wikipedia page. Other movie star biographies are either so poorly written either to paint their subject as a saint or sinner of all sinners that well, you read them to the end but feel like you’ve just eaten a box of Twinkies for dinner and hate yourself for reading the darn book. (I’m looking at you Forever Young : The Life, Loves, and Enduring Faith of a Hollywood Legend ; The Authorized Biography of Loretta Young.)

And is Victoria Wilson’s A Life of Barbara Stanwyck: Steel-True 1907-1940. Stunning, brilliant, epic and don’t drop this bad boy on your foot come to mind. It’s almost 1000 pages including notes and indexes. We are talking Tom Clancy/Stephen King doorstop size. And it’s just the first volume of a full scale biography. And let’s not forget Miss Barbara Stanwyck worked all the time. Work was like books, essential as breathing. Trust me, if you’re looking for a quick read that has S-E-X and scandal on every single page? Please put down A Life of Barbara Stanwyck: Steel-True 1907-1940 (gently because once again trust me, you don’t want to drop this and break a toe) and scamper off to find a Hollywood Babylon book.

It’s not easy to write a biography on a movie star like Barbara Stanwyck. The easy path for the Stanwyck biographer is to use the studo stories about the tough orphan from the streets and maybe her alleged loved of ladies angle. Luckily, Victoria Wilson does not go the easy route even though she could given her subject. Barbara Stanwyck is not your Marilyn Monroe or Joan Crawford with oceans of press stories and scandals to wade through. She was also not the most open or accessible person. I always got the feeling that if someone like Shelley Winters would open up with a drop of a hat in line at Dunkin Donuts while you waited for your Vanilla Bean Coolattas at the pickup counter and tell you everything you ever wanted to know right down to did they dress left or dress right. But Barbara Stanwyck would be a total clam even if you knew her for years and years. Maybe she might crack open a little bit if you caught her at the right time but you’d be better off buying a Powerball ticket during a $400+ million jackpot week.

And that feeling doesn’t seem to be far off because the Barbara Stanwyck Victoria Wilson uncovers is a woman who keeps to herself. The little girl born Ruby Stevens came from a good family on a downward slide and by the time she was a school aged had no proper home. The very young Ruby was placed with various families and her older siblings, a corner of a room here and there with magical times her favorite sister would swoop in and show her the theatrical world. Given all this turmoil and struggles to support herself once she was a teenager, is this any wonder the young Ruby developed a hard shell. And seriously, how could I not love an person who educated themselves and read so much bookstores would send them things automatically? A person who could read a book every night no matter how long she spent on set or toiling at her ranch.

One of the things you take away from A Life of Barbara Stanwyck: Steel-True 1907-1940 is the iron control that propelled Barbara Stanwyck. Curse her for the way she could drop a friend so completely the hurt can still be felt on the page decades later. Curse her for not leaving Frank Fay sooner. Curse her for not being the mother her son Dion needed. But praise her for the willpower and control she exhibited. A woman who could force herself to work after being crushed by a horse? A woman who filmed some of her best early parts strapped and taped up, her face never betraying the extent of how battered her body was? An actress who cared more about the craft than what gown was being whipped up for her.

Barbara Stanwyck wasn’t perfect or a superwoman but she had layers and levels beyond the usual movie star of her times. That is a lady I want to read more about. And Victoria Wilson can not write the next volumes quick enough to satisfy me.