Often before writing my blog, I look for inspiration in famous quotes. But today, reading about trust, I got pretty depressed. Most said: trust no one, or trust only a few. From Stalin: “I trust no one, not even myself.” Johnny Depp: “Me, I’m dishonest, and you can always trust a dishonest person to be dishonest.” It made me wonder, is trust really so rare?
Happily, I managed to find one quote that cheered me up. Golda Meir, the former Israeli prime minister, said, “Trust yourself. Create the kind of self that you will be happy to live with all your life. Make the most of yourself by fanning the tiny, inner sparks of possibility into flames of achievement.” Isn’t that a beautiful image? Sparks fanned by trust turning into flames. The thing is, it’s so easy to doubt myself, to think that I’m not good enough. How can I nurture that kind of trust in myself?
In her middle-grade novel, Dogsled Dreams, Terry Lynn Johnson answers this question. Rebecca, her young protagonist, yearns to become a dogsled racer, but doubts assail her. What if she is not good enough? What if she can’t run the race? She blames herself when the dogs go missing, when she loses the sled and the dogs race on without her, and when the sled overturns as she is giving a ride to a passenger. When Rebecca confesses her fears to Heather, her father’s new wife, Heather replies: “Rebecca, when people do things even though it scares them, that’s called courage. You should be a little afraid of racing. It means you know what you’re doing.”
Rebecca doubts her abilities as a musher even more because she senses the dogs’ trust in her. The dogs trust Rebecca because she knows them and trusts them, appreciating each dog as a unique personality. Racing is important to Rebecca. She desires to do it well. But it is the dogs and their passion and joy for running which bring the race alive for her. Her doubts, that constant questioning of herself, are what make her an excellent musher.
Seems to me that doubting must be good -- it bring about improvement and growth. So perhaps it is not that Rebecca lacks trust in her mushing abilities, but that her fears make it possible for her to become a better musher every day she spends with the dogs. She can trust that innate benefit of doubting. Like Heather said, being afraid means she knows what she's doing.
I’ve always tried to instill in my children the understanding that courage can only happen by overcoming fear. After all, if I did not fear speaking before an audience or receiving a vaccination, where would be the bravery in that? Similarly, without doubts there can be no trust. What an amazing and freeing idea! What is trust if not an overcoming of the fear that somebody (whether it is me or someone else) will fail me? Trust my fears, trust my doubts, trust me. Trust.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Born Wicked and a Totally Irrelevant Hansel and Gretel Digression
A few years ago I went with my brother to hear Orson Scott Card read at Kepler’s Bookstore. I’m a huge fan of his Ender books and their message of communication and empathy. While I didn’t particularly enjoy Card’s presentation (I think my brother and I escaped before it was over), he gave one writing tip that I loved: the number of personalities you develop in your story is exponentially larger than the actual number of characters. Let me explain.
Take, for example, Hansel and Gretel. The fairy tale has five characters: mother, father, Hansel, Gretel, and witch. The mother views Hansel and Gretel as a burden -- two more mouths she must feed, but to the witch they are a food source. Gretel acts dependent, complaining and whiny when she feels Hansel is responsible to find a way out of the forest, but she becomes strong and resourceful when she needs to rescue him from getting cooked. Each character has multiple personalities, depending on the other character with whom they are interacting in any given scene. See what I mean?
Some novelists are experts in character creation. In her debut novel, Born Wicked, Jessica Spotswood manages to create more than a dozen well-rounded characters whose relationships with each other are fluid, revealing often unexpected facets of their personalities and showing their growth. Amazing feat.
Born Wicked tells the story of sixteen year-old Cate Cahill as she wavers on the brink of adulthood. Cate lives in a world where women are inferior to men, and witches are feared and persecuted. Cate and her two sisters are witches, yet each of them has a different relationship with their magic. While Cate believes being a witch is wicked, one sister chooses to flaunt and the other to appreciate this gift. Once she turns seventeen, Cate must choose one of two options open to women: marry and become her husband’s property, or join the Sisterhood and dedicate herself to study.
But Cate promised her mother before she died to watch out for her sisters. She feels responsible for keeping her sisters safe and their magic hidden. She is torn between trying to protect the people she loves and the future that fate seems to force on her, and as always, suffering brings about personal growth, personal revelation, and many changes.
This is a perfectly crafted novel. Elegant, mesmerizing, and bewitching, filled with life-like, easy-to-love characters. Gushing moment alert: when, when is book two in the series coming out? I can hardly wait. I loved loved loved this novel! I can’t wait for the second one to come out. I want to know what happens to Cate next. I’m worried about her. I’m worried about her sisters. And I totally suspect that their father knows they are witches, even though they’re keeping it a secret from him. This the best kind of writing, when the characters stay with me long after the reading is done, like good friends with whom I want to keep in touch.
Take, for example, Hansel and Gretel. The fairy tale has five characters: mother, father, Hansel, Gretel, and witch. The mother views Hansel and Gretel as a burden -- two more mouths she must feed, but to the witch they are a food source. Gretel acts dependent, complaining and whiny when she feels Hansel is responsible to find a way out of the forest, but she becomes strong and resourceful when she needs to rescue him from getting cooked. Each character has multiple personalities, depending on the other character with whom they are interacting in any given scene. See what I mean?
Some novelists are experts in character creation. In her debut novel, Born Wicked, Jessica Spotswood manages to create more than a dozen well-rounded characters whose relationships with each other are fluid, revealing often unexpected facets of their personalities and showing their growth. Amazing feat.
Born Wicked tells the story of sixteen year-old Cate Cahill as she wavers on the brink of adulthood. Cate lives in a world where women are inferior to men, and witches are feared and persecuted. Cate and her two sisters are witches, yet each of them has a different relationship with their magic. While Cate believes being a witch is wicked, one sister chooses to flaunt and the other to appreciate this gift. Once she turns seventeen, Cate must choose one of two options open to women: marry and become her husband’s property, or join the Sisterhood and dedicate herself to study.
But Cate promised her mother before she died to watch out for her sisters. She feels responsible for keeping her sisters safe and their magic hidden. She is torn between trying to protect the people she loves and the future that fate seems to force on her, and as always, suffering brings about personal growth, personal revelation, and many changes.
This is a perfectly crafted novel. Elegant, mesmerizing, and bewitching, filled with life-like, easy-to-love characters. Gushing moment alert: when, when is book two in the series coming out? I can hardly wait. I loved loved loved this novel! I can’t wait for the second one to come out. I want to know what happens to Cate next. I’m worried about her. I’m worried about her sisters. And I totally suspect that their father knows they are witches, even though they’re keeping it a secret from him. This the best kind of writing, when the characters stay with me long after the reading is done, like good friends with whom I want to keep in touch.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Meeting Kindness by the Roadside
I’ve always been fond of the Hebrew song “Good people by the roadside.” In the song, Naomi Shemer, (the lyricist and singer) describes the gifts which strangers gave her: a song to sing on her way, their name, a book a hundred years old. I love the idea of meeting with kindness by the roadside, of our bubbles of life interacting, merging for a brief moment and then continuing each on his or her way. I love the idea that I can learn something from everyone I meet, that each of these moments of connection, no matter how brief, can be a reason for me to grow.
Yesterday I flew home from Rochester to San Francisco and got to experience firsthand the discomfort of winter travel. Heavy snow caused delays in and out of Chicago where I had to switch planes. My first flight was three hours late, which made me miss my next flight, and though I was lucky to get on the very next flight out, the plane malfunctioned, and the flight left three hours late after a gate and airplane change. As I drove home from the airport, exhausted and hungry, it suddenly struck me: despite the potentially frustrating day, I had met only with kindness, cheeriness, and patience from my fellow travelers and the airport personnel.
There was the United agent at the gate in Rochester who patiently spoke with each and every passenger and booked a back-up flight for them, just in case, all the while reassuring them individually that most likely they will not miss their flight at all. There was the kind agent at the gate in Chicago who told me the chances of getting on the first flight out were very high and not to worry and then called me, not ten minutes after, to give me my new ticket. There were the air hostesses who updated us with how the work progressed on the airplane and who kept smiling no matter how much longer their own work day stretched because of the delay.
And there were also the couple with the adorable four year old twins who were going back home, the older woman who listened patiently to the traffic-violation stories of the guy sitting next to her, the Indian family traveling to Omaha, the jovial businessman with the unexpected backpack on top of his roller suitcase, the ever-laughing Kiwi who found herself hours late for the one flight that leaves to New Zealand, where she was going to assist her injured mother. Yet everyone was patient. Everyone kept upbeat, hoping that this time when we get on the plane it will actually take off and get us closer to our final destination.
Fourteen hours after I left I finally reached my home. Yes, I was tired, yet somehow also inspired by these people and grateful for this experience that showed me yet again how many good people there are in this world.
Yesterday I flew home from Rochester to San Francisco and got to experience firsthand the discomfort of winter travel. Heavy snow caused delays in and out of Chicago where I had to switch planes. My first flight was three hours late, which made me miss my next flight, and though I was lucky to get on the very next flight out, the plane malfunctioned, and the flight left three hours late after a gate and airplane change. As I drove home from the airport, exhausted and hungry, it suddenly struck me: despite the potentially frustrating day, I had met only with kindness, cheeriness, and patience from my fellow travelers and the airport personnel.
There was the United agent at the gate in Rochester who patiently spoke with each and every passenger and booked a back-up flight for them, just in case, all the while reassuring them individually that most likely they will not miss their flight at all. There was the kind agent at the gate in Chicago who told me the chances of getting on the first flight out were very high and not to worry and then called me, not ten minutes after, to give me my new ticket. There were the air hostesses who updated us with how the work progressed on the airplane and who kept smiling no matter how much longer their own work day stretched because of the delay.
And there were also the couple with the adorable four year old twins who were going back home, the older woman who listened patiently to the traffic-violation stories of the guy sitting next to her, the Indian family traveling to Omaha, the jovial businessman with the unexpected backpack on top of his roller suitcase, the ever-laughing Kiwi who found herself hours late for the one flight that leaves to New Zealand, where she was going to assist her injured mother. Yet everyone was patient. Everyone kept upbeat, hoping that this time when we get on the plane it will actually take off and get us closer to our final destination.
Fourteen hours after I left I finally reached my home. Yes, I was tired, yet somehow also inspired by these people and grateful for this experience that showed me yet again how many good people there are in this world.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Laugh Out Loud
On the airplane yesterday, I started reading The Frog Prince by Elle Lothlorien. The book caught my fancy because of its name (I love fairy tales!) and the subtitle, “A Romantic Comedy.” My favorite two genres combined! I didn’t really know anything about the content, but it seemed like a light, fast read that would amuse me on the flight.
From its first line, the novel did not disappoint, as Leigh, the narrator, begins the story by announcing: “Everyone agrees that my Great Aunt Tina looks fabulous dead.” Leigh tells the story in a humorous, often unexpected, bubbly voice. She is socially inept, either gushing about her sex research and spewing bizarre facts about human mating habits, or judging each word before she utters it to make sure its “creep factor” is not too high. Her friend Kat tells her, “If I had to think so hard about everything I did, I’d throw myself off the roof.”
For about four hours, I sat on the plane and laughed out loud. I didn’t care if the girl sitting next to me on the first flight and the man sitting next to me on the second thought I was crazy. I just enjoyed the book so much. I laughed and laughed.
The best part about how fun the book is: I left my disbelief (remember my suspending your disbelief post?) on the first page and never looked back. I didn’t mind when Roman, Leigh’s boyfriend, turned out to be the heir apparent to the Austrian throne (only if the monarchy was restored, of course). My faith did not waver when Leigh discovered that Roman had access to private planes and was friends with Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia and Princess Isabella of Denmark. A quick google check (for this blog’s purpose) revealed that history does in fact include these two personages. However, Princess Isabella is five and Prince Faisal died in 1975.
I also didn’t bat an eyelash when Leigh and Roman discover that the Austrian parliament had voted to restore the monarchy. Swept away with the humor and wackiness of the novel, any crazy semi-realistic idea that Elle Lothlorien wished to throw my way would have only added to the fun, even a historical event of such monumentality as reinstating a king to his throne. I love to laugh, and I guess I’m willing to do pretty much anything to laugh more.
I always tell my family that for my shiva (the Jewish traditional seven days of mourning), I’d like them to sit telling jokes about me. What a better way to make the move to the next world than on waves of laughter? But even my morbid sense of humor stands in awe before the way Leigh’s family says goodbye to the dead: “my family likes to take pictures of dead people.” Leigh explains as she poses with the dead Great Aunt Tina, “Not just take pictures of them, but have people pose with them like a bride and groom on their wedding day.”
Wow. That sounds like, um, fun....
From its first line, the novel did not disappoint, as Leigh, the narrator, begins the story by announcing: “Everyone agrees that my Great Aunt Tina looks fabulous dead.” Leigh tells the story in a humorous, often unexpected, bubbly voice. She is socially inept, either gushing about her sex research and spewing bizarre facts about human mating habits, or judging each word before she utters it to make sure its “creep factor” is not too high. Her friend Kat tells her, “If I had to think so hard about everything I did, I’d throw myself off the roof.”
For about four hours, I sat on the plane and laughed out loud. I didn’t care if the girl sitting next to me on the first flight and the man sitting next to me on the second thought I was crazy. I just enjoyed the book so much. I laughed and laughed.
The best part about how fun the book is: I left my disbelief (remember my suspending your disbelief post?) on the first page and never looked back. I didn’t mind when Roman, Leigh’s boyfriend, turned out to be the heir apparent to the Austrian throne (only if the monarchy was restored, of course). My faith did not waver when Leigh discovered that Roman had access to private planes and was friends with Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia and Princess Isabella of Denmark. A quick google check (for this blog’s purpose) revealed that history does in fact include these two personages. However, Princess Isabella is five and Prince Faisal died in 1975.
I also didn’t bat an eyelash when Leigh and Roman discover that the Austrian parliament had voted to restore the monarchy. Swept away with the humor and wackiness of the novel, any crazy semi-realistic idea that Elle Lothlorien wished to throw my way would have only added to the fun, even a historical event of such monumentality as reinstating a king to his throne. I love to laugh, and I guess I’m willing to do pretty much anything to laugh more.
I always tell my family that for my shiva (the Jewish traditional seven days of mourning), I’d like them to sit telling jokes about me. What a better way to make the move to the next world than on waves of laughter? But even my morbid sense of humor stands in awe before the way Leigh’s family says goodbye to the dead: “my family likes to take pictures of dead people.” Leigh explains as she poses with the dead Great Aunt Tina, “Not just take pictures of them, but have people pose with them like a bride and groom on their wedding day.”
Wow. That sounds like, um, fun....
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Extra Gratitude Bonus: Freedom from Regrets
Imagination is a wonderful asset, but at times it can be a burden, especially if it is out of control and predicting disasters. And my imagination is well-exercised in discovering horrors where none exist. This morning, when I heard the airline agent say that there is no more room in the overhead bins, and can passengers please volunteer to check their luggage, I decided, as we say in Hebrew, to heal the bruise before the injury happened, and checked my little sports bag.
Perhaps I should be honest and start a little earlier, with the challah and banana bread I had baked for Dar. I didn’t want them to get squished under all my stuff, so I put them in a plastic bag and carried it -- a third carry-on -- through security and all the way up to the gate. Being a law-abiding citizen, however, and having an imagination that can’t help but predict catastrophes (and make them seem illogically huge), I stressed about being told that I cannot bring this third plastic bag onto the airplane.
Once those officially-clad gals behind the counter announced the no-room-please-check-your-luggage message over the air, my fears would not let me stay seated, bundled up as I was with three parcels while the rest of the world was forced to carry only one. The agent was quite surprised, to tell the truth. She feebly tried to refuse my little sports bag, but I explained about having my backpack with me, and she gave up, shrugging at the crazy lady who checks in such a small bag when other people attempt to squeeze enormous, industrial-sized suitcases into the narrow bins.
Instantly regrets assailed me. Had I let my fears overcome my common sense by giving up my bag? What if it gets lost?What if there is room in the overhead bins after all? What if we have to wait for a very long time for the bag to come out at the carousel?
I texted the confession of my frailty to Dar, but for some reason he did not get upset. He texted me back that Rochester is a small airport, no problem, and the transfer in Chicago is sure to go well. And suddenly, it dawned on me -- here is an opportunity for a moment of gratitude. In the midst of regret, over-imagination, anxiety and perceived disaster, I can be grateful for having one less bag to carry in Chicago while I switch planes!
The sun rose in my internal sky. My heart lightened. I had found a remedy for my regrets! Opening myself up to gratitude shifted my entire mood. Here was a way to turn bad (or at least perceived bad) into good. Next on my list for today, turning straw into gold. And, just to conclude, my bag came out of the carousel first.
Perhaps I should be honest and start a little earlier, with the challah and banana bread I had baked for Dar. I didn’t want them to get squished under all my stuff, so I put them in a plastic bag and carried it -- a third carry-on -- through security and all the way up to the gate. Being a law-abiding citizen, however, and having an imagination that can’t help but predict catastrophes (and make them seem illogically huge), I stressed about being told that I cannot bring this third plastic bag onto the airplane.
Once those officially-clad gals behind the counter announced the no-room-please-check-your-luggage message over the air, my fears would not let me stay seated, bundled up as I was with three parcels while the rest of the world was forced to carry only one. The agent was quite surprised, to tell the truth. She feebly tried to refuse my little sports bag, but I explained about having my backpack with me, and she gave up, shrugging at the crazy lady who checks in such a small bag when other people attempt to squeeze enormous, industrial-sized suitcases into the narrow bins.
Instantly regrets assailed me. Had I let my fears overcome my common sense by giving up my bag? What if it gets lost?What if there is room in the overhead bins after all? What if we have to wait for a very long time for the bag to come out at the carousel?
I texted the confession of my frailty to Dar, but for some reason he did not get upset. He texted me back that Rochester is a small airport, no problem, and the transfer in Chicago is sure to go well. And suddenly, it dawned on me -- here is an opportunity for a moment of gratitude. In the midst of regret, over-imagination, anxiety and perceived disaster, I can be grateful for having one less bag to carry in Chicago while I switch planes!
The sun rose in my internal sky. My heart lightened. I had found a remedy for my regrets! Opening myself up to gratitude shifted my entire mood. Here was a way to turn bad (or at least perceived bad) into good. Next on my list for today, turning straw into gold. And, just to conclude, my bag came out of the carousel first.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Moments of Gratitude
A few days ago I waited at a stop sign for a bicycle to pass by, a dad with his daughter riding behind him on a trailer bike. As I watched them whiz past, the girl, no more than six years old, released her hold on the handlebars and spread her arms wide against the wind, her little legs pumping the pedals, hair flying behind from under her helmet.
A moment of gratitude for childhood and freedom, for these priceless memories, father and daughter having fun together. A moment of gratitude for the beautiful day, health, love and family.
Later, driving up the hill, a lone egret caught my eye, her graceful body standing erect, white against the green of the grass. Somehow, just watching that one egret, I felt ready to fly, filled with hope and joy.
Often these moments of gratitude are just that, a twinkling of a moment, so small it is easy to miss them if I don’t pay attention, so everyday that I feel it’s a miracle I notice them at all. My daughter’s face as she sits reading a book on her carpet before she realizes I am watching her. My son’s serious face as he plays the violin. The puppies huddled together as a pack on one doggie bed. Holding hands with Dar when we walk into the Farmers’ market. A piece of chocolate melting under my tongue.
My daughter’s Jewish Studies teacher calls these “I am grateful moments,” or in Hebrew, “Modeh Ani.” At school, she allows children to stand up in the morning and tell the entire group of first to third graders what their moment of gratitude is. My mother is going to have a baby today. I won a gymnastic competition. Wonderful, wonderful things happen to these wonderful kids.
According to Gretchen Rubin, the author of The Happiness Project, “Gratitude is a key to happiness,” and “consistently grateful people are happier and more satisfied with their lives.” I’ve noticed that whenever I let these moments of gratitude enter my life, my heart expands, I feel more connected to the world, and yes, happier, more full of joy.
Ms. Rubin recommends keeping a gratitude journal, writing a few words each day that express thankfulness for something that happened that day, or dedicating a few minutes every day to express gratitude verbally. I’ve decided to have a “moment of gratitude” tweet each day on twitter.
I love this quote by JFK: “As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.” As a writer, I am far too prone to utter words and then completely forget to live by them. But I hope that by writing my joy and being attentive to these moments of joy in order to express them, I will have assimilated the feeling of gratitude into every moment of life, whether it is good, bad, or in between.
A moment of gratitude for childhood and freedom, for these priceless memories, father and daughter having fun together. A moment of gratitude for the beautiful day, health, love and family.
Later, driving up the hill, a lone egret caught my eye, her graceful body standing erect, white against the green of the grass. Somehow, just watching that one egret, I felt ready to fly, filled with hope and joy.
Often these moments of gratitude are just that, a twinkling of a moment, so small it is easy to miss them if I don’t pay attention, so everyday that I feel it’s a miracle I notice them at all. My daughter’s face as she sits reading a book on her carpet before she realizes I am watching her. My son’s serious face as he plays the violin. The puppies huddled together as a pack on one doggie bed. Holding hands with Dar when we walk into the Farmers’ market. A piece of chocolate melting under my tongue.
My daughter’s Jewish Studies teacher calls these “I am grateful moments,” or in Hebrew, “Modeh Ani.” At school, she allows children to stand up in the morning and tell the entire group of first to third graders what their moment of gratitude is. My mother is going to have a baby today. I won a gymnastic competition. Wonderful, wonderful things happen to these wonderful kids.
According to Gretchen Rubin, the author of The Happiness Project, “Gratitude is a key to happiness,” and “consistently grateful people are happier and more satisfied with their lives.” I’ve noticed that whenever I let these moments of gratitude enter my life, my heart expands, I feel more connected to the world, and yes, happier, more full of joy.
Ms. Rubin recommends keeping a gratitude journal, writing a few words each day that express thankfulness for something that happened that day, or dedicating a few minutes every day to express gratitude verbally. I’ve decided to have a “moment of gratitude” tweet each day on twitter.
I love this quote by JFK: “As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.” As a writer, I am far too prone to utter words and then completely forget to live by them. But I hope that by writing my joy and being attentive to these moments of joy in order to express them, I will have assimilated the feeling of gratitude into every moment of life, whether it is good, bad, or in between.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
What Happens Next???
Yesterday I finished reading Incarnate by Jodi Meadows. The novel came out at the end of January this year, and I had read so many adoring reviews of it that I simply had to buy myself a copy. And my high expectations were more than met.
Incarnate takes place in the world of Range, where the same million souls have existed and were reborn for five thousand years, keeping their memories from all their past lives. Babies born remember being adults, remember dying many times over. There aren’t really children in Range. Not in the playful, exploratory meaning of childhood. And everybody in Range knows everybody else. There is no mystery to who people are and little room for personal development and growth.
One day, however, one of these souls fails to reincarnate, and Ana is born. Ana longs to find out why she was born and whether she will be reincarnated. The only eighteen year old in a world where people carry the experiences and knowledge of thousands of years, Ana is a breath of fresh air, a girl with a new outlook, new questions, new ideas. And as such she is also a danger.
After eighteen years of living with a mother who did not care for her and treated her as an inferior being, a nosoul, Ana leaves for the main city, Heart, where she hopes to find some answers to her questions. Acutely aware of her newness in this old and jaded world, Ana views everything that happens to her through the eyes of a child.
Like a child, Ana takes responsibility for events which might or might not be related to her. She thinks it is her fault that the soul of Ciana was not reborn, and that she must be the one to discover why and how that happened. She blames herself for failing to save more souls during the dragon attack later in the novel. She feels that it is up to her to discover and understand why sylph and dragons attack Heart.
And also like a child, she is the only one who sees the people around her with new eyes. Through the kaleidoscope of Ana’s mind, the people of Range are free of five thousand years of history -- they can be anything they want to be.
On her website, Jodi Meadows predicts that the second book of her trilogy will come out in winter of 2013 and the third in 2014. I am having a hard time curbing my impatience till the books come out. I don’t often read novels at the forefront of literary development, and I find myself wondering what did readers of Ursula K. LeGuin’s Earthsea Chronicles do while waiting for the next book? How did Tolkien readers manage the wait for the end of the Ring Trilogy? Seems it can be lucky to come late on the scene of a great work of literature. Then again it can be a good fortune to be one of the first explorers in a new land.
Incarnate takes place in the world of Range, where the same million souls have existed and were reborn for five thousand years, keeping their memories from all their past lives. Babies born remember being adults, remember dying many times over. There aren’t really children in Range. Not in the playful, exploratory meaning of childhood. And everybody in Range knows everybody else. There is no mystery to who people are and little room for personal development and growth.
One day, however, one of these souls fails to reincarnate, and Ana is born. Ana longs to find out why she was born and whether she will be reincarnated. The only eighteen year old in a world where people carry the experiences and knowledge of thousands of years, Ana is a breath of fresh air, a girl with a new outlook, new questions, new ideas. And as such she is also a danger.
After eighteen years of living with a mother who did not care for her and treated her as an inferior being, a nosoul, Ana leaves for the main city, Heart, where she hopes to find some answers to her questions. Acutely aware of her newness in this old and jaded world, Ana views everything that happens to her through the eyes of a child.
Like a child, Ana takes responsibility for events which might or might not be related to her. She thinks it is her fault that the soul of Ciana was not reborn, and that she must be the one to discover why and how that happened. She blames herself for failing to save more souls during the dragon attack later in the novel. She feels that it is up to her to discover and understand why sylph and dragons attack Heart.
And also like a child, she is the only one who sees the people around her with new eyes. Through the kaleidoscope of Ana’s mind, the people of Range are free of five thousand years of history -- they can be anything they want to be.
On her website, Jodi Meadows predicts that the second book of her trilogy will come out in winter of 2013 and the third in 2014. I am having a hard time curbing my impatience till the books come out. I don’t often read novels at the forefront of literary development, and I find myself wondering what did readers of Ursula K. LeGuin’s Earthsea Chronicles do while waiting for the next book? How did Tolkien readers manage the wait for the end of the Ring Trilogy? Seems it can be lucky to come late on the scene of a great work of literature. Then again it can be a good fortune to be one of the first explorers in a new land.
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