First, you should know that over half of my reading, I do with my kids. Of course, the books below are not the sum total of what I read to them. My daughter really likes Disney princess books (can I poke out my eyes, please?), which read like they were written by a committee comprised of reps from the legal department and a hack writer on speed.

Doug finally asked, “Can we declare a moratorium on Disney princess books?” So the next day, when I went to the library and found an inch-thick anthology of Disney princess stories on hold for us, I handed it straight back to the circ desk clerk.

Of course, two days later my mother-in-law came for a visit and brought Jane a two-inch thick anthology of Disney princess stories. She was in heaven. I was…not.

Anyhoo, back to the real books we’ve read this month:

Catwings (and three sequels!) by Ursula K. LeGuin.

These are wonderful short chapter books – each about 50 pages long with a delightful illustration by S.D. Schindler on almost every page. I long for more such books that combine lovely language with stories complex enough for my six-year-old and simple enough for my three-year-old. A tall order, I know. Especially since Jane also wants the pictures.

Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

We’re working our way through the Little House books. Both kids loved Little House in the Big Woods, which we read in May and Little House on the Prairie, which we finished earlier this month. Farmer Boy is a harder sell for Jane. There aren’t as many pictures as in the earlier books, and she really likes Laura and Mary and doesn’t understand why they’re not in this book. Jack, on the other hand, loves it. He won’t say why, but I suspect it’s because it’s about a boy only a little older than he is.

Skylark by Patricia MacLachlan.

This beautiful story is the sequel to Sarah Plain and Tall, which we read in February, and like Sarah, it has no illustrations. I wasn’t sure Jane would be able to sit through it, but we read it in two sittings, and she did just fine; she even brought it back for me to finish.

***

And here are the books I’ve read or am reading this month:

The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson.

The “autobiography” of a modern-day mystic, this book spans 70 years, weaving its way from present to past and back again. Given the structure of the novel and the long timeline, the story could have been a confusing mess, but Samson keeps it focused and always makes sure you know where you are in both time and place. And she draws such fascinating, compelling characters you just want to keep reading to see what happens to them. A beautiful and captivating read.

Nine Coaches Waiting by Mary Stewart.

Sort of Jane Eyre meets Rebecca, this is a slowly gathering story of suspense and romance, with delicious Gothic darkness hovering over everything.

Now that we all have ADD, I’m afraid they just don’t write them like this anymore, alas.

***

Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis.

I’ve long meant to read Lewis’s autobiography, and finally got around to it. Though it has its moments of lovely language and captivating story-telling, it deals too much in generalities. The places it’s strongest are when Lewis recalls specific incidents. I realize it’s risky to take on someone as august as Lewis, but this book is definitely not his finest. I think what keeps it in print is simply Lewis’s name on the cover (she said nervously, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was coming with a billy club…)

Till We Have Faces, also by C.S. Lewis, and in my humble opinion it’s hands down his best book. Rich, layered, and nuanced, symbol piles upon symbol in this story until it’s impossible to unravel. You simply read it and are amazed that anyone could write such a compelling story with such deeply nested and almost unsearchable symbolism. I am in awe.

But you want to know what I’m most in awe of? His acknowledgments page. It reads like a who’s who of Christian writers: Robert Clark, John Wilson, Luci Shaw, Walter Wangerin, Jr., Eugene Peterson, Gina Oschner, among others. And he calls Sara Zarr, one of my favorite YA novelists, his “sister.” Anyone else turning green?

So, with all these awesome connections, what’s he doing moonlighting on yours truly’s blog? Well, dear readers, I asked him to.

Okay, so it’s a little more complicated than that. One of his editors, who has become a good acquaintance of mine over the past nine months, offered to put me in touch with him. Jeffrey lives near Seattle, so back in December I emailed him and asked if he’d meet me for coffee. He very kindly said yes. And when his new book came out last month I asked him if he’d do a blog interview with me. Again, he very kindly said yes.

So, clearly, in addition to being a great writer, he’s also a really nice guy. But enough from me. Let’s hear from him.

KCI: The focus of the first book in the series, Auralia’s Colors, is on the colorless kingdom of Abascar. Where did the idea for this drab country come from?

JO: Blame it on Montana. Anne and I were hiking near Flathead Lake, during the summer of 1996. We were talking about our mutual love of fairy tales. Anne asked, “Why is it that so many people reach an age when they’re finished with make-believe? It seems like most people just stop being creative and imaginative. They fold up their imaginations and put them in a closet.”

That triggered a “What if?” moment for me. What if a whole society folded up their colorful and creative work and put it away? I imagined a colorless city set in the middle of this beautiful landscape.

A few moments later, I was imagining a character—a young artist—who would come out of the forest and bring a gift of forbidden color to that place. That character became Auralia.

KCI: In the second book, Cyndere’s Midnight, you turn your attention more toward the fallen kingdom of the Cent Regus. What inspired your vision of the beastmen?

JO: When I wrote Auralia’s Colors, I became curious about the beastly creatures lurking in the forest where she lived. I wanted to know where these monsters came from.

Ever since I was old enough to read Where the Wild Things Are or fairy tales like “Beauty and the Beast,” I’ve been interested in monsters. As a kid, I loved the movie Gremlins. But I was quite interested in the idea of a monster with a soul. Like Gollum, Darth Vader, or the Replicants in Blade Runner.

Perhaps that comes from reading Bible stories about monstrous men who are considered “heroes of faith.” Re-reading the Old Testament lately, I’ve been amazed at the depravity—the violence, the sexual misbehavior, the dishonesty—of the men I used to admire in my Sunday school lessons. There are important matters to discuss and explore when we realize that God is in the business of guiding and working through monsters like them… and like me.

KCI: Throughout both books, color—and thus beauty—is central to the ongoing transformation of individuals and, sometimes, whole groups of people. Why is this?

JO: I believe that our minds are like musical instruments all out of tune, or glass that’s blurry. When we encounter beauty—either in nature or in art—our minds are “tuned” again, to some extent. Things are out of balance there, and we don’t even realize it, but art helps repair that damage. It polishes our lenses, so to speak. That’s why a walk along Richmond Beach near my house, or listening to good music, can raise my spirits after a difficult day at work. Poetry sharpens my senses and my intellect.

I’ve read so many fantasy stories that were primarily about religion or political oppression or sex. I’d never read a fantasy series that was about the revelatory and dangerous power of art before, and the idea inspired me.

KCI: Would you give my blog readers a little teaser trailer for Raven’s Ladder?

JO: Wow. I’ve never been asked to do this before. Sounds like fun.

Okay, first…

Imagine whatever studio logo you’d like, and then the music starts.

Arrows! Someone is hunting Cal-raven, the new king of the survivors of House Abascar, through the caves where they have endured a hard winter. He and his hunting dog, Hagah, run for their lives. Then, he’s outside looking for a place to hide among the wild brambles. It’s midnight.

Suddenly, two enormous spider-like creatures appear on either side of him, and they pounce!

Bring up the title credit: Raven’s Ladder!

We see Cal-raven, tied up and bloodied in the back of a wagon, being hauled away by mercenaries.

We descend into the earth, where we join some of the Abascar survivors who are laboring as slaves to the beastmen. The ale boy has found them there, and he’s trying to revive their hopes by telling them the story of Auralia’s colors. To demonstrate her revelation, he lights himself on fire and the cave fills with light.

We fly to House Bel Amica, a city built on a rock above the ocean. We see Cal-raven climbing out the window of his room in a moonlit Bel Amican tower at night. He steps onto the top of a ladder the he finds there, and then he pushes off, riding the top of the ladder across the avenue far below… until he crashes against the wall of another tower. There, he takes hold of the stones and begins to climb toward somebody’s window.

We see Cyndere, daughter of the queen of House Bel Amica, standing very close to Cal-raven in an empty outdoor marketplace at night, far above the stormy waters of the Rushtide Inlet. It looks like it may be a romantic moment.

Then, in a rush of images:

The Keeper spreads its wings and descends into an abyss, fire flowing from its jaws.

Cal-raven sealing himself inside the hollow of a stone statue sculpted to look like his father.

A parade of glowing phantoms—Northchildren—sneaking through the forest.

One of the devious Seers plants the Queen of Bel Amica’s face in a pan of bubbling lotion, and then pulls her out. The potion has made her seem younger than her own daughter! (Cut to a shot of Cyndere looking disgusted with her mother.)

We see Jordam the beastman charging alone against a troop of spear-wielding beastmen in red armor.

We see Cal-raven, surrounded by noisy ravens, climbing up the incline of a leaning tree. The camera pulls back to reveal that the tree is so massive, Cal-raven’s as small as an ant climbing up its bark.

We see a massive, serpentine tentacle come up out of the water of a harbor and smash in the hull of a ship. Then we see the ship leaning, burning, sinking.

Finally, we see Cal-raven standing on a high place and looking northward through a large, round, blurry pane of glass, and suddenly the swirling light of Auralia’s colors flowers into the air all around him.

And then we see a young girl holding two glass discs up to her eyes, which enlarge them to cartoonish proportions, and she laughs mischievously.

Boom! The title Raven’s Ladder appears.

And then a message appears: “Visit LookingCloser.org for more details.”

How’s that?

KCI: Awesome. Now we just need some cinematic music with an ever-increasing drumbeat, ending with a cymbal crash.

Your writing is lyrical and lush, and you weave together many different story strands in each novel. What writers do you read to keep your own well of creativity full?

JO: In the last couple of years, I’ve been so busy working at the day-job and writing in the evenings, I’ve had very little time to read.

I do, however, find Patricia McKillip to be a very inspiring fantasy writer. Her novels The Book of Atrix Wolfe and Alphabet of Thorn are some of the best fantasy books I’ve read in the last 20 years. I also love the style of Guy Gavriel Kay’s complicated fantasy novels, which are a lot like historical tapestries. Mervyn Peake should be as famous as any fantasy author; his Gormenghast stories are pure joy to read, especially to read aloud.

But mostly I’m inspired by non-fiction. I think the nonfiction written by Annie Dillard, Madeleine L’Engle, Eugene Peterson, Philip Yancey, and Thomas Merton has had as much influence on The Auralia Thread as any other text. In fact, the meaning of the name of Cal-raven’s dog comes from Eugene Peterson’s Eat This Book.

KCI: Hagah. That’s Hebrew for “meditate,” though Peterson points out that it also can also mean to “growl” or “chew” or “worry” as in a dog worrying a bone. Clever. (And aren’t I clever, too, for knowing all that? No, don’t answer that.)

Finally, if the series were to be turned into a cadre of movies, who would play the title role of each?

JO: I just hosted a book giveaway on my Facebook page where I asked people that same question. I saw some great ideas there. It’s hard to decide. I really don’t know who should play Cal-raven; he’d have to look about 22 years old.

I think Benicio Del Toro could make a great Jordam. It would take some amazing makeup, but he did that for The Wolfman.

Somebody suggested either Embeth Davidtz or Rosamund Pike for Jaralaine, and those are both brilliant.

I’d pick Summer Glau to play Cyndere, and I’d love to see the rock singer Annie Clark (better known as St. Vincent) play Emeriene. The young actor from The Road would make an excellent ale boy.

I haven’t come up with a better actor for Scharr ben Fray than Derek Jacobi, but I’m still pondering.

Well, friends, as you can see, the man is smart, creative, and savvy. He’s also written a beautiful trio of books (the last one comes out next year). If you’d like a copy of Raven’s Ladder, just leave a comment. Jack the random number generator will choose a number and if he picks yours, you get a free book! I’ll be out of town and completely offline by the time you read this, so Jack will choose his number when we return at the end of the month and I’ll let you know then who the lucky winner is.

I read this book, which has no illustrations, to my 3-year-old daughter in one sitting. She kept asking for another chapter…and, no, it wasn’t bedtime or naptime. It was mid-morning, and she fell in love with this book.

Me, too.

I once heard Susan Patron, author of Newbery-winning The Higher Power of Lucky, speak at a conference, and she said the best piece of writing advice she’d ever received was to choose one book that she loved, a book she wished she had written, and type it up. She chose Sarah, Plain and Tall.

I can see why.

This is a nearly perfect book. (I’d say it is a perfect book, only I’m not sure there is such a thing.) I don’t think there’s a single misplaced word in the whole 58 pages. There’s certainly not a single misplaced image.

MacLachlan evokes her setting and characters clearly, simply, beautifully. She tells the reader almost nothing, and yet the pages are alive with the sights, sounds, and smells of a Midwestern farm in the mid-1800’s. They are alive with the feelings of the characters, even though emotions are almost never named. MacLachlan is a master of “show, don’t tell” and of “omit needless words.”

In the spirit of Susan Patron’s writing teacher, I thought I’d type up a few passages to share with you, so you can read for yourself some of this exquisite book (and so I can have these gorgeous words flow through my fingertips).

“I looked at the long dirt road that crawled across the plains, remembering the morning that Mama had died, cruel and sunny. They had come for her in a wagon and taken her away to be buried. And then the cousins and aunts and uncles had come and tried to fill up the house. But they couldn’t.”

“Sarah came in the spring. She came through green grass fields that bloomed Indian paintbrush, red and orange, and blue-eyed grass.”

“Matthew and Maggie came with their two children and a sack full of chickens. Maggie emptied the sack into the yard and three red banty chickens clucked and scattered. “They are for you,” she told Sarah. “For eating.” Sarah loved the chickens. She clucked back to them and fed them grain. They followed her, shuffling and scratching primly in the dirt. I knew they would not be for eating.”

“…at dawn there was the sudden sound of hail, like stones tossed against the barn. We stared out the window, watching the ice marbles bounce on the ground. And when it was over we opened the barn door and walked out into the early morning light. The hail crunched beneath our feet. It was white and gleaming for as far as we looked, like sun on glass. Like the sea.”

If you’ve not read this beautiful little gem of a book, I hope you will. Reading it is like finding a piece of perfectly smooth blue sea glass winking up at you from the sand.

3 Newbery books down; 86 to go. Next up: Summer of the Swans by Betsy Byars (1971)

I am not sure Madeleine L’Engle’s book would have been published in today’s market. It starts very slow, taking three chapters to introduce all the main characters and raise a question: where is Meg’s father and why hasn’t he contacted them in over a year? The quest to find her father doesn’t begin till chapter four—page 56 in my version!

Now, I love this book, and I know the end is worth every word I read to get there. But someone who’s never read this book doesn’t know that. And from the (admittedly limited) feedback I’ve gotten about my novel, slow doesn’t hook. Of course, Madeleine L’Engle endured an entire decade of rejection when she tried to get A Wrinkle in Time published, so maybe slow didn’t hook in the 1950’s, either.

The thing is, I’m not sure how else she could have written the story. Dropping us into the middle of the quest to find Meg’s father might have worked to add more excitement right off the bat, but how to explain Calvin’s presence and Charles Wallace’s precociousness and the Missuses Whatsit, Who, and Which?

Some books are slow burners. They kindle a little interest at the beginning, introduce you to a character you want to know more about, raise a question or two that pique your interest. And then they slowly, slowly, flicker into flame until you get to the end, and there’s an enormous conflagration, and you realize with satisfaction that the fire started with that little spark and that it was, in fact, inevitable once the spark caught.

This is a book like that. It explores the nature of space and time and love and freedom, but it does so slowly, unfolding like a flower, at its own pace, in its own way. I like that—that it doesn’t try to be something it’s not (a fast-paced thriller, for instance), that it doesn’t conform to the “rules” that fiction is supposed to follow (there are, for example, several characters who make but one appearance in the story), that it, instead, reaches for something beyond those rules, for truth that can only be expressed in story, in this story, told this way.

Perhaps that is why this book ultimately won a Newbery—because it is true and beautiful and reminds us who we are and what we are capable of.

If you’ve not read this book and would like a free copy, I’m giving mine away. I warn you, though: it’s a mass market version that is hideously ugly in the way that only books printed in the 70’s can be. And it’s been well-loved (including a possible douse in the bathtub or some other body of water…). But it’s totally readable, and it’s free for the asking. Just leave a comment and Jack-the-random-number-generator will pick a winner. I’ll announce who it is next Tuesday.

2 Newbery books down; 87 to go. Next up: Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan

If I ever have to go to the proverbial desert island, this book will be in the waterproof trunk I pack. I do not even know where to begin to explain to you why I love this book, why I think everyone should read it.

But I’ll try.

First, I love the story structure. The first half of the book is comprised of four first-person short stories, each narrated by a different character, held together by short (and I do mean short) chapters about a state academic competition.

As the stories unfold, you learn that these characters are all tied to one another, that they are all on the same team competing for the state championship, and that they all have the same “lesson” to learn, though in vastly different circumstances.

The second half of the book has an omniscient narrator who recounts the team’s journey from school champions to state champions.

I know, I know. I’ve made it sound rather boring. It’s not. Even though you know from the first page that this team makes it to the state meet, somehow the story of how they get there is still suspenseful. I’m not sure how Konigsburg pulls that one off, but she does it beautifully and brilliantly.

Second, I love the characters. These are the kinds of kids I hope my children grow up to be: kind and smart and courteous and loyal.

I also love seeing these characters from multiple perspectives. Each of The Souls (the team members) narrates one of the short stories, so as a reader, you get to hear their voice, their words, their view of the world. In the other Souls’ stories, you see them from a different perspective. In the omniscient narrator’s portion of the book, you see them from the perspective of their teacher and coach, Mrs. Olinski.

Speaking of Mrs. Olinski: she’s one of the main characters of the book and we see much of the competition story from her perspective—an interesting choice in a book for young adults. But her character arc is not unlike the children’s; she has similar challenges to face and choices to make, which makes her compelling and likeable, even if she is an adult and a teacher.

Third, I love the way Konigsburg ties all the characters and all the story lines together. This is not a collection of interlocking short stories. It is a novel (with, admittedly, a highly unusual structure) because of the overarching story arc about the state academic competition and because of the thematic ties between that story and each of the four short stories.

I suspect that in most writing workshops, this book would have been torn to shreds. It violates pretty much all of the so-called rules for writing contemporary novels, especially for children. Lots of point-of-view shifts. Lots of flashbacks in big chunks. Lots of skipping around in the story’s timeline. Lots of understatement. All of which are no-nos. And yet—it works. It’s hard to imagine it any other way. Part of what makes it compelling and beautiful is its structure, its omniscience, its suspenseful dropping of one story to pick up another before circling back to the first, and its understatement. Though the story is woven together tightly on a surface level, its thematic unity reinforces and deepens the oneness of all the disparate parts.

Finally, I love that this book makes me laugh and cry. I love that even though I’ve read it before, I’m still swept up into the story. And I love the feeling of all-rightness I have when I finish it.

1 Newbery down, 88 to go. Next up: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle (1963)

And now, on to the Best Books of 2009!

Okay, so these are not actually the best books of 2009. They’re just the books I liked best. Nor were they all published this year (in fact, I think only one of them was); I just happened to read them in 2009. I’ve read 43 books since I started keeping track in April, and these are my favorites, in no order except the order that I recorded them in my notebook (which may or may not be the order in which I read them):

The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare

The tale of 16-year-old Kit, who moves from her home in Barbados to Puritan New England and finds herself clashing with the culture of her new home, this is one of those books I somehow missed reading as a child, and I’m sad about that. I think everyone should have the opportunity to read this lovely and delightful book when they’re a kid. I can hardly wait till Jack and Jane are old enough that I can read it to them.

*****

The Bronze Bow by Elizabeth George Speare

Like The Witch of Blackbird Pond, The Bronze Bow won a Newbery Medal. (Speare’s other two books were Newbery Honor books, which is like a silver medal instead of a gold, the point being, she’s an amazing writer.) The Bronze Bow is the story of an embittered boy and his ill sister and their encounters with Jesus of Nazareth. A beautiful book.

*****

Blue Heart Blessed by Susan Meissner

This book takes place in St. Paul, Minnesota, in an old hotel-turned-apartment building. I fell in love with the community of people living in that building. They completely captured my imagination, and I wanted to move in. There’s also a sweet love story, which is always a plus in my book (uh, no pun intended).

*****

Holes by Louis Sachar

Another Newbery winner, Holes is a masterpiece of tightly braided storylines, both past and present, that weave together to create a seamless whole. This is a brilliant book. And a bloody fun read.

*****

The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall

Winner of a National Book Award, The Penderwicks captured my heart. (You can read my review here.) For today’s purposes, I think the subtitle says it well: “A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy.” Indeed.

*****

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie

Another National Book Award winner, this book is unlike any other I read this year. It’s a coming-of-age story and a quest story and more than either of those categories suggest. It’s tragic and hilarious. It’s brilliant and poignant. And it’s got great cartoons.

*****

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

This was my third time through this classic, and I like it better with each reading. What more can I say? (Well, um, truth be told, I can say more, and if you’d like to know what that more is, you can read my review…)

*****

A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser

The only non-fiction on this list, A Grace Disguised is one of those books I’ll likely turn back to again and again. It’s not an easy or a fun read, but it’s an important book, an unflinching look at suffering and our response to it. (You can read more about it here.)

*****

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

I first read Jane Eyre when I was 19. I so completely didn’t get it. I remember not really liking it, and thinking Mr. Rochester was weird and Jane weirder for liking him. Well, let me tell you, 15 years makes a big difference. I loved this book! It sucked me in and didn’t let me go. Also, it’s a good vocabulary builder: there were easily a dozen words that highly vocabularized I not only didn’t know the meaning of but had never even seen before!

*****

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

This was my favorite book from the time I was ten until I read Gone with the Wind when I was 15, and I hadn’t read it since then. The version I read to Jack was beautifully illustrated by Inga Moore and thoroughly engrossed both of us. It also inspired me to at least want to do something with the wilderness I call my yard…

*****

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

I think this was my 12th time through Pride and Prejudice, which is one of my favorite books of all time. The six-hour BBC miniseries is great, but the book is better. So, if you haven’t read this book, what are you waiting for? It’s laugh-out-loud funny, smart, and all-around delightful, better even than Colin Firth in a wet shirt (oh, that poor, poor man; he’ll be 70, and people like me will still be making snarky comments…).

*****

Once Was Lost by Sara Zarr

15-year-old Sam’s mother is in rehab for alcoholism, her father is a workaholic pastor considering an affair, and a girl in her youth group has been abducted. This trinity of tragedies plunges Sam, who was already teetering on the brink of losing her faith, into a dark night of the soul. A sad, hopeful, lovely book.

If you’d like to know more about any of these books, please leave a comment, and I’ll wax poetic: why do I love this book? Let me count the ways… Seriously, I love to talk books, so I’ll gladly answer any question or respond in kind to anyone else’s raptures about any of these books!

And I’d really love to hear what books you read this year that captured your heart or your imagination. I’m always on the lookout for a good read.

Hey. Wait a minute.

20,000 words is pretty rockin’ awesome. It’s 20,000 words I hadn’t written a month ago. So maybe I’m not quite such a loser after all!

Anyhoo, while I was cranking out those 20,000 words, y’all heard from six writers who told us what their desert-island books are (even if Dan cheated and chose three). I don’t know about you, but reading their impassioned responses to these books made my eyes mist. The book lover in me (and probably the writer in me, too) rejoiced to hear that books matter, that they make a difference in people’s lives, that they inspire us to be better people, to live larger lives, to love more freely.

If I needed a reason to keep writing (and some days I do), these posts gave it to me: the hope that someday someone will read something I write and it will be for them what these books are for my guest bloggers.

Now it’s your turn. Yesterday was Thanksgiving. So I want to know: what book (except for the Bible) are you most thankful for? And I want to know why you love it.

Our last guest blogger this month is Dan Baumgartner, pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Seattle (yes, that’s my church). In addition to writing near weekly sermons, he also writes articles, essays, short stories, and poetry. His antipathy toward blogging is well-known among his congregants, so I consider it a major coup to have him moonlighting here today!

*****

Chesterton once said “There is a great deal of difference between an eager man who wants to read a book and the tired man who wants a book to read.”

So this is for those eager to read a book.

But I must note it is a form of torture from the miry pit to have to choose only one book. Especially when someone else has already written about A Prayer for Owen Meany. I mentally discard Les Miserables by Hugo, solely on the basis of the 75+ pages on the Parisian sewer system. I set aside C.S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce. I reluctantly shake my head at Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, and I can barely ignore The Brothers K shouting at me from the imagination of David James Duncan.

I’m stalling.

I’ll vote for the J.R.R. Tolkien masterpieces – The Lord of the Rings trilogy – a sneaky way of voting for three books, even four, if you fold in The Hobbit.

When I read Tolkien, my interest is held as in an iron vice. I will sacrifice food, time, and friendships to read just one more chapter. I find that, even having read them through many times now, I still occasionally set them aside to ponder what I have just read.

“I wish I had never seen the Ring!  Why did it come to me? Why was I chosen?”

“Such questions cannot be answered.  You may be sure that it was not for any merit that others do not possess: not for power or wisdom, at any rate.  But you have been chosen, and you must therefore use such strength and heart and wits as you have.”

Tolkien’s vocabulary, even apart from his gift of creating new languages, is refreshingly sophisticated – enough to offset the debilitating effects of postmodern cellphone texting. The scope of the story is large – large enough to remind me that the world is far bigger than my puny life. There are inklings of the presence of the Divine, glimpses and wonderings that tantalize. I don’t need perfect characters, nor does Tolkien give us any. Evil, bumbling, and utter weakness abound.

And yet Tolkien manages to redeem the fragile, because in the end something wells up in me that says, “I can demonstrate these qualities.” When I set a book down with a wistful longing to be a better person – the author has done something right.

Today’s book pick is from Susan Forshey, a PhD candidate in Practical Theology and Spirituality at Boston University. She’s also my dear friend and a self-described tea-drinker, cafe-windowseat-sitter, theologian-stargazer, contemplative-educator, photo-taking-poet, and earth-loving artist. You can visit her online at her blog The Contemplative Cottage. (Warning: spoilers ahead!)

*****

Faith of the Fallen, the sixth book in a fantasy series by Terry Goodkind, tells the story of the Seeker of Truth, Richard Cypher. A skilled carver, Richard works as a stonemason in the capital city. The antagonist, Rahl, ruler of an oppressive Stalinesque regime, orders Richard to craft a towering work of hideousness for the main plaza. But, risking his life and mission, Richard secretly carves a statue of beauty, a vision of possibility.

At the statue’s unveiling, the people of the city are stunned out of their subjugation. When Rahl destroys it in front of everyone, the people rise up and swarm the palace.

Often I have wondered if my love of beauty and the desire to express myself creatively was really helpful to the world, or simply born of privileged narcissism. Art often seems superfluous and divorced from justice work. On the other hand, I feel browbeaten by justice activism that is divorced from beauty. It seems angry, unloving, and unyielding.

Goodkind vividly paints Richard as both artist and prophet. He suggests that a work of beauty can touch the beholder and has the power to transform a community at the deepest level. Hans Urs von Balthasar, a theologian known for his writing on beauty, believes that justice and beauty must partner for real transformation to occur in the world.

Faith of the Fallen, as a work of art about the power of a work of art, lives out its own message. The beauty of its narrative drew me in and transformed me, healing my own dismissal of my creativity as useless in the face of the world’s pain. It called me to live faithfully, trusting that such faithfulness to creating works of beauty can be prophetically transformative.

Today’s book pick is from my friend Matt Swanson, who’s had several essays and poems published in “journals you have never heard of.” (I’d still like to know what they are, though…) He’s also written three short screenplays that are slated for production, and he writes “a superfluous little blog” (his words, not mine!) called Let’s Review… He’s pictured here with his adorable baby girl.

*****

If you have not read John Irving’s novel A Prayer For Owen Meany, you should go and read it right now (and I do mean right now, as in stop reading this and go get the book. Now.)

As of last count I have read Owen Meany seven times, and I have every intention of reading it seven more. It is my security blanket, my comfort food, and my favorite threadbare armchair all rolled into one; familiar as a smile, warm as an embrace. I love this book.

There are so many reasons to cherish this book (the masterful storytelling, the graceful writing, the indelible characters, the incredible humor, etc.), but the thing that holds this novel together is the same thing that holds it dear to my heart: Owen Meany himself.

Easily the most memorable character in twentieth century fiction, Owen lives his life with the kind faith and certainty that most of us can only dream about. Diminutive and disadvantaged though he is, Owen sees the world with crystal-clear focus, and he has the enviable (if burdensome) gift of always being right. He is smart, passionate, and fearless, and he makes the universe more interesting for his presence in it. Owen is the person I wish I could be, and the friend I strive to be for others. Owen Meany is a miracle.

There is so much more to be said about this book, but most of that needs to be said by you—after you read it.