Last week I participated in ArtNite, an annual event in the city of Pasadena, California, which highlights art, music, and local authors. It was a wonderful event attended by many families. I enjoyed the opportunity to market my book, and just as importantly, to network with other authors, share ideas and talk about our writing experiences. The authors I spoke with agreed that marketing is a challenge but a necessary evil (not sure if that’s the right phrase, but using it anyway) if one is to succeed as an indie author. Ideally, I’d like to write novels, post the titles on Amazon, let the books sell themselves, and move onto the next project. Of course, that’s an unrealistic expectation. But if marketing is a journey I must take, I might as well enjoy it, and ArtNite was fun.

Not only was ArtNite fun, it was special because the author fair was held at Pasadena’s central library, where I learned to read as a five-year-old child. I’ve blogged before about my learning-to-read experience, so I won’t go into the details again. Suffice to say that it was sort of a magical feel to return to the place where I was introduced to reading, and to return there as a writer. My love of books and reading partly springs from the childhood days that I spent in that library.

I look forward to participating in other book fairs in the future, but, for me, probably none will have the special significance of ArtNite.

When I review a book I try to assess its good and not-so-good qualities. I try, but don’t always succeed, to avoid giving an opinion as to how the story should have been written. For example, I recently read How to Start a Fire by Lisa Lutz. It is written in a unique style that could be offputting to some readers. The story bounces back and forth from the past to the present to the past to the far past, and so on and on. I almost quit after fifty pages but am glad I didn’t. After one-hundred pages, I gave up trying to keep tabs on the chronological order of events and surrendered to the story. In the end, the author ties it all up skillfully. As a reviewer, I could have said that the book should have been written in a chronological style, but that would go against the author’s vision for her story. I’m sure she had her reasons for writing in the style she chose. I shouldn’t come along and say she should have used a more traditional writing style. As a reviewer I can say that I don’t like her style, that it confused me, that I lost interest, blah, blah. But I feel it’s inappropriate to suggest that the book would have worked better had it been written in a style I prefer. In fact, though I gave the book only three stars, there were many other readers who gave it four and five stars. What I did write in my review is that the style confused me and kept me from enjoying the book as much as I might have otherwise.

I am working on my second novel, which is currently in the final editing phase. Two beta readers told me that they would like the book more if I placed greater emphasis on the political angle of the story. I gave that suggestion a lot of thought. Ultimately I decided against it. Though my book has a political theme, it’s not where I want the reader to focus. I want the spotlight to shine on the main characters as they struggle with personal problems, some caused by the political upheaval that surrounds them. To emphasize the politics over the characters would alter my vision for the story. As a writer, I have to listen to my beta readers’ suggestions because often they are correct in their assessments. But sometimes it’s only a matter of opinion, and that is when I need to go with my gut. Recently a friend on Facebook posted a quote (which I will paraphrase): “No two people read the same book the same way.” That is so true.

Joanna Trollope is a popular author who has been called a modern Jane Austen. Intrigued by the blurb on the back cover, I recently read Trollope’s Marrying the Mistress. It describes the mistress as a character the reader can’t help but like. Well, I didn’t like her, didn’t like the cheating husband, and didn’t like the abandoned wife. But, I liked the book. This got me thinking about character-driven fiction, and if a likable protagonist is necessary to draw readers. Apparently not. Though I didn’t like any of the main players in this novel, the author’s analysis of the characters’ behavior, motives, and actions was enough to keep me riveted. Characters are important to me, and though I didn’t like the protagonists in this book, they are full-blooded, flawed human beings. In fact, the abandoned wife is so unlikable that it’s kind of fun to hate her. The popular phrase “the character is one you love to hate” rings true.

Still, if it’s not the protagonists I find interesting, there have to be other elements to a novel that keep me glued to the page. These can be interesting settings, an action-packed plot, or . . . supporting characters that add substance to the book. There are such characters in Marrying the Mistress. They are the suffering sons of the cheater, and some of his extended family. Perhaps Trollope is compared to Austen because she presents her characters in social settings where they exhibit questionable, humorous, sympathetic, or abominable behavior.

As a writer, of course characters are important to me. The fiction I write is character-driven. But, as a writer, I have to like my protagonist. Otherwise, I will not be motivated to tell her story.

Usually when I finish reading a book, I’ll go to Goodreads to review it, and then compare my thoughts with those of other readers. Invariably, it seems a book will receive at least one one-star review (lowest) and at least one five-star (highest). It’s odd that the same book can draw such variant reactions from readers, but not uncommon. We each bring our personal baggage, background, preferences, etc., to the books we read, and this affects our overall opinion of the material.

Recently I read Take This Man by Brando Skyhorse, and rated it five stars. I love this memoir written by a man who experienced a dysfunctional upbringing and to this day still suffers the consequences, despite his successful career as a novelist. Why did I rate this book so highly? I certainly didn’t suffer a dysfunctional childhood like he did, but I’m able to relate to his feelings of being the outcast in school (I was the only Mexican-American child in my classes, first through third grades), and being the kid who gets bullied (as I was in junior high). To a degree, I can also identify with the cultural identity crisis he experiences (he is Mexican-American also).

There is a movement, We Need Diverse Books, that I first heard about on Twitter. Its purpose is to address the lack of diversity in children’s books. The group’s definition of diversity encompasses people of color, gender diversity, people with disabilities, and ethnic, cultural, and religious differences. Of course it’s crucial to have more books to which children of diverse groups can relate. We all can more readily relate to stories that appeal to our interests, our ways of thinking, our experiences. For example, it stands to reason that people of color would more easily relate to a story about people of their same ethnicity and culture. I grew up in a time where people of my ethnicity were rarely seen on TV or in movies, and never written about. As an adult, most of the novels I read focus on the lives of white people. I read as much fiction as I can get my hands on that is written by Latinos, but there isn’t enough available. We definitely need diverse books for children, and we need them for adults too.

On a recent trip to Las Vegas, I took my iPad in case there would be time to read a few pages of the novel I was half into. As luck would have it (Yes! I was lucky in Vegas!), there was no time to read. I was fine with that because there was a lot to keep me busy.

I recall trips where I had plenty of time to read, even whole books. One of my favorites was The Other by Thomas Tryon, a horror novel. I read it during a camping trip that involved a lot of travel by car and sitting around the campsite. When I finished the book, I narrated the tale over the campfire. That night my brother had a nightmare brought about by that story. It was the perfect revenge on a big brother who used to like to scare me when were kids.

During another long road trip, I discovered Victoria Holt, the popular, highly prolific author of gothic and historical romances. I gobbled up On the Night of the Seventh Moon while sitting in the cramped back seat, ignoring the sites as we entered the city of Boston, a place I’d never visited. I preferred Victoria Holt to Boston, and over the next years read all of her novels.

On yet another road trip, I read Paint it Black by Janet Fitch, a well written but gloomy story. I should have left it behind on my bedroom nightstand.

Beach reads make the best vacation companions. The books don’t require too much intellectual investment to enjoy. Leave the tough stuff at home. It’ll be there when you return.

I try to be disciplined and blog every other Friday, but I skipped last week. I had a very good reason. Our family spent a couple of days in Las Vegas. My husband, sister-in-law, and I drove back on I-15 on Friday, my blog day. Just as we hit the El Cajon Pass, we got stuck in standstill traffic. Then we saw what had earlier appeared to be a dust storm rapidly growing into an obvious wildfire. As the smoke spread, we sat in our car and waited. Soon, drivers started to get out of their cars to survey the situation. We turned off the engine of our car and got out as well. The wind was strong, and we smelled smoke. I was nervous.

Then we saw cars driving on the shoulder of the highway but in the opposite direction of the traffic. One woman leaned out of a passenger window and warned us to flee because she had seen smoke ahead. We immediately turned our car around and used the shoulder of the road to escape. CHP officers directed us onto a dirt road. We could have proceeded from there to a street that would have headed back in the direction from which we had come, but, instead, we followed SIRI’s directions and continued on the bumpy dirt road for several miles to another highway that eventually led us home.

This was one of the most terrifying experiences I have ever had. I have never been that close to a wildfire. I’m proud to say that all of us kept our heads. None of the people we saw on the highway were crying, screaming, or hysterical, despite knowing that we were in a dangerous situation. It felt sort of like we were in a disaster movie, but the characters were calm. Later, we watched the news and were thankful that we had escaped the situation that some of the motorists found themselves in. Some cars burned, and motorists had to flee at the direction of firefighters.

Last week I had planned to blog about good vacation books I’ve read in the past. I will do so in my next blog. Sometimes, life is truly more exciting than fiction.

In my most recent blog I bellyached that my fiction reading adventures lately have been dull. Since then I decided to mix it up by reading a couple of non-fiction books. First I read The Phantom of Fifth Avenue by Meryl Gordon, and was pleasantly surprised at how it captured my interest. It is an intriguing tale of an heiress, Huguette Clark, who spent the final twenty years of her life in a hospital, avoiding contact with the outside world. She was surrounded by nurses, doctors, and other caregivers, who came to know her well and, in some cases, even grew to love her. But that didn’t stop some of them from taking advantage of her largesse and accepting checks to finance their children’s college educations or pay for a home renovation project. When she passed away, a battle for her estate ensued between the family that had not had contact with her in years–some were not even aware she was still alive–and the caregivers (her #1 nurse was due to inherit millions). On the one hand it’s a fascinating story of greed; on the other, it’s a sad tale of a woman’s fear of people and their motivations.

I am currently reading Tinseltown: Murder, Morphine, and Madness at the Dawn of Hollywood by William J. Mann. The title makes it sound like a cheap tabloid tale, but there is much more to this well-written and well-researched work. It focuses on the unsolved murder of Hollywood mogul William Desmond Taylor and the various suspects that surrounded him during his last days. While some of it is tedious–I couldn’t get too excited reading about Adolph Zukor and his greedy monopoly schemes–once the murder occurs, the story picks up. There is a cast of characters that would make this a great movie. In fact, there was a movie made in the fifties that was a knockoff of this true story, but probably didn’t do it justice. I haven’t finished it yet, but I’m looking forward to the unveiling of the author’s chief suspect for the murder.

I know I’ll return to reading novels, but for now, truth is stranger than fiction, and, for the moment, more enjoyable.

Lately my reading adventures have been disappointing. I’m in the habit of posting reviews on Goodreads of the novels I read, and recently have given several three-star ratings, which signify average or mediocre. Is it me, or is it the books? Am I too picky, or am I reading books that are not right for me? I don’t think I’m too picky, and I tend to read novels that come with good recommendations from reviewers or are written by authors I’ve enjoyed in the past.

Whatever the reason, recent reads have fallen short of my expectations: Gillian Flynn’s Dark Places received strong reviews on Goodreads, but I found it a standard whodunit. Emily Gould’s Friendship (which I assigned two stars) received a good rating in Entertainment Weekly. I disliked its characters and weak plot. Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez’s The Husband Habit is too preachy, a surprise since she’s an author I usually enjoy.

Maybe I’m analyzing the novels I read with a more critical eye because I’ve written a novel. I certainly don’t believe that my writing is superior, but perhaps I have become more aware of errors, plot holes, or inconsistencies that can plague a finished product. I want to return to reading a novel for sheer pleasure, but it seems that a book now has to have a thoroughly compelling plot or irresistible characters for me to lose myself in it (as I did with Sarah Waters’s The Paying Guests). Or, maybe I’ve read too much in certain genres, and I need to expand my horizons? Or, maybe my interests have changed, and I need to branch out and sample authors who are new to me. Any suggestions?

I read a lot of fiction. Of course I do, or I wouldn’t have this blog. But I know people who read a lot more than I do, including a friend who once told me that she reads fifteen books per week. I don’t even come close to that, and doubt I could keep all the titles straight in my head if I did. I came across a couple of online articles recently that claim fiction readers are more empathetic than the average person because they learn to relate to different personalities through reading. I don’t know if that is true, but it’s nice to think that it might be. I always try to put myself in another person’s shoes if I’m trying to understand their behavior, but don’t always succeed. In novels, the narrator is there to explain characters’ actions or go inside their heads and reveal their thoughts. Too bad we can’t do that in real life . . . but then that might not be such a good thing. Maybe it would be best if each person we met came with a built-in caption that would tell us their personality type, their fears, desires, motivations, hang ups, personal traumas…a sort of mini-bio, perhaps on a flash drive. It might make life easier (we’d avoid getting involved with difficult people), but a lot more boring.