The Elements of Style, William Strunk, Jr., and E.B. White. I've been working professionally as a print/ text editor since I graduated from Centennial College's Book and Magazine Publishing program in the spring of 1994, and I'm afraid that I'm a far less accomplished and skilled editor and writer than one of my nearly three decades of experience ought to be. Language usage and the craft of writing is incredibly complex and always evolving and I wish so much that I had realized at 20 that I should be making a deliberate continuous study of it. Instead, I stocked my bookshelves with texts on editing and writing that I vaguely intended to read at some point, as though I were setting a stage for playacting at being an editor rather than genuinely being one. When I recently took my thrift shop copy of The Elements of Style from the bookcase that holds my collection of professional reference texts, I found a sales receipt in the book from the Goodwill on St. Clair Avenue West, dated July 29, 2000. It had taken me nearly 23 years to actually read the book after buying it.
Having finally justified my $0.75 investment in a copy of this book, I can definitely understand why The Elements of Style is considered a classic and essential editing and writing text. I was relieved to discover that I did know most of the rules and principles laid down in it, and to find I had enough knowledge and experience to know that some of its dictums are outmoded, such as the default use of singular male pronouns. I enjoyed its bracing emphasis on plain style and standard language usage, which have long been my own decided preferences. E.B.'s White's advice that one should write in whatever style comes naturally, and then work to correct and refine it, rather than affecting someone else's style, was exactly what I needed to hear, given my anxiety over my lack of a distinctive writing style. And I decided I must keep an eye out for the most recent, or 4th, edition of The Elements of Style, as an upgrade from the 2nd/1972 edition I have, and once I get it, read it.
Henrietta's House (AKA The Blue Hills), by Elizabeth Goudge. I first discovered Elizabeth Goudge when I read The Little White Horse at 11 or 12. I've been reading and collecting as many of her books as I could ever since, an effort that has gone slowly because many of her books are out of print. To date, I have 15 of her titles and there are perhaps another 17 that I want. None have had quite the charm for me that The Little White Horse has, but there is a gentle, leisurely, contemplative quality to all of them that I love. As with a Quaker meeting, the atmosphere of Goudge's novels draws me in and compels my irritable, impatient, sardonic brain to settle down and truly experience the quiet beauty of it. So few things have that effect on me that I value it highly when I find it. When I came across a copy of Henrietta's House recently in a Salvation Army thrift shop, I pounced on it immediately. The story is a near fairy tale, as Goudge's books tend to be (even her most realistic novels have myths and legends woven into them). A party of assorted people in assorted vehicles set out for a picnic in the hills to celebrate the birthday of a young boy among them, become separated enroute, have various improbable adventures, and then they all get something they wished for, most notably ten-year-old Henrietta, whose fondest wish was a house of her own in which all of those she most loved could gather. It's a slight but appealing story.
Lovesick: A Memoir of Searching for Mr. Good Enough, by Frances Kuffel. This is Kuffel's third book, all of them memoirs. She's a very talented writer whose polished, painfully lucid prose is a pleasure to read and who refuses to reduce the messy complexity of her struggles with her weight and her romantic relationships to a tidy narrative. I related all too well to her account of trying to find someone compatible and willing to be in a ongoing romantic relationship with her, and of how she has to turn to her web of friends for some of the emotional needs partnered people usually turn to each other for. God, the slings and arrows and the sheer grind of meeting guy after guy via dating websites, of analyzing each guy's presentation of himself to see if he's a good fit or even safe to meet in person, of assessing the developing situation (do I like him? is this working? does this have potential?), of enduring one disappointment after another, of ultimately never having anything work out, even when there's no actual mistreatment involved, and there often is. Lovesick is an entertaining book, but I wonder if it wouldn't be a better read for someone who has no clue what internet dating can be like as opposed to someone who's had to do too much of it. The former type of person would hopefully find it a valuable and empathy-generating education, whereas I, who am in the latter category, can only summon a weary, "I hear you, sister."
The Yoga Bible, by Christina Brown. To be strictly accurate, I should specify that rather than actually reading this entire book, I read the introductory parts at the front of this book, paged through the bewildering array of poses, skimmed the pages on yoga practice for various medical ailments, and read the final pages on meditation and various types of yoga. I had just bought a secondhand copy of this book online and I wanted to have a quick look through it and find out what information it contained. I hope to get to know it more thoroughly as time goes by, as I'd like to begin daily yoga practice. I shall be 50 in August and I could definitely stand to develop my core strength and improve my flexibility. The Yoga Bible seems to be a good reference book on yoga poses, and a decent primer on yoga's characteristics and benefits, but it didn't have any suggested practice routines as I had hoped. I'll have to seek out a seven-day beginner yoga routine elsewhere, or perhaps devise a research-based yoga plan of my own.
Ruby and Roland, by Faith Sullivan. Some years ago I picked up a copy of Sullivan's The Cape Ann at a thrift shop, and it was so good that she's been one of my favourite authors ever since. Ruby and Roland is another of her Harvester books, all of which I own, but though it's a pleasant read it's not the best of them. The main character, Ruby Drake, born in 1898, has an idyllic childhood that comes to an abrupt end at 12, when her parents go on a sleigh ride one starry winter night and freeze to death after their horse goes lame. Ruby is first taken in by a German couple and then, when they suddenly inherit an estate in Bavaria (yes, seriously), she becomes hired girl to Emma and Henry Schoonover, farmers who live just outside Harvester, Minnesota. Ruby falls in love with her married neighbour Roland, and then develops a friendship of sorts with his wife Dora, who (much like her literary namesake Dora Spenlow Copperfield) is childishly unprepared for life as a farmer's wife, as well as devastated by the loss of her baby and by her parents' disownment of her, as they disapproved of her choice of husband. Ruby then has to remove herself from that combustible situation and try her luck back in her home town.
This book's prose is as beautiful as Sullivan's always is, but I found so much of the plotting of this book wildly improbable. Ruby is implausibly precocious and mature, and she has an uncanny way of landing on her feet that is not particularly realistic for a penniless orphan in the early twentieth century. I don't want to spoil the book's ending for anyone who might read it, so I'll just say I don't think that spending one's entire life cherishing a brief, youthful love is a literary trope that seems to be an extremely rare occurrence in real life. All the long-term single people I know, including me, are alone not because they're enshrining a lost love in their hearts but because they never met anyone else. It also seems to unlikely to me that Ruby would choose to live the rest of her life at such close quarters with a daily reminder of her secret past, especially when it might blow up in her face at any moment.
L.M. Montgomery and Gender, edited by E. Holly Pike and Laura M. Robinson. I've been a L.M. Montgomery fan since I first read Anne of Green Gables at the age of eight or nine, and have what I've recently begun to think of as an L.M. Montgomery library, consisting of copies of all her novels, nearly all her short story collections, her complete journals so far as they've been published, several biographies, and critical works about Montgomery and her work. I even have a copy of Aunt Maud's Recipe Book, a collection of Montgomery's favourite (and slightly modernized) recipes. As I get older I find myself more interested in Montgomery's journals than her fiction, but when I do read her fiction I read it in a very different way from how I read it as a child, a teenager, or even as a young woman. I recently bought this book new (a brand new book is a very rare indulgence for me!), and it was an interesting read and a worthy addition to my Montgomery library, giving me some new insights into Montgomery's fiction, which I know nearly by heart. I had never considered that The Blue Castle had so many fairy tale elements (i.e., a hostile family, a magical transformation, a prince in disguise, and even a high-heeled shoe as a plot point), or just how female-centric Montgomery's fiction could be (i.e., after Matthew's death in Anne of Green Gables, Anne takes his place as co-head of the household, becoming a manager, bread winner, and even (in the sequel) a co-parent with Marilla after they adopt Davy and Dora Keith together).
