A Dozen Female-Authored Books

About two years ago I looked over the list of every book I’ve ever read and realized, “Damn, what a sausage fest.” Much like the higher-ups at a tech company or a group of legislators signing an anti-abortion bill, my list of authors had approximately one female for every 50 males. I resolved to change my habits and started by reading ten consecutive books written by females.

Looking for a new book to read? Here’s a synopsis and brief review of one dozen female-authored books I’ve recently read. I consciously chose books that varied in genre, era, and style.

Harry Potter 7 – Still a Virgin

Thus begins the end of my Harry Potter journey.  4,100 pages. Damn. No doubt I will be sad once I finish this book, but for now I am excited and impatient to start! 

I started this series last June. I was supposed to finish it by the end of summer

 

Ch 1 – Well Malfoy family, looks like your house is now headquarters for the Legion of Death Eaters. Maybe you shouldn’t have been all in love with Voldemort if you didn’t want him and his snake living in your house and treating you like dirt.

Harry Potter and the Infinite Snogging

What was it like to read a Harry Potter book and then patiently wait years until the next book was published? I imagine that experience was just a bit different than closing book 5, making a cup of coffee, and opening book 6.

Ch 1 – Aha! So the wizard government and muggle government do communicate with each other. I’ve been wondering about that from early on in the series. (And now I’m having a fun time imagining Trump dealing with a high-ranking wizard official.)

Ch 2 – What?! Snape is dealing directly with Voldemort!? And he makes an unbreakable vow to keep helping him?! But also he’s in the Order of the Phoenix and has helped them too. But he gives good excuses to Bellatrix for why he only seems to be on Dumbledore’s side… Ahhh what to believe?!

So is Snape a double agent? Or like a…double DOUBLE agent maybe?

Here’s what I think the odds are:

Harry Potter 4: Less Quidditch, More Murder

In my last blog I vowed I would never use an online quiz to determine my Hogwarts House. Why? Because an online quiz isn’t a sorting hat and is therefore an illegitimate placement. Furthermore, I already knew in my heart of hearts which House I belonged to. Unfortunately we now live in the age of bullying and yours truly was bullied into taking the official Pottermore internet quiz. Surprise surprise. I’m a Hufflepuff. #hufflepuff4lyfe #besthouse #hatersgonnahate #badgerpride #rowthebadger

Superfluous “proof” of my Hufflepuff placement.

 

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Chapter 1 – Woah.

So I pick up book 4 and I’m thinking, alright time to trudge through these early chapters about life with the Dursleys. Oh woe is Harry’s life with the Dursleys. Yada Yada Yada – It’s the fourth book, we get it already. But no! It’s all like: secret intrigue! and Voldemort milking a snake! and Pettigrew killing some lady! and a gardener stumbling upon them and getting murdered! and Harry’s scar burning! and DAMN!!! This chapter is way more engaging than the previous beginnings.

Harry Potter – Two Decades Late to the Party

I once attended a wedding where my mother embarrassed herself and brought shame on our family by casually mentioning, “Oh this sounds like a catchy song, what is it?” We stared in disbelief. The song was “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)” by Beyonce Our Mother. You might be thinking, “Dan, what’s so embarrassing about that?” This wasn’t in early 2008 – it was four months ago! Somehow my mom went all these years without ever hearing one of the most popular songs of the decade.

Sometimes we find ourselves, either by choice or by happenstance, among the small percentage of people untouched by a pop culture phenomenon. My roommate has never seen a Star Wars movie. I once dated a girl who couldn’t name a single Beatles album. In 1996 my summer camp had a dance on the basketball court and there were three kids who had no idea how to do the Macarena – I still remember the confusion and horror on their faces.

The Album vs. The Playlist (w/Book Review – Interpreter of Maladies)

With Interpreter of Maladies in hand, I recently embarked on “A Return to the Short Story.”

…Although, I shouldn’t imply that I’ve been away from short stories. I’ve now set a personal record this year by reading three short story collections. Though they may not be as fulfilling as a full length novel, I do love short stories in their own right, which brings me to an interesting debate:

The Album vs. The Playlist

Book Review – Song of Solomon

Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison (1977)

1^st Reading: Fall 2014

Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993. As the most recent American to win said Prize, Morrison officially holds the title of reigning “Queen of American Literature.” (The Queen/King of American literature is something I made up but should be a for real thing).  President Obama* claims Morrison’s third novel, Song of Solomon, as his favorite book. Say what you will about his policies, the man has good taste in literature.

Book Review – Once Upon a River

As the saying goes, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.  Ignoring the metaphorical implications, let’s examine that phrase in a literal sense.

Example 1:

This cover has a boring old mountain on it. Is there anything more boring than a mountain with some dumb old clouds floating by? Maybe in Ansel Adam’s day mountains were exciting, but he lived before the invention of smart phones and color photography. One would assume this book is for dull elderly people seeking inner peace and tranquility when instead they could be out water skiing or following Phish on tour all summer.

Coming to Terms with Literary Sexism

Two notebooks were laid out before me. The one to my left listed every book I’ve read over the past several years. The one to the right listed the many books I intend to read at some unknown time in the future. I had just finished Ernest Hemingway’s “In Our Time” and was using these two lists to determine the ideal selection for my next read.

It was as I sat staring at these book titles that a disquieting realization crept into my conscience. It was soft, but unsettling nonetheless—imagine a late-night theremin playing from your attic and you’ll get the idea. But the more I examined the book titles, the more obtrusive the agitation grew. I turned away from my notebooks to analyze the contents of my nearby bookshelf. By now that small, creeping realization was no longer a soft theramin but a full drum and bugle corps marching around my living room. I was forced to ask myself a question:

Might I be a literary sexist?