There and Back Again

I had an unexpected separation from my computer. A part of it self-destructed a week and a half ago. It was sad, for both of us . . .

Having been away for awhile, I feel all at bits and pieces, having lost the thread of my blog thoughts.

I did, though, finish Philippa Pearce's non-spooky stories. I decided to wait before proceeding with the spooky ones, for one reason: The non-spooky stories scared the bejeeus out of me. In every story Pearce waltzes her children (her character children) right up to the edge of danger. Right up to the point where my stomach starts to seize and my breath leaves. I am guessing most readers would not have that reaction (I am a full-fledged weenie) as the dangers are really just ordinary ones, the typical things that kids do without thought, but which adults know could go terribly awry. She grants her characters that respect, though, letting them stumble their way across the sharp, jagged landscape of the world. She does not save them from what they must experience.

I should make clear, though (for other weenies) that none of her children come to actual harm. All exit their particular story safe and intact. What they do not escape is the dawning realization that they are mortal, and that their own actions can bring about destruction. No small cheese, that.

Pearce accomplishes all of this masterfully, with a quiet, subtle touch. I, trying the same thing, would have used a sledge hammer. Sad.

On another matter, I have not seen the baby turtle again. Not that I expected to. But I am careful where I step now when I pass that strip of woods, knowing what could be underfoot.

The Unbearable Blight of Newness

Being new to anything can be painful. I am new to blogging. This might not be pretty.

I am reading a collection of short stories by Philippa Pearce, Familiar and Haunting, which came out in 2002. Part regular stories, part spooky stories. I am still in the regular story part of the book.

I immediately felt at ease, safe and secure. That is because I am in the hands of a good writer. I might not like each story (though so far I do) but I know that authorial competance will carry the weight. I am not sure why I need this safety feature in the books I read. Perhaps because I don't have to squirm over poorly placed words, or anxiously compare my own work (favorably or not) to the book in question, or fear that boredom will drive me to discard it. At any rate, I am in a cool, comfortable spot right now, reading Philippa and not worrying about anyone else's writing, including my own. I think she died recently, but am not positive. I am comfortable with that, too, though, at least at the moment, because she left such a fine legacy. Unless she is still here, in which case I feel even better.

The copyright on some of these stories goes back to 1959, though newer dates take a bow as well. I am an expert on exactly nothing, but wonder if such quiet, glancing stories would find a market today. I am doubtful. They present enormously strong children, steeped in that wonderful British wash of adult-like expectation (if that makes any sense) but there are no pyrotechnics.

I'm enjoying them, though, so right now that is enough for me. I'll elbow any kid out of the way when it comes to a good book!