Have I become too picky?

Did some really outstanding books spoil me for the average good books? Does reading too much too fast change my view on literature?

Since my last post I've read 10 published books and none of them was worth a blogpost. There was not one bad book among them, I rated them 3 or 4 stars, and I'm sure that some time ago I would have liked them better.

I don't think I made bad choices. Outstanding books are rare. My expectations are high, maybe too high now.

Am I really asking too much?

An outstandig novel needs a good story, an intelligent plot without logical gaps, even if it is placed in a non-existent futuristic world. The plot needs enough twists and surprises to keep me turning the pages in anticipation and longing for the next opportunity to continue when I'm forced to do something else.
I want to read about well-developed characters I can relate to and with whom I can suffer, fear and/or rejoice. I want to know what's going on in their mind. I want life-like dialogues and believable behavior.

But all that is not enough. In addition I want it to be written in a unique outstanding writing style. All these above mentioned 3 and 4 star books are well-written in a way that flows smoothly, doesn't distract from the story, but isn't exceptional, just kind of unremarkable. I love writing with a wow-effect.

Who am I to judge English writing?

I'm just an avid reader. I can't name any criteria why a specific writing is better than others. There's just this feeling when the language reaches my soul, when I want to linger on a phrase because of its beauty, when feelings are expressed the way I feel, when people or situations are fully described in a few sentences...

I don't think I'm asking too much 

There are authors who have got the talent to write the way I love it.
Sometimes it's pure luck when I find one of them.
Probably they are to blame for my actual selectiveness.

This month I had the pleasure to beta-read Chris Brown's new book (I absolutely need to read his first one in this series, Dirty Tiger!)

On Goodreads I met some outstanding writers. I don't think I would have chosen their books in a book store or on amazon.

The first one I discovered was Peter Rosch. His challenging writing in never-ending complex sentences made me translate his book But I love you.

Then there's Mark Matthews. His dark novels about addiction make me experience what his characters go through.

Michael Lewis captured me with a short story. His skillful writing shows in both his untypical  love stories.

The voice of Anthony Vicino's blog made me read all his work although in a genre I don't normally read.

Will Patching is another highly talented author who combines psychological insight with thrilling action.

Looking outside the bestseller lists
All these authors and many more are not (yet) on the bestseller lists. I'm lucky (and proud) I have the pleasure knowing them and I'll continue browsing Goodreads for others.

Amidst all the average books out there, there are some jewels. We just have to find them.

First review of my translation

Well, I shouldn't be complaining: 5 stars and a short review mentioning the „well-done translation“.

But I know this is just a favour. We're working together, she didn't want to disappoint me. By her sparse comments I understood she didn't really like it.

Ok, it's not my story she didn't like. I didn't write it, I'm just the translator. But I spent a lot of time with it, every day struggling with the best expressions, searching the right tone of voice for each character, trying not to alter Peter's style.

What a challenge! Somehow it became my baby and I felt proud when it was „born“. I wanted everybody around me to read it – with faint response. Until now not even my children have made the effort. I didn't expect it from my husband – he never reads fiction.

So, I'm still waiting for a „real“ review.

This first translation was the realization of my old dreams. Now I've got a new one: to make this hobby a job. Dreaming isn't forbidden, is it?

I think that's what I should have done from the beginning: study languages and persue my aim at that time and become an interpreter. But a good friend who was studying to become a translator (of written word only) told me that all those students who went for interpretors had grown up with two native languages and that I wouldn't have a chance. I really regret believing her.

The dark side of literature

Why am I fascinated by dark creepy books about mental insanity, cruelty, evil, addiction, depression, suicide....that take me to places where I really don't want to go?

It's not entertaining, you can't call it a pleasure. - It's even some kind of intriguing challenge.

Torture, fear, desperation, sometimes it hurts physically, at times it is disgusting, sometimes unbearably sad. But I insist.

I'm not talking about stories with monsters, aliens, ghosts, witches or other paranormal things. I'm talking about the normal madness, books that feel all too real.

Depression is all around us, friends commit suicide, others are addicted or in recovery, we all know someone who has been in a psychiatric ward, we read about shooting sprees in schools, girls who have been kept for years in some basement ... That's the world we live in.

I want to see the whole image. I want to understand the twisted minds, the reasons behind. I don't want to close my eyes.

And of course there's the thrill, the suspense, the roller-coaster-feeling!

Here are some of the best books I've read last year from the „Dark Side“ that really stay in mind:

(The links lead to my reviews on Goodreads)

Addiction

The damage done, the most striking of all,  Milk Blood and

On the lips of children
are so extreme that I really hope that these things don't happen anywhere – but Mark Matthews has a way to make them feel real, and it's frightening.

Stray isn't as shocking as the others but very realistic.

                 And, totally different

My Dead Friend Sarah  by Peter Rosch.

Mothers and their mental insane sons:

It's a special relationship between mothers and their sons and sometimes love itself is insane.

Mother be the judge by Sally O'Brien 

The insanity inside by Theodore Andrew

House rules by Jodi Picoult 

We need to talk about Kevin by Lionel Shriver 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Insane minds

There are a lot more, but those come to my mind immediately.

Persona by Mark Horn who is a master of insane minds but this one is my favorite of his books.

The Roommate by T. Scott McLeod

Anti-Depressant  

by Clark Kline

                   

                  

Suicide

When my fire burns low
by Aslyn Foran

Escalators
by Danielle Tara Evans

The line between habit and addiction, between a depressed mood and deep depression, between exhaustion and burnout is very slim. And I know that depression is waiting for me just behind the next corner. I don't see myself as a potential killer and I don't think I'd be able to commit suicide. But the human mind is a fragile thing and I have fallen in some dark holes and I don't know where I'd be now without my faith, without Jesus who has always pulled me out of the holes.

Do I really want to start a blog?

Am I really going to start a blog about the books I read? What are the reasons that make me think about it? Do I really want people to read what I think not only about books? I don't know.

Perhaps one of the reasons is that NetGalley has declined three of my requests. I understand that publishers want to sell their books and are looking for reviewers with influence. I'm not. My eight friends and four followers on goodreads or my 30 friends on facebook aren't much of a public. My rank as reviewer on amazon isn't worth mentioning so why should they give me their books for free? No, I have no impact on the reading world.

Do I believe this could change with this blog? Of course it won't. Why should anybody want to read this, why should anybody even find this?

Maybe I think my reviews to be worth reading. But I doubt it. Maybe they are pregnant but normally too short.

I've read some really good books from nearly unknown writers who I try to support by writing reviews. But what kind of support is this if nobody's going to read them? I like to think that the authors do and I want to encourage them by giving praise to their good works.

I'm still waiting for this encouragement. Seemingly nobody wants to write a review for my first translation.

After reading a bunch of English books and especially after Peter Rosch's books without difficulty I got the impression my English wasn't as bad as I thought and built up the courage to ask Peter to allow me to translate his book But I love you.

Peter was the first author to contact me after one of my reviews on goodreads. I hadn't expected any reaction, I hadn't even rated his book with 5 stars, but he offered me a free copy of his second novel and asked me to write a review. It felt so good! Of course I read But I love you within two days and wrote this review:

 This is the first time I got a free copy from an author who is asking me to write a review. That's why I try to be not too short without telling too much.

About two weeks ago I read My dead friend Sarah – and fell in love with Peter Rosch's writing style. I'm glad that his style hasn't changed. Obviously he loves to create long twisted sentences full of sarcasm, details, a little humor and an enormous vocabulary (for me as Non Native Speaker quite a challenge). With two or three sentences he makes you feel the awkwardness of a situation or the odor of a place. It's really amazing. In My Dead Friend Sarah I didn't really like neither Max nor Sarah. In this book it also takes some time to get to know the not really lovable characters but you learn to understand them and to feel with them. 
Did you ever wonder what's going on in an insane mind or why, when and how an alcoholic is drinking? This book will put some light on it.
This is not a crime novel even though there are quite a few crimes nor is it a love story. Perhaps you could call it a psychodrama about unanswered love mirroring the insanity of our society.

In the end I felt a bit like Alicia: “Her emotions – half a dozen or more – were bouncing their way around inside of her, pounding from within, and looking for her to help them escape“ - just missing one crucial emotion: hope.

If you're looking for an optimistic or funny book with a typical happy ending make a different choice. 
If you appreciate awesome writing style and want to emerge in someone's mind this is a must-read!

During the following summer the idea of translating this book didn't leave me. And when I finally asked him he seemed to be thrilled. And I plunged into work. It sure was a challenge to translate these incredible run-on sentences. But it was fun! And I was so proud to see the result on amazon.

There have been other positive reactions from authors that are encouraging me to write reviews.

Patrick McCarty wrote :"You seem to me an exceptionally acute reader. I would have you read a book of mine anytime. You are an extraordinarily sensitive and alert reader. I would like to have a dozen like you."

I had written this review about Moonlight murder:

Truth be told, if I had come across this book in a bookstore I wouldn't have bought it. I never buy poetry, most times I don't even like it (only my own) – but there was and is this feeling that I long to read something different, not this „normal“ stuff you can find everywhere. So when there was this request for a review I took the chance. And I would have missed something if I hadn't.
The book starts with some poems. I must admit, that I do not understand them. I felt over-challenged, intellectually unable to grasp the meaning. And I blamed the fact that English isn't my native language and therefore I probably just couldn't intuitively feel the beauty of the text. 
But as it seems this isn't the reason.
As soon as I got to the prose the beauty of the language hit me with undeniable force. These beautifully crafted sentences absorbed me and I wonder how it is possible to create such an intense atmosphere by writing just a few phrases.
This book is like a museum full of wonderful paintings painted not in oil but in words. And while wandering through the rooms you're meandering the memories of a boy.
This book is not about the story although there is one, it is about the beauty of language, the joy of expression, the pleasure of reading.
Who is D.B. Wallace? Whoever he might have been or whether he has ever lived – he is a fusion of Dickens and Poe writing in modern language. I'd love to read more.

 So these experiences among others encourage me to start a blog.

But there's something else: I'd like to be a writer myself, always enjoyed writing, knowing I could never write a novel. I lack imagination, would never be able to compose an interesting story. The only thing I really can write about is myself and I doubt this would be interesting enough.

Maybe that's why I started to write about my reading experience. Ultimately that's writing about me.