More than a game

In its 43 year history the New Orleans Saints had never been much of a threat in the NFL. As a life-long resident of the state, I can tell you from personal experience that the Saints were, for the most part, a joke, an aside mentioned in discussions about The Big Easy. That’s all, nothing else. They were never taken seriously. Not ever, at least not in my childhood. That was, of course, until this season. Jokes no longer, they won the NFC playoffs and are heading to the Superbowl in two short weeks.

What many of you—and I'm speaking specifically to those of you who have no real concept of Louisianans and our past love/hate relationship with the team— may not understand is that the Saints being in the Superbowl is unbelievable. No, not unbelievable, more like unfathomable—unimaginable, incomprehensible.

We are headed to the Superbowl. That’s a statement akin to ‘I won the Lottery’ or ‘I just made the best seller’s list.’ It’s a dream, a fantasy, an inconceivable notion that has made many around me today mutter ‘Saints in the Superbowl? I guess the apocalypse is next.’

The thing is, for many of us, last night’s win was more than a team victory. Last night, New Orleans showed the world that though she has been battered and bruised, she was never broken. Katrina swooped in, the levees broke and the city became a tragedy, the paradigm of something most Americans watch happening worlds away, far removed from their pleasant realties. Something like this, just simply didn’t happen in America. In most of the world’s view— those who have no concept of the city’s way of life, her people, her culture, her history, her spirit— New Orleans was beaten. Her residents fled, many died. Childhood memories were destroyed, eradicated from tangible view. The vilest among her children seized the opportunity to wage war on the police, on the city itself, all in the name of brutality and indifference. People were murdered, some were raped, some left for dead in hospitals, some forgotten altogether. People died because the levees could stand no longer, because that laughable stereotype of ‘Louisiana politics’ was more than a rumor and our leaders had failed us, had failed the city.

Celebrities came in—some of them natives of the city. Some demanded help, demanded that rebuilding take place immediately, demanding to be heard, all the while trudging through thigh-high water with a film crew following them to document their ‘noble’ actions. There was a telethon, meant to help the rebuilding, used for some celebrities to cease a perfect PR moment, others to attack our witless president. Whatever the reason, whatever agenda initiated the Celebrity Do Gooders, the country came together, supported those made homeless, raised money for food, clothing, shelter while our state government began rebuilding. Rebuilding the levees exactly as they had been—preventing nothing should the city endure another storm of Katrina’s magnitude. Garbage piled up, crime rose, horrors occurred and capitalist in the city began giving ‘Katrina Tours,’ pointing out to hapless tourist the atrocities the city’s children endured, all for $25 a pop.

Still, among the returning residents, among the true city dwellers, her true children, there was a pride that would not depart. There was a burning love for the city that could not be squelched by river water, by violence, by the forgetfulness of their fellow countrymen. A love that showed itself last night. A love that could not be silence in the aftermath of the storm, could not be shaken by opportunist who lost their faith. That love became words, those word, a roaring cry. It said ‘we’re still here.’ It shouted, ‘we are survivors.’ It screamed ‘we believe.’

A comforting breeze came flowing through the Quarter, down into the mouth of the city, fluttering the trees Uptown and shaking tents at The Market. The city endured, as she has always and her children, the crowing mass of them, screamed out in victory, in the resounding bellows of power and mesmerizing joy last night.

‘We believe.’

It was this belief, not only in a football team that has made possible the renewal of New Orleans. It is this unyielding faith in the city, in her children that has endured. Throw water onto her belly and New Orleans will saunter away, unfazed. Knock her down and she will show you how a real lady handles herself. Believe right a long with her and you’ll see the meaning of true, unyielding fortitude, the heart of enviable strength.

Fellowship of Dunces

It isn't the company you keep that follows you. It's the way you behave while in said company that marks your true nature. The huddled masses, whether we know them individually or not, tend to, when one allows themselves to be labeled, invoke a category, an assumption. It's pointless to contend with those stereotypes, with those assumptions. It's human nature to make blind generalizations. Sad, but true.

I work with many people who believe in absolutely nothing. There is no God, according to those individuals. There is no 'fairies making the flowers bloom or the sun rise.' (Direct quote, that). Believing in nothing seems, for many I know, a necessity, a purposeful comfort that I can neither understand or, to be honest, give little thought to. The point is, these individuals do not believe. I, however, do. Thanks to others that claim my label, because I do count myself as a Christian (I can see you rolling your eyes...can hear your heavy sighs), I find myself, more frequently lately explaining my ideals ad nauseam.

Thanks to the Jim Bakers and God above Pat Robertsons of the world, many assume that because I have faith, because I do 'believe,' my mindset and ideology is equal to those yahoos that belittle, judge and openly condemn those who do not believe.

Robertson, last week when the earthquake happened in Haiti, found it necessary to say that Haiti was cursed. (Though playing devil's advocate I believe the quote was pulled out of some long ago given interview) His contention was that historical Haitians had made a pact with the devil to rid the island of the French. They would practice Voodoo and 'the devil' would get rid of the French. Of course, it happened, right? I don't need to explain Haitian political history, do I?

But, once again, I found myself defending my faith. My co-workers--self proclaimed 'Angry Atheist,' pulled a frayed thread and I had to respond. I explained that the Robertsons of the world do not speak for every Christian. Nor does every Conservative, every Republican, and God above knows, every Right Wing Politician, Talk Radio Idiot or even, priests or pastors.

I hate religion. I hate what religion has done to people's faith. I hate that murders and wars and bigotry and ignorance is delivered in my God's name. I hate that heresy is an excuse for execution or that blind belief is used as justification for atrocities. Religion kills people's spirituality, it, in many regards, diminishes people's faith.

I believe that the God I serve and His son aren't ironic in their dictations nor are they concerned with exacting vengeance. Simply put, I believe Christ was meek, caring, loving, forgiving. I believe that God created us, gave us free will, so that we could see His grace, understand His hope in us. The God I worship does not hate, does not want his followers to do so either.

I have seen miraculous wonders. I have watched life form in my body, have seen the miracle of it all expand and grow, evolve and strengthen. I have seen the terminally ill, cured. I have felt the indescribable love and generosity of my Father shoot through my spirit, cradle my soul. I have experienced power and majesty that I could not possibly describe. I have felt God's presence, have witnessed His splendor despite my sometimes cynicism.

I'm educated. I understand the theory of scientific explanation. I appreciate the quest for knowledge and the 'proof' of all of us being some amazing accident. But no proof, no theory can ever weaken my faith. No hypothesis could change my mind, break my spirit.

We are not perfect. We falter in our walk, in our daily experiences. We made poor choices. We lie. We are envious. We are weak. We are human. Most importantly, we are forgiven.

So when you see something on the news, hear some maniac spewing out hate or giving their opinion on sin or violence or why God does this or that, please remember this 'religious leaders' do not speak for all of us. Some Christians do love unconditionally. Some of us do not judge. Some of us generally feel loss and happiness just like those who do not believe. The difference is we take solace in our Father. The difference is, we try our level best to honor our Father's design. Don't let the hate you hear decide for you. Don't let the corrupt who wave our flag settle your opinions.

Don't let the few, speak for the many.

Where the Magic Lives

For the three of you who I have forced into sublimation (read: bully you into reading my infrequent blogs), I have an announcement. I will be paring down, significantly, on my Internet time, mostly those blogs and forums about the business of writing (and cyber stalking on Twitter). You see, I think I, like many other writers have a tendency to think ahead before we act, and no, not in the way you make think. I think a lot of us, particularly my fellow Pisces, tend to dream and wish without the very necessary 'doing' part of life.

We want, we desire, but we pull ourselves back from reality, from the work of being and doing what we want, in exchange for imagining and in some cases preparing for what will come after the hard work is done.

Take me for instance. Dreamer of dreams and a very lazy person at times. I follow agents and editors on Twitter to 'get to know' the business of writing when I should, instead, worry about the craft of writing. This has been my problem for several months now. I finished my novel last October and walked away, so focused on how I could sell it, how I could garner a modicum of attention, to have a few professional eyes pass across my pages. The problem was/is that there is a significant amount of editing that has to be done to that novel—I'm talking two, three and five drafts later, before I need to concern myself with all the rest.

Writing shouldn't be attempted for the end result. A story doesn't want to be told so its God Creator can be reviewed by PW or nominated for a Hugo. A story wants simply to just be heard and in the hearing, the story wants to be told well. I haven't done that lately. I haven't been true to those untold tales and random quips that bounce and dance in my head. I have suppressed their voices to the vanity of the craft, for the opportunity to move my career forward before I have properly prepared for it.

I think it's a mistake many of us make.

Writing isn't about the writer, not really. It's about the voices we hear (the non-clinically insane ones). It's about those characters that are vying for the writer's attention—those characters, those plots that simply want to be born onto the page. It is about not dreaming, but doing.

So, I'm going back to the beginning. I'm re-teaching what Dr. Gautreaux tried to drill in my head, what Bev tried to instill into my inattentive mind.

I'm going back to the story. I'm going back to the craft. That's where the magic lives.

I want my Sundays back, please.

I can remember being a kid, no more than 10 or 12, rushing home after church to plop in front of my gran's tv, anticipating yet another installment of the worst possible vampire films the 50's and 60’s ever produced. They were campy and flat and gruesome and gaudy and I loved every single moment.

There was 'Horror of Dracula,' Christopher Lee's and Frank Langella's versions of one Mr. Vlad and many, many others, most serving up much blood, little subtext and quite their share of hapless damsels. And then, of course, I got treated to Dark Shadows-where the tracks to Gothica were paved with melodrama and what can now be seen as Emo ad nauseaum. (I still loved every single second of it). I cannot tell you how happy those Sunday afternoons made me...sitting with my brother, eating popcorn, screaming at all the best 'gotcha!’ moments and hiding my eyes with my hands when the blood was a bit too thick or, of course, when a smooch was a big too long. True, there was an irony of sorts given that my Sundays were spent with both light (church) and darkness (the undead), but I fast became, during that time, a kid very eager for Sundays to come around.

I shared this love of vampires with my middle daughter and she, like her, mom has become a Halloween embracing, vampire loving, zombie cheering little fanatic. It's the camp we love most of all, the ridiculousness of the entire genre. It's the gore and the underlined motives behind every nefarious deed done by 'Those Who Walk At Night.' It is fascinating and frightening and now, thanks to the undead overkill given to us over the past two years, not remotely acceptable or even tolerable in publishing, television or film. The sad fact is, thanks to this vamp overkill, everyone is beyond tired of hearing, reading, listening to or watching vampires.

VH1 did their 'Best of/Worst of' list and guess where vampires fell? You got it...worst of. Like most things trendy, the media embraces then shoves said trend down everyone's throat, juicing up society on an undead concoction of sex and blood, making us choke on its bitter after taste.

What annoys me most acutely is HOW the vampire is portrayed in the majority of these treatments. With the exception of Joss Whedon (who gave us, at least, some brief peek of how cruel a vamp can be...and left us with a not so happy ending between Buffy and Angel), there have been very few writers or producers who can give the public, readers or watches, a true version of what a monster vampires can be. (Not discounting the Niles/Templesmith gore fest '30 Days of Night' that, at least, began with monster vamps).

No, now we have this idealized version of the vampire tale. The vamp himself, is at all times, sensual, exorbitantly wealthy, centuries and centuries old… (why OF COURSE he knew Noah, helped him build the Ark, in fact), usually European, because let’s be honest, there was really nothing all that romantic or mysterious about being American a thousand years ago…and, certainly, he is, at all times, increasingly turned on by that girl…that one small, average little girl that normally doesn’t even warrant a second glance. You know the one. The film/book is always about ‘her.’ She is ‘special.’ She is that one solo character, the somewhat mousey looking slip of a girl that, wonders of wonders, discovers she IS special…she IS supernatural and wow, she didn’t know it, but her GIFT will save the sad, lonely, centuries old vampire of her dreams.

To some extinct, Rice did it. In another very large one, Myer did it. The point is, vampires became the trend and that trend has killed, in the mainstream at least, vampire fiction. But I have a suggestion for those of you who are fellow vampire fans. If you happen along into the Big Easy (maybe for a playoff game, Who DAT?), take a couple of hours to venture onto The Vampire Tour. It will open your eyes and creep you right out. It will awaken you from that silly handsome, perfect, idealized non-existent character in that poorly written YA book and give you a feel for the true monster within the Vampire myth. You will question what you’ve just seen, you will blink twice and shake your head at what the city has seen happen in the past few centuries. You will be amazed.

So until the trend has died, I choose to write about fairytales…ironic, campy, laughs-at-the-stupidity-of-celebrity fairytales, but fairytales nonetheless. I will write about a secret land where characters struggle against their own limitations and the rule of others until my vampires come back. Until I get to enjoy a Sunday afternoon like I did when I was ten. I hope I’m not waiting too long.

Bad luck and a spoilery HBP review

It's funny how life happens. One minute I'm anxiously emailing out resumes because things had gotten THAT bad at my job, then I'm sitting across from my manager, hearing him say 'this is your last day.' I'm still not sure why I was let go. Maybe it was the recession. Maybe I didn't perform my duties properly. Maybe, and I think this is likely, my mind reading skills were not up to par. I don't think many are aware of this, but a uterus does not automatically equal 'mind reader.' Just an FYI.

Point is, I am no longer employed. That stings a bit, but pride is a funny thing and though mine has been bent, it certainly isn't irrevocably damaged. One of the many things I learned in my near decade in college was how to grow a thick skin and I can tell you all, mine is Teflon. I promise you.

So, in an effort to forget that I have much searching and resume sending yet to do, I diverted myself by seeing the new Potter film on Tuesday night. Now, I fully admit to being a Potter nerd. I adore the series and think Rowling deserves a chair on the Literary Lovers court and that she warrants the creation of a new, genius only, Super Secret Hand Shake. There is no shame in admitting that, is there? Well, even if there were, I would feel none.

The film, 'Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince,' in case you've been living under a particularly soundproof rock, follows Harry and company in their sixth year at Hogwarts. Harry has come into possession of a Potions book that enables him to thrive in the class. The first possessor of said book was The Half Blood Prince.

Onto all things spoilery:









On the whole, I liked it. It wouldn’t rank as one of my personal favorite of all the Potter films, but it certainly is the funniest and the most visually appealing. As a die hard fan, I took issue with a few things. Namely:

1. Harry’s attraction to Ginny is discovered once he gets himself out of the Weasley’s pond and begins to, wow thank you wondrous puberty, gawk at Ginny like a mystical peeping Tom. This, I thought, marked the beginnings of the ‘we’re playing very little attention to the blossoming Harry/Ginny relationship’ dynamic in the film. In fact, I found this to be my least favorite bit in HBP. In Rowling’s version, we are allowed a very subtle view of Harry’s growing feelings for the younger Weasley. It builds over time until it combusts when Harry and Ron catch Ginny in mid snog fest with her boyfriend Dean Thomas. We get a very slight version of that, but Yates’ Harry seems more concerned with being complimentary and friendly with Slughorn than with the fact that his future wife is macking down on her boyfriend in a booth at The Three Boomsticks. Later, when the audience finally gets a little Potter/Weasley smooch, it’s Ginny who has taken the initiative when SHE hides his Potions books in the Room of Requirement. Very un-canon, that.

The relationship is hinted at being a little more of a mild flirtation to the point that when Harry is crying next to Dumbledore’s body, Ginny’s attempt at consoling him seems more to be brother/sisterly. The chemistry and whole of the character’s relationship in the book is exciting, thrilling and felt through Harry’s every mention or thought of Ginny. That is not, in my opinion, the case in the HBP film. The relationship was played down significantly. Ginny never mentions her break up with Dean and therefore creates a small eyebrow raise when she kisses Harry. This is, canonically, a passionate relationship. In the film, we get a vanilla version. No post Quidditch Cup common room kiss, no Ron giving Harry a ‘well if you must’ glance or Dean breaking a glass with his hand. And, no break up. At all. No, martyrish speech on Ginny’s part about Harry’s ‘stupid noble reasons.’ Fans, particularly Harry/Ginny fans, got cheated.

2. The White Tomb is completely missing. No funeral. Harry doesn’t tell the others in the hospital wing that Dumbledore has died. Bill Weasley wasn’t attack by Fenrir Greyback, (who doesn’t utter a sound in the whole film), because Bill has yet to appear on film, unless you count the very un-Bill version that was glanced at in PoA. No lamenting Fawkes, though there is a very brief glimpse of him at the end of the film. No mermaids and the whole of the wizarding community visiting the grounds for Dumbledore’s memorial.

3. No real Tonks and Lupin relationship. What is included is a contradictory version of canon events. Lupin and Tonks are present at the Burrow during Christmas holidays, but other than Tonks calling Lupin ‘sweetheart’ we get no indication that they are a couple. And? She has brown hair in this scene. Nit picky, I know, but canon Tonks went all dowdy and depressed with brown hair because she didn’t know where Lupin was. Here, she went dowdy but she’s with Lupin? Consistency, Yates. Look it up.

4. Nameless Aurors are at Hogwarts, but are easily taken over by Death Eaters following Dumbledore’s murder. No Lupin, Tonks or Bill post battle.

5. Harry does nothing when Dumbledore is killed. He makes a small attempt but then is forestalled by Snape who shushes him before he climbs the steps to murder Dumbledore. Harry is not under his cloak or encumbered by the Headmaster’s binding spell. What is most annoying about this is that Harry can be perceived as a coward in this scene. The Harry we know and love in the books, had he been spell-free, would have never stood there while his mentor is murdered simply because Snape instructed him to stay put.

6. Snape’s exit was brief and unimpassioned. Utterly. He does not get angry with Harry when he calls Snape a coward. Very unlike canon Snape. He simply says ‘I’m the Half Blood Prince, mkaythnxbye.’ Rickman is a far, far better actor than this and it’s sad that he was given very little with this script to stretch those very beefy acting muscles.

7. Sadly, I hate to say this, but I felt bored in parts of this film. My children even commented on this. “Is it almost over?” That’s not good. Yates seems to be vying for the title of King of Awkward Silences and with HBP, he earns the crown. So much could have been eliminated that would have furthered the film along, so many things could have been added (canon details, for example), that would have made this a better film. Unfortunately, none of these were and we get a sometimes boring version of Rowling’s great plot.

Things that I simply adored:

1. Two words: Tom Felton. Let me correct myself. Four words: Tom M F Felton. Here Felton got, at long last, the opportunity to prove he knows what he’s doing in this little acting game. It is quite obvious that he’s been at it since he was a child. Felton was able to garner sympathy for Draco, able to put the audience in to Draco’s position and create some semblance of compassion for a usually uncompassionate character.

2. Won Won. The Ron/Lavender pairing was done nearly to canon and both Grint and Jessie Cave played well off one another. Cave especially showed us an obsessive, (I-Want-To-Wear-Your-Skin kind of obsessive) ridiculous, love struck Lavender. I adored them together and think that the display of ridiculous between Ron and Lavender was perfection. Many, many laughs thanks to Grint and Cave.

3. Felix Felicis. Hands down my favorite scene in the film. Radcliffe aced this one and had me, and my little ones, giggling for days afterward.

4. The Cave scene. Absolutely brilliant. I was not disappointed; I even jumped when that gnarled, decayed hand jutted out of the lake to latch onto Harry’s leg. Gambon was Dumbledore while drinking the poisoned drink, crying and wailing as canon Dumbledore did, ‘Kill me!’ and yes even ‘It’s all my fault. My fault.’ Kudos for this one because it was as close to what I imagined the scene to be while I read HBP.

5. Riddle’s past incarnations. A casting agent somewhere, out there, must have earned a significant bonus for casting absolute perfect versions of Ralph Fiennes/Tom Riddle’s childhood selves. Both, the youngest being Fiennes actual nephew, are all things creepy, eerie, disturbing and true incarnations of the boy version of the Dark Lord. The Pensieve scenes, though we are only treated to two, were brilliantly acted.

On the whole, I did enjoy the film. I wouldn’t claim it as ‘the best ever,’ and I have to admit to hearing many, many people bashing it as I left the theatre. However, I am aware that not all plot points can be included. Warner Brothers bought the rights to Rowling’s work and that means they have carte blanche with the characters and plot. I know this. I just happen to think that less foreshadowing, less brooding and more detail could have been included.

I’m of the mindset that Yates and Kloves— whose penchant for Hermione love and lack of canon detail annoys me endlessly— will have quite a lot of explaining to do in the final two films. What is Kreacher’s importance? Who is RAB? What’s the big deal with the horcruxes? Who is Prongs and Padfoot? Why is Harry’s Patronus a stag? Why is Snape’s Patronus important? And many, many more important— necessary plot points— will have to be explained since they were omitted from the past films. I certainly wouldn’t want that job. The problem is that Kloves and Yates did this film assuming that everyone has read Potter. That, unfortunately, isn’t the case. And, I swear, if Matt Lewis is barred from showing the world what a badass Neville Longbottom becomes in the final book, I will boycott every Yates/Kloves/Warner Brothers films ever after.

I did enjoy HBP, loved the humor, felt my heart breaking at the tragic ending. I do, however, hope when we see films seven and eight, the director and screenwriter would have learned the importance of bringing their A game. After all, Potter fans expect nothing less. It’s what we got from Mrs. Rowling with every single book.

Why yes, I am an English nerd.

I was never going to be a math wiz. Figures and formulas weren’t my forte, I'm very right brain, I’ll admit. I was never going to develop a life-saving elixir, not one cure for cancer or diabetes or anything near to being that altruistic. I am an English nerd from way back. Books, stories, plots, even the dissection of a sentence is like food for me…like a brain filling, imagination building gourmet meal.

I love metaphors and similes and all those silly little English certainties that most avoid or muddle through during their freshman year. I crave them. I was the girl in college—that silly, somewhat nerdy girl—who took English classes as her electives, who opted out of Basket Weaving 101 for Arthurian Legends taught by Professor Wow-She-Speaks-In-Fifty-

Dollar-Words.

Yep, I was that girl.

But I won’t apologize for it. I’m not ashamed. Being an English nerd gives you a passport to another world, or worlds as the case may be. It’s not an exclusive club, this Literary Lovers Alliance, anyone can join. Just pick up a book, grab a journal, click onto a story site and you are a member. Perhaps not a life-long, super secret handshake member (I’m pretty sure you have access that particular membership only when you get your MA in English, or maybe that was just my university), but you're a member nonetheless. The only requirement is an imagination and the ability to laugh as you read, (while ignoring the stares you may get), become engrossed in every portion of a story, in every emotional high and low, in every well thought out, purposeful bit of dialogue.

Ultimately, you must have to ability to become absorbed.

When I was in graduate school, I took a class, ‘History of the Book,’ I think it was, where the professor shared what he knew about how society went from Monks with feathered pens and parchment, to the latest Gaiman novel. We started at point A and ended at Z, very simple, a bit dry at some points, but still interesting. The objective was, however, to examine how words, mere simple words, had changed the world. See? It all started with English nerds or perhaps I should say Word Nerds.

Words are powerful. They can consume us like the sea, defeat us, flay us like the sharpest sword. They can also save us, they can transport us, make us feel, make us cry, make us fight and scream and laugh and love. There is nothing more powerful, not one thing more magical. Don’t believe me?

Case in point: John Trudell. He’s a poet and one time spokesman for the American Indian Movement. He was a speaker. All he did was speak. His only weapon was his words and the truth he believed. And for his words, his family was murdered. He’d been warned, in the county jail, to shut up, to stop protesting. Weeks later, after he’d continued to speak? His wife, mother-in-law and children were all dead because of words. Only words.

Another example? Have you heard of Harvey Milk? No need to list all the things he did, all the words he spoke because there is a phenomenal film just released that can explain it far better than I can. The point is, he used words as a weapon and he died for it.

There are others, countless others—Martin Luther, Nelson Mandela, D.H. Lawrence, Vonnegut, Dr. Martin Luther King, and many others, some of who are the reason we can call ourselves American. Words, my friends, simple words can change the world. So, respect them. Love them. Honor them.

In the end, when we’re all ashes, when the apes or robots or aliens (insert your chosen post-apocalyptic villain here) have taken over and memory of humankind becomes a fading myth, it will be the words—ours or theirs— that will endure.

Favorite opening lines of the past few years

In grad school, the Lovely Writing Mentor advised us to open a story with something that would either shock the reader, hook the reader, intrigue the reader or just make them laugh. When you get right to it, sometimes that simple task is hard to manage. However, during the course of my novice, 'no-one-will-ever-read-this-but-my-writer's group' constructions of some really bad fiction, I've been able to manage it. For the most part. Some, I'm very proud of. Others, not so much, but generally they run along the "tonight she danced alone," and "helen thought the man looked far too smug for his own good" variety. Not saying they're great or even my favorite, but I'm just paranoid enough not to pull out my A game, as it were, onto the blogosphere.

Of course, I have my all time favorite openings: "124 was spiteful." Despite my COMPs exam almost eradicating my love for Beloved, I recognize that's a killer opening and a great American novel. But the following are some of my personal favorites that have come about over the past ten years though they are in no way a complete list...I'd be here all night if it were. Some aren't 'literary' whatever the hell that is supposed to mean, but they certainly have gotten my attention, are from amazing novels that I have loved and in many cases, these openings have made the narcissistic writer in me hugely jealous.

In no particular order whatsoever. Feel free to add your own favorites, Dear Anonymous Reader, whoever you may be!

"Shadow had done three years in prison." American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Jude had a private collection." Heart Shaped Box, Joe Hill

"On the day Claire became a member of Glass House, someone stole her laundry." Glass Houses, Rachel Caine

"My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name Susie." The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold

"A man begins dying at the the moment of his birth." The Husband, Dean Koontz

"Mommy forgot to warn the new babysitter about the basement." The Summoning, Kelley Armstrong

"My mother used to tell me about the ocean." The Forest of Hands and Teeth, Carrie Ryan

Go forth and read these if you haven't had the honor quite yet.