One of the great things about blogging is meeting people from all over the globe whose interests are similar to one's own. I've been delighted, for example, to get to know several writers who are having wonderful things happen in their careers. Reading about their experiences has been both inspiring and educational for me, and many of them have graciously given me feedback on my own work. Writing can be somewhat isolating at times, so what a blessing it is to find and connect with other people doing the same thing.

J. Scott Savage recently signed a contract with Shadow Mountain for a YA fantasy series called Farworld. The first book, Farworld--Water, comes out September 5th. To help promote it, Scott is launching a virtual book tour via Planet Blog, with nice prizes (read: free advance copies of the book!) for participants. Go here to read more about it and get involved!

James Dashner is enjoying breakout success with his middle-grade fantasy novel The 13th Reality: The Journal of Curious Letters. It's well deserved, too; James sent me an ARC of the book several months ago, and the three older kids and I all loved it. In fact, The 13th Reality is our James's favorite book at the moment. Yesterday James (Dashner) featured a new and exciting marketing tool for his book on his terrific blog; I just had to share it, because I think it's super cool--a trailer for a book--who knew?



The production company for the trailer, Reel Line, has a fun 10-minute interview with James on its website (but James does give away a few plot points in it, so if you are spoiler-averse, don't go watch it until you've read the book).

Congratulations, guys! People like you who 'pay it forward' deserve every bit of success you garner.

I've mentioned before the superpower with which pregnancy curses me: an ultra-bionic sense of smell. Some of you thought this sounded cool when I did so; I assure you, it is not.

It is not cool to know exactly what is in the kitchen garbage can at any given moment.

It is not cool to be able to determine with precision what the person behind you in the supermarket line had for breakfast.

It is not cool to be able to tell from six feet away whether or not your kids have brushed their teeth yet this morning.

It is not cool to be awakened by the smell of old fish as the cat gives herself a midnight bath at the foot of the bed.

I feel assaulted.

In the very cool movie The Matrix, an artificial construct named Agent Smith (played by the fabulous Hugo Weaving) characterizes the human plane of existence thusly:

I hate this place. This zoo. This prison. This reality, whatever you want to call it, I can't stand it any longer. It's the smell, if there is such a thing. I feel saturated by it. I can taste your stink and every time I do, I fear that I've somehow been infected by it.

I know; he's a bit extreme. But I can identify, I really can.

Fine ladies in medieval times carried around scented handkerchiefs, pomanders, or ripe fruit to ward off the pervasive scents of the vast unwashed all around them. There's even an heirloom melon called "Queen Anne's Pocket," grown only for its rich, powerful fragrance (its taste is utterly bland; the vast majority of its volatile compounds are found in its skin, not its flesh).

Do you think anyone would notice if I wore a clove-studded orange around my neck on a ribbon for the next nine weeks?

From Teh Wikipedia:

A ruminant is any artiodactyl mammal that digests its food in two steps, first by eating the raw material and regurgitating a semi-digested form known as cud from within their first stomach, known as the rumen. The process of again chewing the cud to break down the plant matter and stimulate digestion is called ruminating. Ruminants include cattle, goats, sheep, camels, alpacas, llamas, giraffes, American Bison, European bison, yaks, water buffalo, deer, wildebeest and antelope. The suborder Ruminantia includes all those except the camels and llamas, which are Tylopoda. Ruminants also share another anatomical feature in that they all have an even number of toes.

I, my friends, am a ruminant. Not literally (though I do have an even number of toes); what I mean to say is that the process of story creation is for me a ruminative process.

I realized this yesterday. Poor Patrick was trying to have a phone conversation with me, and I kept dropping the dang ball and staring off into space. I had been thinking about an idea for a new story when the phone rang, and it was so intriguing that I couldn't keep my brain trained on the here-and-now. Chewing that tasty cud, chewing, chewing...what, honey? Did you say something?

There's a great scene in one of my favorite movies of all time, Blade Runner, in which Detective Deckard is using a computer scanner to examine a photograph for clues. It's a pretty crummy snapshot, but because Deckard takes the time to focus on different parts of the image, then enlarge and enhance those sections for clarity, he finds a crucial clue that allows him to solve the mystery before him. I realize that this technology is now used all the time as a plot device on TV shows like CSI, but believe me, back in the day (that would be 1982), this scene was unutterably cool. (It still is, in fact. Let's go pop it in the DVD player, shall we?)

Most of my story ideas come from dreams. The kernels of both novels I'm shopping around town, The Holly Place and ZF-360, were crazy, vivid nightmares, the details of which I wrote down in my Idea Journal as soon as possible after waking up. I'm the only person I know who enjoys having nightmares, by the way; all I can think about in the morning is whether the dream is a viable story idea or not.

In my experience, it usually is. Yesterday I wanted to start something new, so I went back through my Idea Journal and found a dream fragment from several years ago. The mystery and wonder of the original image grabbed me all over again, but it was only the most hazy of concepts. I methodically worked on the material--focus, enhance; focus, enhance--until details started making themselves known to me.

To work the cud, I have to get myself into an obsessive, almost trance-like state. That's when the process really starts to Flow. Of course, that's also when laundry, appointments, and family members run the risk of being ignored, because in the Flow, Time itself seems to stop and dilate. It doesn't, of course; it just seems that way, which can cause problems. Another problem is that the Flow is so delicious that it's hard to leave it behind and return to reality. It's the best drug ever.

I tell non-writers that writing is even more transporting than reading. Think of a novel that swept you away so thoroughly that you didn't hear the phone ring, didn't realize you were hungry or thirsty or exhausted, and when it ended you either wanted to cry or to start it all over again, because you loved being in that world that much. That's how writing is for me; that's why I do it.

And that is why I wrote almost not at all for the first twelve years of my mothering career. I didn't want to resent my kids for distracting me, so I gave up the cud--went pretty much cold turkey off that Flow crack--until I felt I could handle a more mature balance. Am I handling it now? I think so, but 20 years from now, my kids may tell their therapists an entirely different tale.

Now let me get back to my new story. It's called "The Summer Room," and I'm totally in love with it. Let's hope some editor feels the same way.

Today I'm taking a page out of thrifty Brillig's book and re-posting something I wrote back when I only had a tiny handful of readers. For those of you who have read this before, you have my apologies; I wanted to participate in Music Monday this week, and I didn't have a minute to write something new. The following is from February 2007.

Last Friday night I was driving home from Book Group. It was late and it had been snowing for several hours. I love being alone in a black night with snow; it always reminds me of one of my favorite paragraphs in the world, the last sentences of James Joyce’s The Dead:

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It
had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark,
falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on
his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over
Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless
hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly
falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every
part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay
thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the
little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow
falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of
their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Karen, Melissa, and I had carpooled to Book Group over at Camilla's house in Golden’s Bridge, chatting the entire time. On the way home, after I dropped off my two friends, I turned on the radio. I had for company someone playing the piano. I half-recognized the piece, but there was something so different about what I was hearing that I didn’t make the connection for a minute or two. Then it hit me with a flash: it was Bach’s Goldberg Variations. And played on the piano, not the harpsichord—but it didn’t sound like Glenn Gould.

I find it particularly appropriate to listen to this piece of music when the rest of the world is asleep. Bach wrote the Goldberg Variations for a Count who struggled with insomnia; the Count had asked Bach to write some clavier exercises to be played in the middle of the night, something to soothe and cheer him through long, sleepless hours. The Variations are named after the Count’s talented young harpsichordist, Johann Gottlieb Goldberg; I imagine the poor young man being roused from slumber on any given night to play for his patron, because the Count apparently never tired of hearing them.

The Variations were published in Bach’s lifetime, but for many years afterward were regarded as dry, rather difficult pieces to be played on the harpsichord. In the middle of the 20th century, however, a brilliant young pianist changed popular opinion of Bach’s piece forever.

I know Gould’s landmark 1955 recording of the Goldberg Variations as well as I know any piece of music. I’ve listened to it hundreds, maybe thousands of times. It has been a great friend to me, as the Variations were for the Count who commissioned them. But what I was hearing Friday night was so alien: haunting, personal, almost painful in its execution, where the version I know—lively, technically flawless—evokes a detached, peaceful mood.

Puzzled, I drove on and thought about our Book Group meeting earlier. We had had a intelligent and compassionate dicussion of a modern classic: Angle of Repose, by Wallace Stegner. Its main character, Susan Burling Ward, has chronic myopia when it comes to the life she has chosen; throughout her life, she compares her situation unfavorably to that of her best friend, Augusta. She doesn’t realize that she has within her grasp all the ingredients for a wonderful existence.

Her interpretation of herself, the reader easily sees, is faulty. She has, in fact, married the better man; her life of ‘exile,’ as she terms it, has defined and refined her work as an artist, not limited it. One woman in our group raised a question: How do you know when to be content? In other words, when you are in the middle of living one of life’s countless challenges, how do you stop looking over the fence at seemingly greener grass? It’s a good question, and an old one, one that has given philosophers pause for centuries.

After a lot of thought on the topic myself, I think the secret lies in our interpretation of what we’ve been given. Happiness is a choice; for some it’s a harder choice than for others, but it is there all the same. One need look no further than Victor Frankl for proof of this truth.

I myself have been given all the components for a perfect life: good health, every temporal comfort, lovely friends and children, meaningful work, and a dear man who loves me. But if I’m not careful, I can take the route Stegner’s heroine takes. I can focus exclusively on what I see as being wrong: my weight; brain chemistry that defaults to a baseline level of melancholia; the current state of our yard; the child who is misbehaving on any given day: the list could go on for quite a while, if I let it. But that interpretation of my life is a sure path to misery; I believe this is one of the points Stegner is making in his beautiful book.

Once home, I sat in my dark car in the driveway for few minutes so that I could discover the identity of my mystery musician. At the stroke of midnight, after the last few notes of the Aria died away, Bill McGlaughlin came on the air and informed me that it was, indeed, Glenn Gould playing the Variations—but that this was a performance recorded shortly before Gould’s death in 1982.

This was the same music played by the same artist I thought I knew so well. But the interpretation was so different that it changed the piece completely. Older, wiser, at the end of his life, Gould let his life inform his art and transform it; he put himself wholly into his work, and both were changed thereby.

Stop looking over the fence and start doing all you can to green up what you’ve got. Take plenty of time to rejoice in its verdure, and take plenty of time pay respects to the Source of all that is good and green. It is advice simpler to write than it is to live, but the secret to happiness is in the interpretation.

For more Music Monday, visit Soccer Mom in Denial!

1) All credit for the blog's new look goes to the über-gifted Kim of Temporary? Insanity. She's got a fun thing going with her Template Tweakings website; go check it out if you are feeling the need for a spring makeover. Thanks, hon! I love it. I'll figure out how to put my blogroll back on the sidebar eventually....

2) Christian got his braces on this week and played his first lacrosse games today. We had to get him some gear this week in preparation. His new cleats? Men's size 13, thank you very much. They look like Jaredite barges, I'm telling you.

Christian is loving lacrosse and looks very manly trotting around the field in all his armor while brandishing the 6-foot-long defensive stick. Ahh, my little boy. I'd better stop before I start crooning "Sunrise, Sunset."

3) All debate over the next presidential candidate should end now. Why? Because Tess has the perfect platform, set forth in a school assignment for Presidents' Day last month:

Here's the transcription, edited for spelling:

"If I were president I would help the poor people and I would give the poor food and I would give the poor children toys. And I would stop the war."

We're still working on spelling and punctuation, but note her correct use of the subjunctive. Now we just need to get an amendment passed changing the minimum age for a presidential candidate from 35 to 6.

4) I've been waiting for two years for iTunes to acquire Wire's 154. I checked today, and they finally had it! What a fantastic album; I'll have to do a "Music Monday" on it at some point.

5) The pregnancy is progressing miraculously well, I'm thrilled to report. Tomorrow marks the end of Week 28; by this time with both Tess and Daniel, I was on bed rest. Not so this time; I'm getting around with no pain, and while I'm tired, I've had enough brain function to write consistently and to make it to Day 81 (and counting) of the Read the Bible in 90 Days study program I started back on January 2nd.

6) I'm still racking up the rejections as I shop The Holly Place and ZF-360 around. In the meantime, I've been writing short stories and sending them out to various genre periodicals. This has been great fun! (The short story part, not the rejection-of-my-novels part; that part is really lame.) For anyone interested in writing sf/fantasy short stories, you simply must check out Ralan's fabulous website. It has been an invaluable resource for me.

I don't think I'll start another novel anytime soon; the short story groove is working well for me (for the first time in my whole life), and I don't want to commit to anything longer until after we settle into some sort of routine with the new baby. So, you know, that could be this time next year (or the year after), for all I can predict.

I guess that's it for now. I missed you all during my bloggy break; I think I'm back on board for the moment. Oh--and the post title? This is post #250 for me. Wow. Happy Easter!

There's a lot going on here; pardon me while I try to attend to it all. I'll see you soon!

Let me just get this out of the way: I don't love Bob Dylan's voice. I appreciate it on classic folk hits such as "Like a Rolling Stone," but his voice doesn't get me all goosebumpy the way Brian Stokes Mitchell's, Bryn Terfel's, and Alan Doyle's do. Dylan purists, feel free to sue me (be warned: I have a fabulous lawyer).

But as a pop songwriter? Bob Dylan is unparalleled in both quality and quantity of output. My respect for him approaches worship. It never fails to amaze me how great his songs are, how outstanding his genius is. I'll give you a couple of examples.

I absolutely adore the bluegrass band Nickel Creek. These kids are amazingly talented writers and performers, hopefully with a very long and successful career in front of them. But when their album Why Should the Fire Die? came out, what was the best song on it? Bob Dylan's "Tomorrow is a Long Time," by a country mile.

Solas? One of my favorite Celtic bands. They write great stuff, and they can jig and reel like nobody's business. But once again, when I first got their album The Edge of Silence, one of the two stand-out tracks was Dylan's "Dignity" (the other was Jesse Colin Young's "Darkness, Darkness").

Plenty of top-tier songwriters seem to agree with me. Joan Baez, June Carter, and Bono aren't exactly slouches when it comes to crafting a great piece of music, yet they've all chosen to record Dylan songs. Fabulous performers like Hugues Aufray, Robyn Hitchcock, Bryan Ferry, and The Hollies have recorded entire albums of Dylan covers. The breadth of Bob's appeal astonishes me: from Echo and the Bunnymen to Earl Scruggs, from The Dubliners to Waylon Jennings, they've all done some Dylan in their time.

There are SO many from which to choose, but after some soul-searching, here are my top ten favorite Dylan covers:

10. Olivia Newton-John: "If Not for You"
9. Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash: "It Ain't Me, Babe"
8. Bryan Ferry: "Positively 4th Street"
7. Buckwheat Zydeco: "On a Night Like This"
6. Felicia and the Hotheads: "Knockin' on Heaven's Door"
5. The Byrds: "Mr. Tambourine Man"
4. Sting: "I Shall Be Released"
3. Solas: "Dignity"
2. Nickel Creek: "Tomorrow is a Long Time"
1. Jimi Hendrix: "All Along the Watchtower"

Here's a Youtube 'response video' with Nickel Creek singing my second favorite. The melody and words are so very lovely; the song is pure joy. See what you think.






Visit Soccer Mom in Denial for more Music Monday!

When I had fewer kids and more energy, I would really go all out when it came to birthday cakes. I made Thomas the Tank Engine cakes; Dalmatian cakes; Cinderella/Little Mermaid/Sleeping Beauty cakes; cakes upon which intergalactic Star Wars battles were re-enacted.

Oh, well. They're great kids; they don't complain. Here's newly-nine-year-old Hope, last night, thinking up a really good wish while we sing to her.

And it's a pretty dang fantastic cake, I must say. If you are a serious baker, you must own Rose Levy Beranbaum's The Cake Bible. To make Chocolate Lace Cake, use Rose's Chocolate Butter Cake and Neoclassic Chocolate Buttercream Frosting recipes. Then follow my instructions here to make the lace.

I love to sing. Rock, opera, euro-synth-pop, bluegrass, and just about everything in between. I sing in the car, the kitchen, and the shower. I sing while weeding, knitting, and rowing.

But I think I love best to sing at church. One of my favorite memories of my mother is her playing the hymns--from the LDS hymnal and Sing With Me, the children's songbook at the time--on the piano for what seemed like hours on end, night after night. Because of her love for those pieces of music, I have a lot of our congregational repertoire memorized. This makes it easy to sing along in our church meetings even without looking at a hymn book, convenient for times when I'm rocking someone, helping with a sticker book, or passing out those cheesy goldfish crackers.

For my non-LDS readers: there's no paid clergy in the LDS/Mormon church. We all take turns serving in various 'callings,' or church service positions. Patrick and I have been married for 18 years as of a few days ago; for all but three of those years, Patrick has served either as a counselor to the Bishop or as Bishop himself, as he is now. Part of the requirements of Bishopric callings is sitting up on the stand, near the pulpit, and presiding over and conducting the worship services.

So I've sat alone for 15 of the last 18 years. Well, not alone for the past 14; I've had the kids with me, which is mostly great. Teaching children to be still for a 70-minute meeting is something of a task; there were a couple of rough years in there. But we've pretty much got the drill down at this point, thanks again to sticker books, paper dolls, and goldfish crackers--and the fact that the three older kids have actually sat and listened now for several years. So I'm not complaining about the way our Sundays are structured; we've made choices that I live with happily.

But I do miss singing with Patrick on Sundays. I'm glad to live in a ward (Mormon lingo for a geographical 'congregation' or 'parish') that sings out loud and strong; this worship through music is often a high point of our services for me. But as much as I love it, twice a year it gets even better: I get to sing with Patrick at my side.

(I have a basic, serviceable, soprano voice with decent intonation; I can also 'switch-hit' and sing alto, if needed. Patrick, however, has a beautiful voice: a clear, rich tenor-to-baritone, with lovely, dark color to it. I remember the first time he sang to me when we were dating; I was pretty sure I'd never get him out of my system, and I was right.)

Twice a year, we have meetings called 'Stake Conference.' (Wards are organized in groups of seven to ten into larger groups called 'stakes.') The designated wards get together for special two-hour meetings; sometimes leaders called 'General Authorities' fly out from Church headquarters in Utah to speak. At Stake Conference, the 'Stake President' presides and conducts, and the Bishoprics of the wards get to sit with their families.

This past weekend was Stake Conference. Joy! His arm around my shoulders, Patrick sat with me and we sang together, trading parts back and forth: melody-alto-tenor. We sing hymns at home with the kids regularly, but singing in a group of 1,000 or so people, with a great organist accompanying and the love of your life at your side? Pretty incredible.

Here's a video of the famous Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing an arrangement of "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing," one of Patrick's and my favorite hymns. We once sang this arrangement together in a choir for a special meeting in the Kirtland Temple, one of the most treasured LDS historic sites--so this video brings back another great memory of singing with my BFFP.





For more Music Monday, visit Soccer Mom in Denial!

Also Shear-jashub. And Dominic and Travis. Also Zanzibar Buck Buck McFate.

Because, you see, it turns out we're having a girl!

I tell you: I am a freak.

If I were slightly less self-aware, I'd be one of those neurotic, smothering mothers you see in the movies: the ones who can't stop fussing over their kids, much to the eye-rolling of everyone else. I have all the crazy impulses those hennish women have; I just clamp down tightly and don't let them out.

Christian is going on a three-day ski trip with the high school Ski Club tomorrow. The club goes by well-chaperoned bus to Vermont, stays at a well-policed dorm, skis like crazy for three straight days, then comes home late Friday night. Christian is so excited, he can barely stand it.

Me? Butterflies are tying themselves in knots in my squished stomach (remember: I'm in my sixth month of pregnancy, and the hormones ain't helping any right about now). Christian has gone away before, but only to Scout Camp, with tons of other church kids and chaperoned by dads I know well.

I trust Christian. He is an amazing kid. His good friend Peter is going on the trip, and Peter is as solid as they come. But part of me wants to order background checks on everyone else, kid and adult alike. I remember being fourteen; I wish I could forget.

I also wish I could forget things like that footage they used to show on The Wide World of Sports when the narrator would intone, "...the agony of defeat." Or the fact that nylon ski pants tend to melt and catch fire when hung too closely to a heat source. Or those vivid descriptions of frostbite from that book I read last year about Shackleton's ill-fated trip to Antarctica. Or the ridiculous and dangerous antics of some of the adult advisors at my high school (granted, that was in Truckee, last bastion of hippiedom). Or, hey, wasn't The Overlook in The Shining a hotel for skiers? Or...or...or...

At 5:30 tomorrow morning, I'll hug my boy, smile, and send him out the door. Then I'll take some deep breaths and try to muster up some shred of faith that he'll return to me safe and sound.

Can you tell how much I'm looking forward to sending him off to college in three years?

Not.

In 1984, I don't really know who I am. I'm 17, so maybe that's normal, but I've been out of high school for a year and still have no idea what I want to do with my life. My high school friends are all away at university now; my sense of identity seems to have left with them, and I'm not getting much in the way of new direction in my classes at Modesto Junior College. I'm very, very lonely.
For more Music Monday, visit Soccer Mom in Denial.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a classic book beloved by generations must be made into a film--or into several films, as the case may be. Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice is just such a book. A while ago, my dear friend and fellow Austen fan Annette Lyon and I discovered that we had widely divergent views on which is the 'best' version of P&P; we later came up with the idea of simultaneous posts highlighting the reasons why. Once you read mine, make sure to go read hers; thus our exposition will have been completed.

Unlike political candidates and Bible-bashers, Annette and I resolve to keep our pieces focused on the positive; we're both confrontation-averse like that. Besides which, neither of us expects to win any converts to our particular tents, as opinions in these matters tend to be steadfast and immovable. I realize that my position is that of the minority, so be specially careful and kind should you choose to comment.

I enjoy all the versions of Pride and Prejudice, from the 1940 Laurence Olivier film to the Colin Firth mini-series; from the Bollywood takeoff Bride and Prejudice to the movie we at our house call "Provo and Prejudice." My favorite, however, is the most recent: Joe Wright's 2005 production, starring Matthew Macfadyen and Keira Knightley. Now that I've shocked and offended many of you, I'll explain why.

It used to be important to me that a film adapted from a book conform exactly to the book; very few movies can meet this rigorous standard. In fact, Gone With the Wind is the only one that comes to mind at the moment. I have a different view now, because I have come to believe that film and novel are fundamentally different types of art. When I want textual conformity, I'll go to the primary source: the book itself. When I want an visual and aural evocation of the emotions that the book arouses in me, I want a movie that has stayed true to the spirit of the book without sacrificing the dramatic nuances unique to the medium of film. And it is Wright's fluency in language of film that makes his production such a masterpiece.

Joe Wright decided to set his movie in 1797, when Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice (under the title First Impressions), rather than in 1813, when the novel was first published. The 16-year difference changes things dramatically as far as the look and feel of the production is concerned. Because 1797 was a year of transition (unlike 1813, when the Regency Period was in full flower), a greater range of contrast without sacrifice of authenticity was available to Wright's creative team. For example, the Directoire (later called "Empire," once Napoleon came onto the scene) style was only just coming into widespread fashion, and only the richest and most fashionable families would have embraced it fully at that time.

Wright's costume designer, Jacqueline Durran, took this into consideration. For special occasions, a mother like Mrs. Bennet, forced to be budget conscious, would naturally have focused on making sure her marriageable daughters were dressed as currently as possible, she herself wearing her best-quality dress (into which she could still fit) from years past. The wide variation of styles the viewer sees at Wright's balls and social gatherings serves to highlight the socio-economic chasms between people like the Bennets and the Darcy/Bingley families.

I also appreciate Durran's genius for meticulous fittings and wearable fabrics. All the cast members of Wright's production look as if they actually live in these clothes; they are at ease and move about comfortably, instead of looking trapped in costumes. It is the most natural-looking of all period dramas--let alone Austen movies--that I've seen.

Other cinematic details add to the sense of the everyday setting that was Jane Austen's forte: crumbs on the table; genteel women struggling with hangovers; families living on intimate terms with their poultry and swine. These little visual clues mimic the written ones Austen gives us, and give us a mundane background which the timeless romance between Elizabeth and Darcy is then able to transcend.

Augmenting the romance at every step is Dario Marianelli's gorgeous score. He bases his melodies on some of Beethoven's early sonatas, while also incorporating traditional English country dances and a smattering of Henry Purcell (England's most prominent 17th century composer). Marianelli entrusts his orchestration to the young but masterful Benjamin Wallfisch, who also conducts the recording. The result is a lush, lovely wallpaper, the perfect backdrop for the internal and external dramas that unfold. I don't buy movie soundtracks very often, but this was one I knew I wanted to own upon first hearing it.

One of my favorite scenes is one in which the music--specifically the dance music--is the only dialogue. Darcy and Elizabeth dance together, making semi-polite conversation at Bingley's overcrowded ball; in the next shot, everyone else in the room has been magicked away, and the couple is alone, completely wrapped up in one another. It is a scene in which the medium of film communicates perfectly the chemistry of the moment, one in which words would have been superfluous and ineffective.

Wright's casting (as realized by Jina Jay) is brilliant, with one notable exception. Scrawny, toothy Keira Knightley would not have been my first choice for Elizabeth. But then again, I've never agreed with how Elizabeth has been cast in any version of Pride and Prejudice; there are some I actively loathe. When viewed comparatively, Knightley tends to be the Elizabeth I dislike the least. (Whom would I have cast instead? Perhaps a young Emma Thompson. But I'd cast Emma Thompson in about anything.)

With everyone else, Wright makes up for his error with Elizabeth. Casting actors who were the age of the characters in the book was important to him; his choice to do so points up well both how young they are and how young Austen was when she wrote the novel (she was 21, a fact that never fails to blow me away as a writer).

The actors fit uncannily well with my internal vision of Austen's world. Brenda Blethyn drapes Mrs. Bennet's dithering over a backbone of steel; she is, after all her fluttering and fits, a survivor. As Mr. Bennet, Donald Sutherland's distant affability and selective vision concerning his children is pitch-perfect. Rosamund Pike's Jane is an ethereal picture of shyness and guileless warmth. Lydia is embodied flawlessly by Jena Malone; her giddy snobbery and sheer youth make her behavior all the more shocking, yet understandable.

Tom Hollander never takes the easy route with his portrayal of Mr. Collins; we have a sneaking affection for him despite his pathetic pomposity. Simon Woods is simply adorable as the hapless and easily influenced Mr. Bingley. With Rupert Friend in the role, it's the first time Wickham has been hot enough that elopement with a penniless soldier actually seems like an attractive option. Judi Dench as Lady Catherine? It doesn't get more perfect than that. And then there's Mr. Darcy.

And it's really all about Darcy, isn't it? I don't know what male readers of Pride and Prejudice think, but women love the book in large part because Darcy is so very swoonworthy. In the 1995 mini-series, Colin Firth is eminently soulful. And once you get past the dated makeup and elocution, Laurence Olivier's portrayal can't be faulted in the least. But it is Matthew Macfadyen who most resembles my Darcy.

When we first see him at the Assembly Ball, Macfadyen's Darcy is arrogant, priggish, and utterly unattractive. When I saw the movie for the first time, I was shocked; I had previously admired Macfadyen's considerable charms in the British television series "Spooks" (shown in the U.S. as "MI-5"). He was so very ugly as Darcy in this initial scene that I almost hoped Elizabeth would this time keep her word in swearing to "loathe him for all eternity." An hour later, my mind was changing pretty quickly; an hour after that, I was a goner. As Darcy, Macfadyen's transformation from perfectly awful to the most desirable man in England is pure magic.

It's so magical that the final scene of the movie--the notorious 'kissing scene'--disturbs me not at all. Why shouldn't the newly married Darcys enjoy some domestic bliss on their fabulous balcony at Pemberley? For me, it completes the fantasy. Jane Austen herself reportedly loved to tell friends and family the further adventures of all her creations; I can't imagine that, after going through so much work to get them together, she would begrudge her two most famous and beloved characters a tender moment or two.

Hmmm, now I feel like watching it all over again...but first, I need to go read Annette's post!

'Brown' as in chocolate, of course. Ahhh, Valentine's Day: another excellent reason to eat chocolate. Today, my Valentine to you is the fantastic recipe that follows. Here's why I love it, my trifecta of recipe requirements:

1) It's delicious.
2) It's impressive to serve.
3) It's easy. Really.

I cut the recipe out of The New York Times Magazine at least 12 years ago; I say that because I believe Christian was a baby the first time I made it. I've made it many times since then--sometimes for Epiphany, with a clean coin hidden in one of the servings, sometimes at this time of year, or anytime I need something quick, elegant, and scrumptious (come to think of it, that should be nearly every day). It is adapted from a famous dessert served at Manhattan's Gramercy Tavern.

First of all, you need 8 small (3 to 4 oz.) heat-proof ramekins. Those tiny Pyrex bowls with the fluted edges work well, and you can usually get those in a package of 4 at the supermarket. Or splurge at Williams-Sonoma, or some such spot, and get the classic French white soufflé molds.

Chocolate Soufflés with Melted Chocolate Centers

1 tablespoon butter
1/2 cup, plus 1 tablespoon, sugar
2-1/2 oz. unsweetened chocolate
2-1/2 oz. semisweet chocolate, plus 8 additional chunks, approximately 1 inch long, 1/2 inch wide, and 1/2 inch thick
(don't use chocolate chips; use something good, like Green & Black's)
1/3 cup warm heavy cream
2 egg yolks
5 egg whites

1) Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Butter the 8 ramekins, then dust the insides thoroughly with the tablespoon of sugar (this step is key; your soufflés will not climb up the sides of the ramekins without the traction the sugar crystals provide). Place the ramekins on a cookie sheet and set aside.

2) Melt all the chocolate except the chunks in a heavy saucepan over low heat; watch it carefully and stir it well. Add the warm cream and stir until completely combined. Remove the pan from heat and whisk in the egg yolks and half of the 1/3 cup of sugar. Transfer this mixture to a large mixing bowl and set aside.

3) In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until frothy. Add the remaining sugar and beat until the egg whites form soft peaks. Using a rubber spatula, fold 1/3 of the egg whites into the chocolate mixture. Fold in the next 1/3, and when the mixture is well combined, gently fold in the remaining 1/3.

4) Fill the ramekins to the rim with the chocolate mixture, dividing it evenly. Place a chunk of chocolate in the center of each and bake for 7 to 10 minutes, until puffy. Serve immediately with whipped cream or really good vanilla ice cream.

Here's the fabulous news about this recipe. You can make it up through step 2, then let it sit (put the chocolate mixture in a warmish spot and put the egg whites in the fridge). Assemble the remaining ingredients and equipment, then have the rest of your fabulous dinner party. Once your main course, salad, and cheese have all been consumed and your guests are regaling one another with witty repartée, slip into the kitchen and complete steps 3 and 4. It won't take you more than 5 minutes to do it.

Have a wonderful day! As always, if you try the recipe, let me know how it works for you.

Example No. 1: Several days ago, I read Ex Libris, a collection of Anne Fadiman's essays, and immediately emailed several friends recommending that they read it. Like a beautiful jewel in a simple setting, each essay shines; considered one after another, the pieces create an aggregate loveliness that is even greater than the sum of its parts.

How disappointing it is to me to admit that my admiration for Fadiman's talent is heavily tinged with envy. It's not just that her writing is superb; my jealousy extends to her person. I've never read Homer and Virgil in the original; I don't live in a spacious and bright SoHo loft. I didn't go to Radcliffe College. Worst of all, I've never been friends with Mark Helprin.

(Many of you know that Helprin is my hands-down-favorite living writer. After hearing him read once, I asked him to sign all my copies of his books, congratulating myself all the while for my restraint in not dropping to my knees and kissing his penny-loafered feet. My love for him as a person is now tempered by my knowledge of his political leanings, but his writing remains pure magic.)

Example No. 2: I'm submitting a short story for an anthology put out by Shimmer magazine, the theme of which is 'steampunk animal fables.' (Yes, it's exactly that kind of crazy obscurity that really gets my creative juices flowing.) As much as I love the steampunk subgenre, it's been awhile since I've read any, so I pulled out two pillars--Gibson and Sterling's The Difference Engine and China Mieville's Perdido Street Station--to get myself in the rhythm of that unique world. Such wonder and ingenuity; such marvelous stories told in liquid and transparent prose. Instead of the inspiration I was hoping for, I put the books down with a sense of loving despair.

The Case Under Consideration: At last year's Readercon, Eric Van said, "There are two kinds of books that a writer reads: those that make you say, 'I can do better than this [crap],' and those that make you want to throw the computer out the window and never write another word." Other writers agreed. Some said they couldn't read within their own genre while working on a manuscript, while others went further and said that they saved all their favorite authors for rests between projects. If they read books they admired while simultaneously trying to write their own, they found themselves hamstrung, hopelessly blocked by the indulgence of comparison.

Writers are not alone in the comparison obsession; I've witnessed people of all kinds doing it. Children, women, men; doctors, painters, knitters; athletes, musicians, writers of computer code; cooks, bloggers, and parents. Each says to him/herself, "I can't [x] like that one. Why even try?" Or, with a shot to the ego, "My [x] is much better than that person's is." Either way, his/her own work suffers, because its creator no longer sees it for its own merits, but only in the relief it casts (or doesn't) when considered against someone else's.

If the work suffers, why would we risk short-circuiting expressions of creativity by indulging in comparison? What compensation is there for the loss of self-esteem or the false gain of a short-lived high?

(I have some highly metaphysical theories having to do with universal forces of opposition and the adversarial components of creation that attempt to answer these questions, but I won't burden you with them. At this point in my blogging life, I have a fair sense as to what will cause my readers' eyes to glaze over and their index fingers to click onward.)

Discernment is an essential part of emotional maturation. Having a distinct yet open-minded sense of one's likes and dislikes is healthy. We are taught to judge thoughtfully, to compare and contrast. "Write a 2,000-word essay discussing the relative merits of Shelley's 'Ozymandias' and Horace Smith's 'Ozymandias,'" our English professor commands, and we do our best to comply (and are graded on a curve for doing so). After we see Joe Wright's Pride and Prejudice, all our friends ask how it compares with Simon Langton's. Was the clam chowder at Ocean House better than that at The Oyster Bar? Exactly why are Huggies better than Pampers or Luvs? Inquiring minds want to know.

When the comparison is removed from our own realm of expertise, we can be passionate in our discussion without taking it personally. Which is better: Ted Nugent's guitar work in "Stranglehold," or Stevie Ray Vaughan's in "Voodoo Chile?" I can discuss the strong points of each virtuoso animatedly, but with a sense of detachment; I'm not a guitarist, just an ardent fan.

In similar fashion, excellent blogs like Radioactive Jam and Ransom Note Typography inspire pure admiration in me; their posts are so very different from mine that there's not much basis for comparison. (If, on the other hand, you are the owner of a blog on my blogroll that is not one of the two mentioned above, have no doubt: I love you, but I envy you, too.)

Is there a way for me to evaluate my own writing in a vacuum; can I hand a story to a friend to read without adding the self-deprecating caveat, "It's not Tolstoy?" My friend and I both know I'm not Tolstoy; why is it so essential to my pride that I remind her of that salient fact?

In the realm of hobby: can I knit a sweater and enjoy it for its own sake without wondering what Eunny Jang or Amy Singer would think? Can I enjoy the neighbor's perennial border without wretched feelings of woe when I look at my own?

It is when comparison is turned inward that it poisons. I take absolutely no joy in a sense of competition with others (no, not even when I'm beating you at Boggle). It's my goal to get to a secure enough place emotionally that I can appreciate the work of others without compulsively analyzing how it stands up next to my own. How to get there? I'm still fumbling around on that key point of strategy; when I puzzle it out, I'll let you know.

And if you figure it out first, please share. I'll be disappointed that I wasn't the one for only a minute, I promise.

For more Music Monday, visit the glamorous, globe-trotting Soccer Mom in Denial.

Eleven months ago, I celebrated the fact that our family had finished reading the Old Testament aloud together in this post. This morning, we read Revelation Chapter 22, completing our reading of the New Testament.

This year, because of Christian's high school schedule, we have less family scripture time in the mornings than we did last year: only 10-15 minutes most days. But a little bit, done consistently, goes a long way. As Zechariah says, "For who hath despised the day of small things? For they shall rejoice..." (Zech. 4:10)

I treasure our morning time. The family sits at our kitchen table bathed in the soft lamplight; Patrick, the older three kids, and I take turns reading verses, while Daniel and Tess look on in their picture Bibles. Hope's reading has improved most dramatically in the past two years since we started Genesis, but all the kids read with more expression and facility, making the beautiful passages come alive for the whole group. Jacobean English isn't easy for modern tongues and ears, but it has become much more natural for all the children since we began our journey.

I hope, however, that our scripture reading has been more than a daily elocution lesson; I hope the words are sinking deep into the hearts of my children, giving them daily sustenance and equipping them with divine tools to handle life's many challenges.

I can't read the last few verses of Revelation without thinking of the following piece of music. I've been lucky enough to sing it a few times; it's gorgeous.

It all started Saturday night, a time when no self-respecting plumber in the Americas will answer his 'emergency' phone. I went down to the basement to put in a load of laundry and noticed that the concrete floor under the washer was wet. We sometimes get a little water in that corner of the basement when it rains (and it had been), but something told me to open the door to the little bathroom that sits right next to our laundry area.

Tess was showering at the time; the waste pipe that runs from our washer to the main line was spurting some water out from under the cap. There's drainage in that area, so it wasn't too much of a mess yet, but I knew we had a problem.

"Houston," I said to Patrick when he walked through the door from some errands about a half hour later, "Come check this out." I turned on the tap to the slop sink so that he could see the mini-geyser-like action. He crouched down, hemmed and hawed, and talked man-talk to the pipe for a few minutes. I informed him that I'd already left a message for our regular plumber; we had some time to kill until we had to leave for dinner with our highly entertaining friends J&J, so we spent it leaving messages with other plumbers in the area. You know, just in case.

We kept hygiene activities to the barest minimum the next morning ("Take the shortest shower of your life," I admonished Christian as I shook him awake), and I knew that, between church and a luncheon at a friends' house, we'd be gone most of Sunday. I hoped that would mean we wouldn't have too much back-up to deal with, knowing that we wouldn't see a plumber until at least this morning.

We got home a little before Super Bowl kick-off time last night; our regular plumber had left a message (the only one who ever did), so I called him back on his cell phone right away. "Jack," I said, "I know you're just sitting down to watch the game, but please send somebody over first thing in the morning. You know we have five kids; you know how much flushing that entails." Maybe he sensed my panic, or maybe he was just eager to listen to Jordin Sparks sing "The Star-Spangled Banner." Either way, he hurriedly agreed; I rang off and got our game snacks ready using mostly disposable dishes.

I awoke at 5:30 this morning to a hideous burping sound. "It's the basement toilet," Patrick muttered into the dark. Christian, in his sleep-deprived haze (we had let the boys stay up for the whole exciting game), had forgotten our need to conserve and was taking a regular-length shower.

Yerrrrrrch.

When Jack's son John arrived this morning at about 9:00, I led him to the little basement bathroom. I won't describe for you what met me when I opened the door, but remember my pregnancy-induced super-mega-bionic sense of smell and my overactive gag reflex. Breathing through my mouth, I walked back out and asked John to give me a minute. He, in turn, took one look at the room and said, "You'll need to call our 'rooter' subcontractor, Al. I don't have the equipment for this." He gave me the number and left quickly.

I called Al and got his angel wife on the phone. At first, she said Al's day was very full, but when I uttered the magic words "five kids" (and perhaps when she heard the desperation in my voice), she had a change of heart and was able to schedule us for an appointment at noon.

In the meantime, I put my normal routine on hold. No dishes (still left from Saturday); no laundry; no exercise, since I couldn't shower. No flushing (Daniel, a.k.a. "Mr. Fastidious," really didn't like that). I got caught up on some other tasks and waited.

Al was great. He arrived on time, brought in his fancy drain snake with attached camera (again: yerrrrch), and had the line cleared in about a half hour. I happily wrote him a large check, took his card (which I plan to laminate and put in a very safe place), and sent him on his way--after hearing what the clogging culprit was.

Baby wipes.

("They don't break down," Al said, waxing philosophical. "I've seen it time and time again. Once you flush one, it's the beginning of the end.")

Who flushed the wipes, and when? It is a puzzlement. Daniel has been potty-trained for a couple of months; I can't remember the last time we had the wipes box out. And I've always known that regular wipes aren't flushable; every box you buy says so in prominent typeface on the back.

And yet, and yet. The evidence was incontrovertible. (Though I should say that I take Al's testimony at face value; I didn't confirm his diagnosis with my own eyes.)

The crisis is over; all that remains is catching up on the laundry and kitchen maintenance. That, and somehow steeling myself--or providing enough incentive to someone else in the house--to take a bucket of water and some bleach down to the little bathroom to clean up the remaining detritus. Jove's nightgown: I can barely stand the thought.