Nom de Plume

I slung my briefcase over my shoulder this morning, whistled for the dog, and commuted down the alley.

This white thing is the official Chez Munshi Shack:

Admittedly, every time I come to the front door, I feel like I’m being incarcerated:

But it’s not so bad when you walk in:

Hard at work:

Within 20 minutes of moving out of my office–and we’re talking about before my body heat even dissipated, Mr. Demo started his favorite thing.

I still have to get curtains up, finish hanging pictures, rearrange rugs, etc. But it’s starting to be quite habitable.

I read this while we were in Rockford over Thanksgiving, and to be honest, I can’t remember that much about it except for the fact that the protagonist’s aunt used laurel soap, which sounded lovely and refreshing, and reminds me that I want to order some laurel essential oil to make the soap for myself.

Now that I’ve refreshed my memory, I do remember this. It was your typical coming-of-age story, only it centers around a Syrian girl growing up in 1970s Indianapolis. She starts out as a strict Muslim, finds she needs to go outside her community and religion to find herself, and ends up striking a happy medium. Blah blah. Sections of the book were howlingly funny–I remember chuckling on the plane–but Kahf lost me on long passages of political and religious commentary. It was one of those books in which you ask yourself, “Okay, now that she’s written about herself, where does she go from here?”

Which is all to say that this was okay, but nothing spectacular.

Arthur Blume is a mediocre creative writing professor–and an accomplished serial murderer. The novel takes the form of his “true record” after he has been caught and is in prison; Blume is outraged that he is depicted as a monster even though he calmy states that he has killed 17 people and attempts to set the record straight. Alternating between his childhood with a psychotic mother and the story that precipitates his being arrested, it’s well-paced and thoroughly creepy. Blume is a cold, punctilious man, yet we still have sympathy for him. Ironically, it is Kinder’s success in depicting him that brings her into dangerous territory; it invites comparisons to that ultimate in sympathetic villainy, Humbert Humbert. And of course, one loses. His voice sometimes falters too, particularly when it comes to talking about women, and I couldn’t help but imagine the author sitting at a desk at a loss for words. Indeed, the footnote explaining the typical behaviors of serial killers shed a better light than his own explanation. But credit where credit is due: It must be hard to get into character, and 90 percent of the time, this is convincing.

I think this might be the year that I get back into blogging regularly. I kind of lost patience last year, for a variety of reasons. But now I have a new three-column template that I’m finally happy about (except for the fact that it has fixed columns)–and I’ve decided that I’m going to start posting book reviews again. And of course, I have this huge backlog that looms larger every week. So first, I need to play some catch up.

Last year, there was a plethora of books about England, starting with Edward Rutherford. He writes these long, sprawling tomes that span centuries. They’re a little like Valerie Anand’s Bridges of Time series , only in a single volume. I started with The Forest, continued with Sarum, plodded through London, and then lost all patience with The Princes of Ireland: The Dublin Saga (which I include here despite the fact that it’s not England). Reading these is fun and like a little history refresher–but they’re also disjointed because they consist of a story in this time period, then a story in the next, and so on. Some of the sections are really short, and I often felt that just as I was getting into them, they were over.

Anyway, I then read my way through a whole bunch more books set somewhere in the long span of English history. Philippa Gregory, Diane Norman, and so on and so forth. They were fun and entertaining, but not really much more than that.

Two stand out.

First, Tom Bedlam: A Novel (George Hagen), which tells the improbable, but no less compelling for it, story of a Victorian boy who starts out as the son of a factory worker who is plucked from obscurity by his grandfather, educated, sent to medical school, and eventually ends up in South Africa. I enjoyed this Dickensian story mainly because I really grew to like the characters. It didn’t even bother me that Tom’s later years aren’t nearly as informed by his early ones as they should have been.

Second, Mistress of the Art of Death (Ariana Franklin), which managed to be both a thriller and historical novel–as well as surprisingly literate for either genre because it starts off with a twist on the Canterbury Tales. When children are brutally murdered, people start accusing the Jews–auguring ill for the crown’s coffers. Henry II sends off the Salerno for the best coroner in order to determine who the murderer really is. And instead of a man, they get a woman. The 25-year old Adelia sets of for England under some duress, and she finds the place to be brutal. England is not sure what to make of her either. Of course, she solves the mystery, finds some love along the way, and pretty much every other plot point required–but this was very fun and truly a joy to read.

of my home office.

I’ve had such fun saying that with a pregnant pause and watching the perplexity on people’s faces because I sound so happy about it.

He’s been making this push for a couple of months, and I’ve been resisting. About a month ago, we were sitting in the hot tub, and he brought it up again. I, as usual, resisted. But he was getting more and more frustrated. First, our house is small and he feels cramped, because he really doesn’t have a place of his own. Which is completely fair. Second, his Mr. Demo-ness has been thwarted, because more than anything, he wants to start tearing into the walls in the bedrooms–and he can’t when one is a bedroom and one is my office.

The thing is, 90 percent about what I like about working for myself is being here–being able to work, then futz around the house, work some more, run errands, go to the gym, whatever. He kept on saying that I need to get over that … and drive somewhere. That was a complete non-negotiable for me. If I had to drive somewhere, I’d still end up working from home–only much less comfortably.

What to do?

I was driving home one day and passed the shack right around the corner that’s been for rent for ages. A light bulb went off.

Long story short, the owner has rented it to me. He’s thrilled to get someone with good credit who won’t deface the walls. I’m thrilled that my commute now consists of walking down the alley. It’s a great solution all the way around. And while the house is nothing on the outside, it’s perfectly functional on the inside. Nothing special, but I’m feeling pretty spoiled that I’ve managed to get a 770 square foot house for about the cost of renting a decent office somewhere (if not less). It’s a great solution on a variety of fronts. First, it’s an office space. Second, it has two bedrooms. I can sublet one if I want, and anyone who comes to stay with us can stay down there. Third, it has a kitchen that I can devote to soaping.

I’m in the process of moving this week; should be completely set up next. Will post pix soon.

NOOOOOOOO…..

Now I don’t sell soap, but wouldn’t these be great Pug Sudz product shots?

Mr Demo didn’t like the old windows he installed, so he put in new ones. It’s hard to tell from my pictures, but this is a huge improvement. I didn’t even mind the old ones, but then again, I didn’t have the vision. As I keep being reminded.

And while I’m uploading pictures, here’s a snap of Harry on Christmas. The ribbon traumatized him.

So, you want to start making soap? Well, here’s how NOT to do it. These poor, sweet guys are completely clueless, and I don’t know whether to just laugh my way through these or be scared by the fact that they lack basic safety precautions. Oh, what the heck, let’s just laugh … especially since they never actually get their soap to trace and all the effort was for naught.