MotherReader

The Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie opens today, and in tribute here is a review — of the book. Or more accurately, of the book about the making of the movie, brought to you by TeenReader.

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The Wimpy Kid Movie Diary, by Jeff Kinney, talks about the process of making a movie, starting with the earliest discussions, to the casting, and through the entire filmmaking process. While Kinney comes in with little quips and lots of cartoons, overall the book is more interesting than funny. The best thing, from my perspective is the main point: It’s hard to make a movie. Being involved with our short films so much, it drives me crazy when people dismiss the hours of work it takes to make even a short film. Most people just don’t get it.

However, we don’t judge books based on how much we agree with them. I feel that this book still embodies the “Wimpy Kid” style without the wimpy kid story. You can tell that Kinney is enthusiastic about the topic, and his writing conveys the subject in a way kids will understand. He also focuses heavily on the actors for Greg, Rowley, and the other child characters. These actors allow kids to relate to the book, as well as the process of filmmaking. It also helps that the actors are actually the right age range for these books and the characters they are portraying. Brilliant concept, Hollywood.

The Wimpy Kid Movie Diary explains the “glamorous” process of filmmaking to kids, and they don’t even know they’re learning (an overly-clichéd and often inacurate statement that I feel truly is relevant in this case)! I think that this will be a very enjoyable movie, if not Oscar-worthy, and the book itself is a fun, quick — and yes, educational — read.

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MotherReader here. I also read and enjoyed the book. TeenReader has it spot on when she says that the value of the title is its detailed description of filmmaking in a way that is accessible and interesting for kids. Or really, for adults too, because I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a book that shows the amazing amount of work that goes into making a movie. I know from experience in our own smaller-scale capacity that it takes an entire day to shoot about five minutes of film. Speaking of which, we’ve just signed up for another 48 Hour Film Project for the weekend of May 1st. Bill would hate it, but I kind of hope we draw Musical.

FatherReader here. While I share a degree of MotherReader’s enthusiasm for children’s literature — and have been thrilled to make a few friends in the kidlit world — my bailiwick is more in the area of film (as both a viewer and a successful independent filmmaker, so long as you aren’t too strict in defining “successful”). In any case, it’s rare that I feel I have any particular insight to offer here (and after today’s entry, you may very well concur). But she thought this might be an opportunity to provide a little crossover commentary — specifically, some thoughts on Tim Burton’s latest, Alice in Wonderland.

If ever there were a pair of creative minds well suited to work in conjunction, they would be Lewis Carroll and Tim Burton. That’s not to say that Burton’s film is by any stretch a “faithful adaptation” of Carroll’s work, but more that Burton’s sensibility is uniquely appropriate to interpreting Carroll’s off-kilter imaginings. The film (which is positioned as more a continuation of the Alice stories than a direct adaptation) does fall prey to some of the same flaws that have afflicted earlier works — treating Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There as though they were a single narrative, combining the Queen of Hearts and the Red Queen into an amalgam character, and so on. In fact, one could argue that it owes more to past adaptations than to the original books — though from a filmmaker’s perspective, there may be more to be gained by tapping into our collective memory of the stories than by adhering closely to the stories themselves. Which goes to illustrate the overriding truth of filmmaking (and the bane of literary purists everywhere): For good or ill, filmmaking is a director’s medium, not a writer’s.

There are those who love Burton’s style, and those who abhor it, though for the most part Burton doesn’t often polarize audiences; many find his films enjoyable but are neither enthused nor repulsed. (MR probably falls somewhere in the middle of the latter group — though she was clear that she had no desire to see Alice; while she enjoys the occasional weird-ass picture book, she’s a little more conventional in her movie choices.) I lean toward the fan side of the equation, but several of his films I find merely entertaining. I thought Beetlejuice and Edward Scissorhands were brilliant, but Charlie and the Chocolate Factory somewhat less inspiring. I loved his Batman films at the time of their release (there are no doubt blackmail-worthy photos floating around somewhere), but find they don’t quite hold up over time. (We will studiously avoid any mention Planet of the Apes, which bears no sign of being a Tim Burton film at all.)

But Burton is certainly a visionary — in the sense that all of his films (with the exception of the film-that-shall-not-be-mentioned) bear his indelible imprint. And in this regard, Carroll’s work would seem to be an ideal jumping-off point for Burton’s particular brand of lunacy. In fact, one can imagine Burton embracing the maxim “We’re all mad here” as his own personal mantra. So the question — from a filmmaker’s perspective — becomes not whether this outing brings Carroll’s vision to the screen, but whether the inspiration of Carroll’s writing serves Burton’s vision. (That said, this audience being a more literarily-minded group, I certainly welcome your thoughts and counterarguments in the comments.)

In that regard, I would answer affirmatively, arguing that Alice stands along with Edward Scissorhands as absolutely emblematic of Burton’s oeuvre. While it may not be possible to translate Carroll’s linguistic brilliance into any other medium, Burton uses that language to at least emulate the feeling of being in a dream world — where things make a vague sort of sense, but remain just bizarre enough to be confusing. Criticisms that Burton takes what shouldn’t make sense and provides too coherent a narrative (providing very clear objectives for the characters, interweaving the “Jabberwocky” poem more explicitly into the main story arc, and the like) may have some merit, but I for one found myself suitably disoriented throughout.

Unlike writing (editorial assistance aside), filmmaking is a collaborative medium, though in this case the director’s hand remains evident across the board. The casting — in terms of both the selection of appropriate actors and the consistent direction of performances — is pure Burton. Johnny Depp is delightfully batty as the Mad Hatter, Mia Wasikowska provides an ideal blend of youthful innocence and post-adolescent defiance to Alice, and Helena Bonham-Carter positively steals the show as the Red Queen/Queen of Hearts — and that’s saying nothing about the stellar turns by Stephen Fry and Alan Rickman as the Cheshire Cat and Blue Caterpillar respectively (of all the performances, I felt only Anne Hathaway’s as the White Queen fell a bit flat). The exaggerated design — while certainly paying homage to John Tenniel’s classic illustration (and Disney’s animated work) — is straight out of Burton’s gloriously askew imagination. And the story — aforementioned coherence notwithstanding — very effectively illustrates Burton’s themes on balancing responsibility and individual choice (and the benefits of a healthy dose of madness).

In all, I found the film eminently watchable, and imbued with far greater intelligence — in no small part thanks to the genius of the source material — than most popular entertainment. The 3D effects are not merely a gimmick (though there are certainly a few “3D shot” moments), but serve the larger goal of immersing the viewer in the dream-like world of Wonderland (or “Underland,” as it’s more properly dubbed in the film). And though it does take substantial liberties with Carroll’s stories, it hardly appears to desecrate the spirit of the originals.

But let’s not leave my word as the final determination — chime in and add your own thoughts. If we get a particularly lively conversation out of it, I may tackle Guy Richie’s more explicitly revisionist Sherlock Holmes.

MotherReader’s off at the beach with the girls for a few days, leaving me — FatherReader — to hold down the fort. Normally, we wouldn’t make a special effort to post in her absence, but this week saw a poetry event that we couldn’t let pass by unheralded (though I fully suspect that others will highlight the same “poem”).

Were you left thinking that Sarah Palin’s farewell speech was a bizarre, rambling, incoherent mess? Far from it! Those with abilities sufficient to grasp Palin’s true depth as a communicator would instantly point out that it was poetry! And to make sure that’s eminently clear, we bring you, straight from The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien, master thespian William Shatner reading Sarah Palin’s farewell speech. Enjoy!


Of course, that’s not the end of it. As Sarah Palin has been posting regularly on her Twitter account, there’s a whole new wealth of material — material that O’Brien and Shatner are only too happy to highlight:


This week’s Poetry Friday roundup is over at Poetry for Children. Be sure to check it out — and check back here soon for MotherReader’s triumphant return.

“FatherReader” here — one of the advantages of being the site’s editor is that I have full posting privileges, and can add messages without MotherReader’s approval or authorization. I just wanted to add my own thanks to everyone who participated in this year’s 48 Hour Book Challenge — the turnout was far greater than we ever could have expected, and everyone who joined in deserves special recognition.

But mostly, I wanted to congratulate MotherReader on all the hard work she’s put in on the competition. For something that started as just a “Hey, wouldn’t it be neat to see how much my blog-friends and I could read in 48 hours?” notion has really blossomed into a seminal kidlitosphere event. The downside, of course, is that the amount of preparation and coordination involved has gone through the roof. I know that — even with the event officially “over” — Pam spent the entire day yesterday checking blogs, running tallies, and otherwise wrapping things up in a neat little bow (and with my day booked at work, I couldn’t even pitch in to help out).

And for the record, yesterday was also Pam’s birthday — which just goes to show you how much a labor of love this really is. (Not having time to go out for a formal birthday dinner, we settled for a quiet meal at home — Baja Fresh carryout and a couple of old episodes of The Office — but we’ll plan to go out soon.)

Congratulations, Pam, and thanks! (Oh, and happy birthday, too!)

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

FatherReader and KidReader here...

I’m not “KidReader” anymore. It’s TeenReader now.

What?

I said, I’m TeenReader.

Yeah, I heard you, I just... oh, never mind. Anyway, we both just read Barry Lyga’s new book, Wolverine: Worst Day Ever, and thought we’d offer up a joint review. Pam’s idea was that —

Just get on with it, Dad.

Oh, all right. Anyway, we’re both coming at it from different perspectives. I grew up with the Wolverine comics of the ’80s. So I’ve got a lot of preconceptions, based mostly on the Chris Claremont version of the character. (And to a lesser degree, the Bryan Singer/Hugh Jackman movie version.) So one of my concerns going in was whether this book would reinforce my own thoughts about the character or contradict them. Like a lot of comic readers, I like to pick and choose my own favorite tales and ignore those I don’t especially care for. For example, I’m a big fan of the Wolverine and Kitty Pryde and Wolverine miniseries, but never really cared for the Origin storyline. And — though the book does have lots of little nods to X-Men continuity — by not focusing too intently on Wolverine himself, the book allows the reader to apply his or her own interpretation.

Man, Mom warned me you were wordy. For me, I really only know the character from the movies. But I think the book explained things well enough for me to follow along. We learn what we have to about his history — and some of that is important to the story — but we don’t need every little detail. Which is good, since we don’t really care about it all.

So what did you think of the style of the book?

I think it was mostly geared toward kids from nine to twelve, but I still think there was a lot in there for me to enjoy.

But you’re just —

Nope. TeenReader, remember?

Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting. So what did you think about Wolverine not being the main character in the story?

Well, I don’t think a lot of teen girls are going to be all that upset about not having enough Wolverine. (That’s more of a teen boy thing.) But I like how the main character is a kid in Professor Xavier’s school instead, since it gives us a perspective on how other people see Wolverine. It’s also good because we have plenty of other characters we can focus on without feeling overloaded.

I’ve always thought that was one of the problems with the X-Men — it can be tough to follow so many characters at once. But this book focuses on the main character, Eric, and lets the other characters really support his story. What do you think about how the book handled the regular X-Men characters?

I like how they were teachers instead of big heroes. In the movies, we only see bits of them acting as teachers, but here, we see that it’s pretty much a full-time job. Professor X is the principal, and Storm can’t take an eraser to the head.

So speaking as a kid —

Teen.

Speaking as a teen, and without giving too much away about his particular situation, did you feel that you could empathize with Eric’s plight?

Well, I’m not a loser like he is.

Um... okay. (Sorry, I just had a horrible flashback to my own high school years.) But did you feel like you could identify with his situation?

Well, the blog format helped. It gave a real reason for him to share his opinions, and spaced out events well. It seemed better than just a straight novel or a regular “diary.” And it did make it feel a little more current.

So blogs aren’t just for old people?

No. Well, not yet. Approaching that, maybe.

So — again, without giving too much away — do you think Eric’s superpower reflected his own insecurities? If we look at the X-Men stories as a metaphor for teen isolation, does Worst Day Ever express that well?

So exactly how am I supposed to answer that without giving away his superpower?

Do your best.

And really, “teen isolation”?

Work with me.

So you’re saying that the X-Men’s powers are supposed to be a metaphor for teens feeling like nobody understands what they’re going through? That their abilities are a reflection of their own personal issues?

That’s the basic idea. You can extend the metaphor to other contemporary issues, like Bryan Singer did with the movies, where he used mutant powers as an analogy for —

Yeah, I get it. Looking at it that way, yeah, the book does a good job of doing that.

Any final thoughts?

Can I say something about Wolverine singing?

Sure. So why was that significant?

It wasn’t. It was just funny.

Funny because of Hugh Jackman’s history as a —

Don’t overexplain it, Dad.

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MotherReader here to let you know that Barry Lyga will be signing Wolverine: Worst Day Ever at Book Expo America this Saturday at 2:00. Also, he’s given a copy as a prize for the 48 Hour Book Challenge!

I’ll miss his signing time, because I’ll be going to the Book Bloggers discussion, but I’ll make sure to see him at BEA because he’s awesome. I actually have my own signing time at a bloggers’ booth — 4077 — on Sunday at 11:00. I’m not sure that anyone will come by to meet MotherReader or talk about KidLitosphere Central, but fortunately I’m sharing the time with other kidlitter Sheila Ruth from Wands and Worlds and the Cybils, so we’ll have fun catching up. We'd love for some folks to visit, so stop by and say hello.

FatherReader here, making a brief guest post (in no small part because Pam’s busy trying to get the kids ready for the first day of school tomorrow). But since she didn’t want to leave you, dear readers, without original content over the long weekend, she asked me to fill in. So be forewarned — I can’t claim to be as wittily smart-assed as MotherReader, so I tend to make up for it by being merely long-winded and inflammatory.

That said, I’m really just going to pass the buck and post a video we both found amusing this week. See, Pam and I are convinced that the main reason the G.O.P. campaign machine has promulgated the previously-unheard phrase “arugula-eating” in its attempts to smear Obama as elitist is that they needed something new: The de facto phrase when making such a smear — “latté-drinking” — just might raise some uncomfortable backlash accusations of racism. Y’know, what with Obama being of... blended racial heritage.

But rather than delve into a whole discussion on that topic (feel free to add your own thoughts in the comments section, of course), I just thought I’d post this similarly-themed Onion News Network segment. And then go see if I can pick up some arugula while waiting for my own morning latté.

“FatherReader” here, everyone. I thought I’d give MotherReader a bit of a break today and write another quick guest review. Our hostess will be back in prime fighting form soon.

One of the great challenges an author can face is taking an experience wholly foreign to a majority of his or her audience and allowing them to truly feel what the characters are experiencing. With The Arrival, Shaun Tan takes on that challenge with the ordeal of immigration.

Of course, the “story” of the immigrant experience has been told a thousand times. And therein lies part of the problem — we’re all familiar with the tale. Told in a straightforward manner, it can no longer bring about the sense of being in a completely foreign environment — particularly since (at least in America) such tales are usually told about people coming from other places into our environment. To the reader, it is the immigrants who may seem a little strange, a little out of place, rather than the place itself. Even if the reader shares a cultural heritage with the protagonists, the perspective is one of looking backward from a position of comfortable assimilation. Furthermore, because we live in a comparatively worldly, well-educated society, even when the situation is reversed — say, an American going off to live in a foreign land — the sense of amazed wonder and confusion cannot compare to the experience of someone brought up in a more insular world.

What Tan does is take the framework of the early twentieth-century immigrant experience (even the book cover looks like an old suitcase or leather-bound scrapbook) and wrap it in a wordless graphic novel that uses elements of science fiction to convey the experience of immigration, even if not the literal history. Our protagonist is a normal everyman with a normal family who, in making the great journey to a foreign land, is forced to deal with things so alien as to be indecipherable. But though this “land of opportunity” holds sometimes baffling wonders, the world is grounded in everyday concerns — the needs for food, shelter, employment. As he copes with amazing (and sometimes frustrating) new experiences — new animals, new customs, new languages — we are similarly bewildered. As he gradually becomes accustomed to his new world, sharing histories with other immigrants, we see how each of their experiences has components that — to one who has not lived through them — truly defy comprehension. Over time, he manages to make a way for himself, and prepare a path for his family to follow.

Of course, the storytelling is gripping without being melodramatic, and the artwork is absolutely phenomenal. The attention to detail is astounding, and the juxtaposition of a sepia-toned color palette with fantastical imagery, though jarring at first, admirably conveys both nostalgia and wonder (the new world is populated with bizarre machinery, but our hero travels there by old-fashioned steamship). And though the book does have some darker passages, the underlying optimism and faith in the goodness of human nature is inspirational. Moments that could be harrowing (the search for a job when one has no particular skills to offer) are punctuated by bits of humor (inadvertently hanging a series of posters upside-down because of a language barrier). And images that seem frightening at first (a bizarre creature lurking in his apartment) become endearing with familiarity (the animal becomes a new pet).

This is not a tale told, but a tale experienced. And I’m glad to have taken the trip.

MotherReader’s off at the beach with the girls for a couple of days (a trip that, alas, I couldn’t join them on thanks to a big project due at work), but she asked me to make mention of the book This I Believe during her absence, and I was more than happy to oblige. The book, edited by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman, is a collection of essays on the most deeply held personal philosophies of... well, as the cover puts it, “remarkable men and women.” The concept began as a radio program with Edward R. Murrow back in the 1950s, and was recently revived by NPR (a revival I first heard about in reference to magician/comedian Penn Jillette’s participation).

The sheer scope of essayists is overwhelming, from historic to contemporary. Leonard Bernstein, William F. Buckley, Benjamin Carson, Albert Einstein, Bill Gates, Newt Gingrich, Helen Hayes, Robert Heinlein, Helen Keller, John McCain, Colin Powell, Jackie Robinson, Eleanor Roosevelt, Gloria Steinem, Andrew Sullivan, John Updike, and dozens more.

While no one entry can begin to encapsulate the vast range represented by the whole, MR thought that Rick Moody’s entry, “The Joy and Enthusiasm of Reading,” was particularly appropriate to this forum, and I have to agree. I’ll quote just the first paragraph; you’ll have to pick up the book for the rest — an experience I doubt you’ll regret in the least. (Or I suppose you could read the whole thing at NPR’s website — and hear Moody himself reading it as well. But I still say pick up the whole book.)

I believe in the absolute and unlimited liberty of reading. I believe in wandering through the stacks and picking out the first thing that strikes me. I believe in choosing books based on the dust jacket. I believe in reading books because others dislike them or find them dangerous. I believe in choosing the hardest book imaginable. I believe in reading up on what others have to say about this difficult book, and then making up my own mind.

So how do your individual philosophies — and we’ll limit it to reading philosophies for the moment — compare with Moody’s (either this brief excerpt or the entire piece)? Anyone care to venture your own essay (or mini-essay)?

Well, MotherReader’s still studiously trying to avoid accidental Potter exposure, which does tend to limit her net-browsing time; on top of that, she’s feeling under the weather today, which isn’t exactly fueling her creativity. But in an effort to ensure that you, dear guests, aren’t left with nothing to read in the meantime, she’s asked me, her live-in editor, to step in once again with a book review. (After reading it, you can decide for yourself whether or not that was an altogether wise decision. Rest assured, your regular host will be back soon.)

Imbuing characters with a rich internal fantasy life is hardly an unusual concept. Children routinely create imaginary friends. Beyond childhood, the notion of older characters, whether through trauma or alientation from “consensus reality,” retreating into an alternate reality of their own imagining is rich dramatic material. But when fifteen-year-old David Case realizes that the merest chance separates routine life from catastrophe and chooses to adopt new clothes, a new outlook, even a new identity — Justin Case — in a deliberate and rationally considered effort to elude fate, his path is anything but routine.

For one thing, the boundary between “reality” and his imaginings becomes... porous. And for another, fate — or should I say, Fate — really is out to get him.

With Just in Case, Meg Rosoff takes the commonly accepted conventions of realistic fiction and turns them on their head. The fact that Justin creates an imaginary dog — a greyhound named Boy — for himself is not in and of itself remarkable. That his new friend Peter actually sees the dog and interacts with him as if nothing is out of the ordinary is astonishing. Justin’s year-old brother Charlie, whose near-death is the catalyst for Justin’s quest to escape Fate’s notice, is not an innocent baby, but demonstrates an intelligence and intuition far beyond anyone around him; he is limited only by his inability to communicate his singular awareness to those around him. And Fate is not some metaphorical expression of the vagaries of random chance, but an active antagonist playing games with Justin’s life for his own amusement, continually throwing elaborate obstacles — even extreme obstacles — into Justin’s path and the paths of those around him, all the while offering boldface commentary on the results.

And all of this is enveloped in a tale of teen awakening that is readily accessible and indentifiable; his story may hardly be universal, but his path is instantly recognizable to anyone who has felt dwarfed by forces beyond individual control. Justin’s need to strike out from his maddeningly oblivious parents and seek his own path. His efforts at self-discipline through cross-country running. His involvement with Agnes Day, an eccentric young photographer who may be simultaneously his gateway to a larger world (both internal and external) and the toxic instrument of his psychological collapse. And his continuing (and repeatedly thwarted) quest to come to terms with the consequences of Fate’s callous manipulation.

The novel is hardly light material, but neither is it heavy-handed in its “message.” In fact, the playful thwarting of convention allows Rosoff to convey themes of deep philosophical significance without venturing into lecture or ponderous narrative. The reader can empathize with Justin’s plight while retaining a perspective that allows for greater understanding than the wounded Justin possesses. In all, Just in Case is an intriguing and provocative meditation on the nature of destiny and free will, wrapped up in a thoroughly enjoyable narrative package. It’s the best kind of “learning” experience: one you barely realize you’re thinking about.

(I told you I’d be back with the first book I read, but I wanted to do something different. Since my husband read it before me, and the topic is one of his particular pets, he had written a review for the blog that I’m going to share. He has really done an amazing and thorough review of the book, and I’d rather let him tell it for both of us this time. Especially as I am at the very last minutes of my 48 hours and need to get to my niece’s birthday party. Here’s Bill’s review.)

Before we get started, let me make with the disclaimers: I may not be the most objective one in the room to offer up an opinion on Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature. First of all, author Robin Brande did just script my latest directorial effort. And second, as a longtime science nut, the ostensible subject of the novel is a bit of a hot topic of mine; I was sold on at least reading the book as soon as I heard about it. So take what you will from this commentary, but in any case, I hope my bias isn’t too distracting.

The first day of high school can be traumatic enough, but for Mena, it’s worse than she could have imagined. Not only does she have to deal with the same trials that all her classmates must endure, but she must do so in the wake of losing all her friends and being ostracized by everyone she has known and loved for years. Her old friends shun (or actively bully) her. Her church — the very institution in which she has sought comfort all her life — has effectively expelled her. And her parents, faced with losing their business, are barely speaking to her. All because she did what she thought (and frankly still thinks) was the right thing. Mena’s one hope is that she can just slide through until everything passes; she even manages to explore the beginnings of friendship with Casey, her brilliant lab partner. But when Ms. Shepherd, their quirky science teacher, starts off the school year with a unit on evolution, she realizes that it’s all just beginning.

On its surface, the novel is the story of a conflict between a teacher determined to teach science and a fundamentalist church with a creationist agenda. And in that regard, it certainly doesn’t disappoint, though — thankfully — it never devolves into a diatribe, nor does it denigrate religion. Quite the contrary: The substance of the so-called “debate” itself is barely touched upon, and spiritual belief is a central theme of the story (not to mention a driving characteristic of the protagonist).

But to dismiss it as just being about that conflict would be to gravely misinterpret it: At its core, the novel is about a teenager learning to deal with the strange new world that opens up to her once she exits the safe confines of her earlier life. The evolution/creationism debate is simply the framework; the true story is in the universally identifiable conflict within Mena herself.

Not that the story bogs itself down with self-reflective ruminations on internal development (had it done so, I would have been the first to put it down). Brande does a masterful job of ensuring that Mena’s path is reflected in action, so that the events around her provide the mechanism by which she undergoes her growth into a young adult. Mena’s transformation occurs in an environment with clear extremes of conflict, but her challenges therefore become more extreme reflections of the same transformation that all teens must undergo. (And frankly, it’s that intensity that makes for an interesting story in the first place.)

The preacher who pursues his agenda out of an outsized sense of personal vanity, or the (former) friends who glory in their maliciousness, are easy to hold up as antagonists (and I’ll confess that at times, I found it hard to separate from my adult sensibilities and remember the helplessness of being a teenager). And it’s easy to identify with Ms. Shepherd, who, far from being intimidated by the manufactured conflict, is both prepared and determined to remain unbowed in her desire to speak the truth against irrationality. But more interesting are the subtler characters, on both sides of the aisle: The church girl whose actions, however misguided, were truly motivated by a desire to be helpful. Or Casey’s sister, Kayla, who — even as she helps Mena out of her shell — has an unmistakable agenda of her own. It’s in those gray areas where the novel really makes its mark — this isn’t a story about heroes and villains, but about the rest of us, and about how we deal with conflict (real or manufactured).

No, scratch that — this is a story about how an individual deals with growing up, with finding first love, with becoming aware of just how big the world is once she steps outside childhood’s protective boundaries. An individual through whom we can all remember our own such development (or, for younger readers, see it reflected in the present). And that’s what makes this book worth reading.

I’m afraid those of you tuning in expecting MotherReader’s trademark wit are likely to be a tad disappointed today. Instead, you’ll just get a dose of her editor’s notorious long-windedness: MR’s taking the weekend off, but asked me to say a few words about The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl, by Barry Lyga.

I don’t know why she would think I’d be well suited to offer up my opinions here. I mean, Donnie, the titular “Fanboy,” is an obsessive comic-book fan and aspiring artist who’s read every superhero comic under the sun, dreams of owning a mint-condition copy of Giant-Size X-Men #1, and worships at the altar of the likes of Alan Moore and Brian Michael Bendis, whereas I...

Okay, point taken.

Fifteen-year-old Fanboy is a veritable social outcast, a loner who spends his days just trying to stay under the radar and avoid the antagonism of the ever-present high school bullies. But all the while, he harbors hidden dreams of getting even with his tormentors (he even keeps a mental “list” of those due for comeuppance) and lovingly crafts his own comic — excuse me, graphic novel — in the hopes of escaping his dreary existence. But his perspective changes when he meets the openly rebellious Kyra, or “Goth Girl,” with whom he shares a feeling of societal isolation, but who may be seeking a more active form of self-expression.

At times, I feared the book would venture too far into exaggerated farce (something all too easy to do in the comic-fan arena) or darker-toned violence. Not that exploring the extremes of teenage ostracism is an unworthy undertaking in the post-Columbine era, but as I was drawn into Donnie’s world, I felt that twisting the story to that degree would have been no more than a cheap stunt. But my fears were largely unfounded; Lyga finds a truly plausible balance between humor and credibility in terms of Fanboy’s obsession, and between harmless fantasy and destructive reaction to teen angst. The book is not toothless — it does come very close to that line — but never alienates the reader from its protagonist.

The book is obviously targeted toward a YA audience, but I actually believe it holds greater value for the adult reader. While I could wholeheartedly empathize with Donnie’s plight — who doesn’t remember feeling marginalized as a teenager? — I could bring an adult’s experience to the table. I could travel along with his thoughts and dreams, but also see where his naiveté would run headlong into the harsh wall of reality, even while he remained blissfully ignorant. It made his failures all the more poignant. And his successes...? Well, let’s just say there’s still enough of the teenage fanboy in me to take unabashed satisfaction in those as well.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I just picked up a copy of Bendis’s latest Ultimate Spider-Man, so while I go read, I’ll return you to your regularly scheduled programming.