OPRAH KIDS

It's somehow appropriate as the huge midnight parties are gearing up for Stephanie Meyer's Breaking Dawn (2.4 million copies? 4 million copies? I have trouble with these big numbers.), Oprah is kicking off her list of 100 recommended reads for kids.

I have nothing personal against Oprah. I like what she did with Eckhart Tolle, and her staffers consulted ALA for the kid list. But there's this issue - eloquently and thoroughly explored by my brother in Revolt of the Mass Cult - of replacing though-provoking commentary with "read this because everyone is."

But back to Breaking Dawn. It's coming later and later here - and I don't mean the book. Today I do believe a tear may have slipped from my eye as I watched little gold leaves flutter from the birch tree to the ground.

Yikes. What happened to summer?

MOVING TARGETS

A strange, shiny disk in yesterday's sky. Not to worry - it slipped away before it caused any permanent damage. Hmmm...maybe that's what those dark shades are for?

Yesterday brought more big news for Alaska. Sarah breathed a big sigh of relief when Uncle Ted got indicted, diverting the pariahs from chewing and re-chewing news of the legislature's pending investigation of her own possible indiscretions.

And lucky Uncle Ted did his own big exhale when, not an hour after news of his indictment broke, the earth-gods rumbled and shook the ground near L.A., diverting the news hounds yet again.

Ted's indictment lands Alaskans in the sticky goo we've slobbed around in since before statehood. We'll make our own way, the rest of you be damned - except that we need a healthy infusion of federal cash now and then, and buddying up to the oil companies is in everyone's best interest...isn't it?

We're making the best of a bad summer, weatherwise. La Nina is the culprit. Rumor has it that we're on the way to setting records for cold and rain. By way of comfort, the weather people tell us it's supposed to warm up in October, just in time to screw up our skiing.

But nobody came here for the weather. The best antidote to a gray and rainy day is to get out and play. We hiked three hours through some stunning alpine terrain on Saturday, and another six hours on Sunday. The weekend had been set aside for backpacking on another trail - a plan we had to abort when we learned the trail is still snow-packed.

The most recent Anchorage Press is its Books Edition, meaning that they've devoted two pages to reviews of three books by Alaskan authors Kantner, Doogan, and Sherwonit. Reviewing seems to be going the way of tatting. I, for one, am frustrated every Sunday by the ADN's so-called reviews - quotes of one or two paragraphs from newly-released Alaskan titles, most of them self-published.

I'm not a publishing snob, but I like reviewers to be selective, both about what they review and what they say. Of the three reviews in the Press, Sherwonit's book was handled best. After reading it, I had a good sense of what the book was about and whether I might like to read it. That's a far cry from what I get from the ADN, where the main goal appears to be to hurt no writer's feelings.

I know writers who refuse to read their reviews. That's their perogative. I like reviews, both as a writer and a reader. I don't want to hear only from fans.

The LA Times Book Review is folding. Does anyone else miss reviews?

AROUND THE CAMPFIRE

Duly noted - though a bit late - the twelve-day writing intensive at the University of Alaska Anchorage, ending this week. UAA has wisely developed a low-residency MFA program, headed by Sherry Simpson (you'll recall I'm a fan). The instensive gives students a chance to interact with over a dozen authors, with each author presenting lectures that are free to the public.

Looking over short bios of the authors, I got to thinking about literary fiction in general and MFA programs in particular. (Disclaimer: I don't have an MFA.)

I like what Anne Lamott said in a recent CBC interview about writers inviting people to their campfires - that's what stories, good stories, are all about. I love to read approachable stories and poems - literature that pulls me to the campfire, literature that engages me in a common experiences.

What happens with literary, MFA-style writing? Is the campfire smaller, more distant, more exclusive? Or is that an unfortunate misconception?

Blood-Sucking Attraction

Summer's squeeze-it-in time up North. I've covered a lot of ground these last few weeks - 4000 miles, give or take a few. Great adventures in the Yukon, NWT, and of course Alaska. If you get a chance to drive the Dempster, don't ask - just do it. Incredible wilderness that surpasses the Dalton by a long toss.

Just read an Op-Ed by NYT's Gail Collins about the Twilight phenome. If you've had your head in a bucket and haven't heard, Stephanie Meyer's Twilight saga has sold over 4 million and counting. The attraction is a drop-dead gorgeous vampire who restrains himself in book after book from doing anything more than cuddle and kiss with his teen girlfriend, to whom he's ever faithful and true.

Collins ponders what happens when teen girls saturate themselves with lustful but never consumated love while teen boys lap up internet porn. Healthy future relationships don't pop to the top of the list.

We have more than our share of blood-suckers up here. Love and lust hardly come to mind when we're swatting back swarms of mosquitoes. We like to think that our women are hardier than Meyer's Bella, who spends virtually waking moment lusting over her vampire. Role models? Give me Fannie Quigley.