Shocking Discover About Nancy Drew!

Today, I learned, for the first time in my life, that Carolyn Keene, the author behind Nancy Drew was actually a false person. The author doesn’t exist! Nancy Drew was written by a bunch of ghost writers. And not just Nancy Drew – probably the entire series of books of my growing up years aka Sweet Valley, Hardy Boys (though I don’t really read them).

Apparently, in the early 1900s, it was a popular scheme where publishers will hire freelance writers to write children book series for them – paying them off per work and removing their authorship rights. The Stratemeyer Syndicate was well noted for this kind of publishing scheme and it was their founder, Edward Stratemeyer who created the concept of Nancy Drew and assigned her to one of his ghost writers – Mildred Augustine Wert Benson who went on and wrote 23 of the first 30 Nancy Drew books. Benson eventually went on with her career to write other books under her name and pursue a gratifying career in journalism. It was only in her later years that it was revealed she was the original Carolyn Keene. Stratemeyer carefully guarded the identities of their writers to preserve the air of mystery around the authors.

But despite this shock – and how I feel like my entire childhood was a lie! – I still will say I love the Nancy Drew and the Sweet Valley series. These books became instrumental to my growing interest for books and my love for reading. I loved reading about the adventures of Nancy Drew that later on, I even embarked on a mission of collecting original prints – those that really look old. I would hunt for the copies in old bookstands along the market and won’t hesitate to buy one even if I’d read it just because I wanted to collect them.

Eventually I outgrew Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley but I never outgrew my love for reading. And I owe it to the brilliant authors – or ghost writers – behind these famous series.

Books : Forever My Love

From musicals, I now turn my musings to books. (This lockdown is really doing wonders to me indulging in all my introverted hobbies).

I never imagined I would be a voracious reader. I learned to read rather late – I was about 7 1/2 years old and I was still struggling with comprehending words written on paper. I cannot forget that embarrassing moment in First Grade when our teacher asked us to form two lines – one line for those who knew how to read and another line for those who don’t. I sheepishly joined the latter.

My mother was instrumental in teaching me how to read. I didn’t learn reading from school. I learned it from her. I can remember how she will hold a children’s book and force me to read over and over again the story of Too Thin Johnny. I cried a lot during those long afternoons. I longed to be outside playing with my siblings but I was stuck – by our doorframe – sitting there reading with her.

And thus it came as a surprise to me that, once I learned how to read and when I discovered the wonderful world of the library I was transfixed. I was a regular in the library, borrowing books weekly – sometimes twice a week. I couldn’t get enough of what the library has to offer.

I was 10 years old then. I read Nancy Drew, Sweet Valley and even Hardy Boys – all fascinating popular books of my time.

As I grew older, I began reading other genres of books and since I cannot afford my own books, I borrowed from a book rental store. I discovered the world of Sydney Sheldon, Anne Rice, Danielle Steele and their contemporaries. I was in high school at that time and I recall bringing a book (or two) with me to read every time I travel back to my dorm. I also began to discover classics like Emily Bronte, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, etc. and derive as much pleasure from them as contemporary authors.

Fast forward, I discovered bookstores where I can buy books for half (or even a quarter) of their usual price and so I splurged. Where others splurge on clothes or bags or shoes, I splurged on books. I bought more books than I could possibly read but I do not regret every single one of them.

Along the years, I lost books I lent but I also didn’t regret them. I stored books in storage places as my physical storehouses shrink. I can simply wonder if the pages are still alive to this day.

But with technology, I discovered e-books. And my love for reading remain constant.

Now that there is community wide quarantine and we are forced to spend eons of time inside our homes with nothing much to do, I find myself enjoying the company of e-books. I rediscover – to my amusement – that I actually enjoyed them more than watching series (which I also delve into with gusto).

There’s just something about how the words leap before my imagination. How a novel that takes me 5 hours to read is more engaging than a 2 hour movie. And I love how well researched novels actually allow me a glimpse into history, politics, ethics, culture, and so much more that even after reading it, I am led to researching the actual events that transpired.

I used to believe I will be a writer. I loved reading so much so I thought it was a natural course. But alas! I cannot stay introverted – trapped in my imaginations – for long. As life went by, I found myself interacting with society more than I ever want (to be honest) and time seems to fly without me ever finding the opportunity to sit down long enough to even come up with a decent chapter. Believe me, I’ve tried.

But, there’s always a first time for everything. And who knows. They say this lockdown will last and extend. I honestly wish it would end so we can go back to the normal daily routine of life (even if that will totally change) but if this extends, I know what I will be doing next.

Book Review of The Commissar’s Report by Martyn Burke

The Commisar’s Report by Martyn Burke

Have you ever read a book that describes the atrocities of a savage period in history, yet instead of being appalled by the vivid and gory descriptions, you find yourself snickering shamelessly? Have you ever read a book wherein the protagonist is scared witless about something you consider normal that appeared really funny? Have you ever read a book wherein the situations, apparently leading to the protagonist’s demise, actually led to his promotion, that everything appeared laughable?

If you haven’t, then read this book by Martyn Burke. Although I must warn you that it may be hard to acquire since I just bought my copy for 20php at a Booksale branch. But the book is worth every penny you would ever spend on it – whether it be 20php because it’s from a Booksale store or $5 because it’s from Amazon.com.

comedy turned melancholy

Depressing. Utterly depressing.

The book which just recently left me laughing out loud and highly entertained somehow made me depressed enough not to sleep by its conclusion. I cannot quite believe it ended so badly. Of course there was still comic relief at the ending – comedy was one consistent point of the book although it illustrated human suffering far from the confines of our human imaginations. But then again, I was depressed at the ill fate of the books protagonist. I kept expecting a new page to sprang up when I finished the last page, hoping it would contain some ingenious idea of the protagonist at how he was able to escape from his unexpected fate.

But there was none. And so I flung the book down and tried to sleep. But sleep won’t touch my consciousness as pictures of the books scenes kept drifting in my mind, all to end at the very unexpected and unfortunate ending. I was livid with rage then numbness. I couldn’t believe the author will just do that to the protagonist. I can’t believe it.

But then that is the beauty of the book. It was what made the book realistic despite the many allusions to comedy. It was what made the readers realize that the human sufferings describes – the inhumane tortures we hope we never get to witness, much less experience in our lifetime, are really real and happening in that large corner of the world. The ending is the stark reminder that there are cruelties in this world of which we have never ever dreamed of and that we are suppose to be fighting off – if we actually care enough to fight them off.

I cannot yet divulge what that book is. I cannot even begin to speak of its title yet. I will do a review once the initial shock has faded. But for now, suffice to say, I was depressed by the ending. I cannot bear to recall all the funny moments without remembering that it will all end badly.

The book is splendidly written. I can’t wait to start writing a review. And I can’t imagine that it all costs 20 pesos.

Update: To read my review on the book, check this out.

Book Review: The Man Who Loved Attending Funerals and Other Short Stories

Probably one of my greatest discoveries in Booksale is the collection of short stories written by Frank Collymore. Who is this author? Well that was my question also as I stared at a 10php book entitled The Man Who Loved Attending Funerals And Other Stories by Frank Collymore and edited by Harold Barratt and Reinhard Sander. I had no clue who the author was but I bought the book nonetheless because of the catchy title.

And boy, was I surprised that the book contained a lot of very interesting stories. In fact, there were a lot of stories, whose titles were not so catchy but whose plots were better than the story whose title became the title of the book.

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