There are more pretty Parisian remembrances, for another day when I’m not buried in a pile of missed mail and shredded toilet paper (from the Step Cats displays of displeasure at not being taken along) but for now, the plane reading:
To: Everything Is Going to Be Great, Rachel Shukert. It’s not often you feel the narrative arc of the protagonist grow from unlikeable to otherwise, when the author IS the protagonist, so thumbs up. (Book #22)
Fro: Most Talkative, Andy Cohen. I don’t watch the Housewives sagii, and I didn’t realize what kind of career he had prior, so it stands to reason I was more taken with everything B.H. (Before Housewives.) Companionable and fun. (Book #23)
I think clicky books make them go too fast. No atmospheric drag from page turning, maybe?
I stalled out three pages into Kavalier and Clay. I will give it another chance, probably, I am just coming to terms with the fact that I will never be as interested in fake people as real ones. I think this makes me not crazy.
So the realist’s happy compromise is reading true-talk from people famous for writing fantasy. Manhood for Amateurs was fine, at points poignant. Most especially:
The confirmed stick-in-the-mud will always fall victim to the interventions of other people acting on impulse, because if habit is his religion, then his Satan is change, and in the end, we are all prey to temptation.
And musing on the shrinking landscape for childhood adventure on the creation of future artists with wild imaginations is sad. It’s an argument for being an open-door parent*. Until I was 10, I could go as far as the stop sign at Route 44 when I was at Nancy and Frank’s, and this seems like boundary enough.
But though I see photos of San Francisco and remember the hills and hidden parks and houses wistfully, this book reminds me it’s best in photos. The “Berkeley” in it is thick and sticky like a movie theater floor.
In any event, taking a trip into man-mind is amusing for a couple of days (Book #20**), if only for the Legos.
*I also toy with letting the cats out when I’m not supervised. What’s the worst that could happen? They’re like 1940s sanitarium kids locked up in here.
**Book #21 was chick-lit, checked out on impulse.
Sara Benincasa, Agorafabulous! (Book #19)
I just started it, but I’m in. It continues the memoir trend, but sharp writing doesn’t necessarily need a fantasy plot to go with it, does it? (I have that Gadfly book on my list next for that.)
Troublingly, can we talk about how, by the end of Whateverland (A bizarre self-help confessional, good for a plane ride if you’re curious) I had come to the creeping realization that I have many of Martha Stewart’s daughter’s eccentricities, but that I am apparently accomplishing the heroic act of not indulging them.
YES, living with me could be MUCH worse. This is me, trying.
I never saw a wild rumpus start. There was no roaring of terrible roars. There were no wild things at my house.
I am the only kid in the world for whom Max was “too naughty.”
No Max, no Curious George, no Nellie Olson. I suppose my sense of mischief needed no inspiration.
While everyone is gnashing their teeth today and remembering fondly Where the Wild Things Were, this was my Maurice. Chicken Soup With Rice.
In January it’s so nice, while slipping on the sliding ice
to sip hot chicken soup with rice.
Sipping once, sipping twice,
sipping chicken soup with rice.
Here’s to no monsters, nice memories, and lots of cozy soup.
It’s not self help, it’s not a memoir, it’s…first-person advice as given by someone famous. “Do as I did, because why not? It worked out for me.” I’m in the middle of a streak of ‘em. Books #16 and #17, Kevin Smith and Mindy Kaling, are this genre, but sort of anti-hero adages?
They’re more similar than you’d think.
The problem with being a fan, is that if you know the canon, you know the canon. There wasn’t much in the Kevin Smith I didn’t know at least mostly. But I dig him, and it’s still nice to hang with him for a while.
“Video games scare me because they all seem to simulate situations I’d hate to be in, like war or stealing cars.”
Kaling’s was enjoyable, I read the whole thing on trains on Saturday, and Mel was right — I sped-clicked the weird last chapter, and felt okay about it. It was also inspirational. Write stuff, create stuff with your friends, because you never know. Huh. That’s almost the Smith Doctrine too. See? Companion reads, book club meeting over.
I’ve moved on to… I don’t even KNOW what this is. Whateverland by Martha Stewart’s daughter. Same genre, more bananas.
If nothing else, the streak confirms — I love people. On paper.
Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins.
I finished the Hunger Games trilogy today, adding Books # 12, 13, and 14 to the Challenge. The first book is legitimately stunning, and won’t let you go until you get to the last page. It’s enough to propel you through the rest. The plot momentum, the stakes of the whole series, the graphic gore, the political message… it’s amazing throughout, but the first book is all of that, in concentrate.
The hype isn’t misplaced. Creating a page-turner is a feat. Creating one with a lesson is impressive. Creating both and aiming it toward young adults? Pretty genius.
I don’t know that I would have liked it when it was demographically appropriate for me. It’s dark. And I don’t know that the message of war, peace, power, politics, trust, and survival would have really meant as much without the perspective of having lived, but hey. They make you read Siddhartha sophomore year, and that doesn’t mean much ‘til you’re older either.
For depth, for a complex female protagonist — the hype might feel the same, but this series is no Twilight.
Holy Gravy. This has to be shopped. Tell me there is not curriculum that includes Nicholas Sparks, nor people who are unable to read the whole volume, thus necessitating Cliffs Notes. For a Nicholas Sparks book.
In any event, I hope it includes a discussion section on how he infantilizes, sanctifies, and whoreifies his female characters. Let’s not forget Savannah who got date raped but wasn’t sure she didn’t love her attacker. He probably doesn’t hate women — though more nuanced and complete feminine portraits might come out of a room of four year olds and some Bratz Dolls.
I always figured the heavy religious influence certainly contributed, that Bible book doesn’t do chick lit so good, either — but this is interesting. From his FAQs (which amusingly include the “frequently” asked question, “What were your running times in high school?” Uh huh.)
Why do you write love stories? I chose that genre because there was little to no competition.
At least that’s honest. (PS, he’s crowd-sourcing his next book.)
The parallel that seems obvious between Sparks and Kincade becomes even stronger knowing this. Wildly successful art-as-product. Because sometimes there’s art because you have to get out or it will consume you, and sometimes there’s art for consumption.
Breaking in the new couch like it’s my jerb.
(Finished Catching Fire, started #3..and I wouldn’t be here at all, but I’m waiting for my clicky book to recharge. I think I have to go batch edit my whole fiction tag and add a disclaimer. I like fiction IF there are force fields and puzzles and monster monkeys and fun clothes.)
I’m checking out, in the library sense of the word.
I’m going to make like an outlet, and read. (Except by “Proust” of course we mean “Catching Fire.”)
I’m only on book #2, so I don’t know what ultimately befalls him, but it seems as though Peeta is here in Italy, making bread — at least according to the brand.
There can’t truly be any Team Peeta’s out there, can there? That cloying, apologetic, beta lump? Shudder.
