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.
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.
Today, was very good mail. Especially since I can use all the Life Advice* and cookies from Mom I can get right now.
*What will happen to my dreams if I’m reading Hunger Games 2 and Kevin Smith concurrently? NOTHING GOOD, I’m sure.
Wonka lied. All you had to do was follow him and you’d be “in a world of pure imagination”? Apologies to the snozz berries, but we don’t all come equipped.
I don’t think I have any. None imaginations.
I am kind of creative — but that’s different from having imagination. I can come up with nonsense — but oh looky, science says that just makes you a liar.
Not only do naturally creative people cheat more than uncreative people, subjects cajoled into thinking outside of the box become cheaters, too. This suggests that the creative process isn’t just tied to dishonest behavior; it actually enables it.
Well, sure. If you can come up with a scheme, should it just go to waste? Let’s be reasonable.
What I cannot do, the imagining bit, is picture stuff. Sports radio might as well be in another language, I cannot make a scene in my head out of those words to save my life, and it’s not just because sports, BORING, I just can’t do it. I can’t read a fight scene and make sense of it either. My eyes blur and who hit who what now? That happened in The Hunger Games yesterday. (Book #12, finished in a day because who could put it down? Now on to the second in the series which seems to have a sophomore slump and too much romantical stuff, but.. I’m still in.)
The point is, Wonka better show me the money, or I’m sunk. No imagination.
And if science is right, he probably would have dumped me down the shoot with the bad eggs.
