Autodidacts Unite!

I was force homeschooled by my parents. And by homeschooled I do mean 100% left to my own devices when not being lectured on religion. I was never taught math or how to use a comma but I did watch muppets in space twice in one day while baking every pie in the Betty Crocker cookbook. So that's something.

I made it out as a functioning member of society by reading voraciously any book my parents owned (Matilda style) including "the womanly art of breastfeeding." I do not recommend it for 12 year olds. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't harken back to it after my first born.

At 15 I enrolled myself in the local community college by bluffing my way through forms. I promise that Pell grant money was not wasted. Thanks for understanding.

Hamilton gets me. From Ron Chernow "Like all autodidacts Hamilton had some glaring deficiencies to correct." And "his education supplemented by voracious reading, Hamilton was able to compensate for his childhood deficiencies." Deficient autodidacts unite! Thanks reading! Thanks Roald Dahl. And the local library. And even you La Leche League! AND you A.Ham, for making me feel less like self-taught freak. B

Shopgirl by Steve Martin

A few pages into this book I thought to myself "hmmm, this smacks of someone already  famous getting a book deal based on their established famousness." I retain that opinion. 

     

     In the beginning I couldn't decide if the completely saturating pretension was supposed to be satirical. It's not. Except for with Lisa. Who happens to be my favorite character. In a love-to-hate sort of way. All of the characters in this book are incredibly self involved. They treat others as lesser and go along making excuses for why their behavior is justified. Meanwhile Lisa is horrible, quite possibly the most horrible. But she owns it. And there's something to be said for that. 

     The writing comes off as heavy handed. Whenever a clever line or description came up I found myself envisioning Steve Martin at his desk thinking to himself "brilliant! Oh Steve Martin you are a gift to the written word!" But that's probably just me. 

     I also thought the writing was lazy. The ending? What's that about? Not a single bit of it is fleshed out. The same with the Dad's Vietnam bit. It seems like The author got bored and dropped it. 

     I read this for book club. Which explains why I forged ahead despite hating it so hard. A fellow book club member said, "I'm pretty sure Steve Martin wrote this so it could be made into a movie, which he stars in and gets to repeatedly get it on with Claire Danes." Agreed. The book is supposedly semi-autobiographical. Steve Martin is supposed to be the young guy who winds up getting his act together. But we all know he's the insensitive, rich, skeevy old guy. And we know this because all sorts of lame excuses are made for Ray, the old guy. Like, Ray didn't know he was hurting Mirabelle because he didn't know himself well enough. Time to hurry up Ray, you're over 50. As I said, Lame excuses. 

     The excessive use of the F word is more evidence of Lazy writing. Get a thesaurus Steve Martin. It started to remind me of a sociology professor I had in college that would show porn for the shock value and the reputation it earned him as "the cool teacher." 

     There is this to say positively, there were some astute observations of human behavior. Particularly the ease and complexity of miscommunication in relationships. It was clear that the author spent a lot of time thinking on it. I can appreciate that. 

     In conclusion I really hated this book. Which is unfortunate because I enjoy Steve Martin. Though, admittedly, only to a point. If I could give Shopgirl zero stars I would. Just skip it. If you want to read something about human behavior and relationships that is less than 200 pages (and also awesome!) read Dept of Speculation by Jenny Offill instead. 

Neverhome by Laird Hunt

I've always thought it goofy when people say they read a book and then love it so much they immediately flip back to the first page and read it again. Goofy is the wrong word here. Stupid is what I actually mean. I think it's stupid and I hate it. There are so many books in the world! I understand reading the same book twice. Like a year or ten later but back to back? No. Believe me when I say I cannot describe how ludicrous I think this is. 

   

     So, I'm about to eat crow. I would totally do an immediate reread of Neverhome. This is huge. But seriously, this book is sheer brilliance. It is gentle and violent in synchronized turns. The main plot alone is enough reason to read this book. But add to that the wealth of other stories going on around it. It's as though Laird Hunt had 100 story ideas and instead of writing them all he fleshed out one and mixed in the rest for good measure. And he did so masterfully. The reader never feels inundated with names and places and who what where when blah! Yet there's so much going on! And it is seamless. 

     

     The writing is exquisite. Which sounds really pretentious but trust me on this. It's creative and inventive and different but never overwrought. While reading this book I never got the sense that I was back in a college writing workshop sitting across from someone who had written yet another essay about their angst, or how their saxophone is like the wind. The author never came across as trying too hard.  When people try new things with language that is hard to pull off! At least to me. I have a very low cheese tolerance. 

     There's this scene in the book where the main character describes her mother and the author builds a scene in which the mother is getting out of the tub and she has springs for legs. It sounds kooky and too...far out when I describe it. But it's actually weird and genius AND still accessible and dammit if it doesn't work. Like work, WORK. 

     I've tried thinking of other books I've read that manage what Neverhome does and I am hard pressed. Some of Annie Dillard's later books manage to be creative yet not flowery or floofy or gaggy sentimental. And plenty of other books manage to be intense page-turners. Laird Hunt marries the two in Neverhome. It's simply the best. I really wish more people had it on their radar so we could discuss it to an unhealthy extent. So read it. 

2014 Book Survey, because it's still January

And because I love a good, scripted, survey!

Number of books I read cover to cover this year: 52.

Number of books that were rereads from previous years: 3

Genre I read the most from: Nonfiction, also loads of short story collections and juvenile fiction with the boychild.

Most employed bookmark of 2014: The ol' corner fold. Sorry Library.

Best Book I read in 2014: Neverhome, by Laird Hunt

Book I thought I would love but didn't: Deadeye Dick, by Kurt Vonnegut. Let's All Kill Constance, by Ray Bradbury. Holy The Firm, by Annie Dillard. Three of my favorite authors...all dud works. Go figure.

Most surprising read (in a good or bad way): Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. I knew it was going to be bad, and it was bad. But I was surprised by how readable it was, when not totally and completely enraging.

Best series of 2014: Harry Potter books 1-4. Which I read with my 7 year old, and it was my first time. Thoroughly enjoyable. I generally avoid things that people go bananas over because they are generally awful (TWILIGHT!!!). I'm so glad that isn't the case with HP.

Favorite new author discovered in 2014: Rainbow Rowell and Laird Hunt. Both quite different, but both quite amazeballs.

Best book read from a genre outside of normal comfort zone: everything was in my comfort zone. Except possibly Eat, Pray, Love, I'm typically uncomfortable reading books with Oprah's seal emblazoned on them. For completely arbitrary and judgy reasons. It's a character flaw I can live with. I died a little bit inside when Oprah inducted The Good Earth into her club. No, Oprah! Nooooooo!

Most action packed, thrilling, unputdownable book: Company of Liars, by Karen Maitland. Also, Illuminations, by Mary Sharratt. (Holla at ya, Medieval historical fiction!)

Favorite cover of a book read in 2014: Meh. Maybe The Signature of All Things, by Elizabeth Gilbert. It's planty.

Most memorable character: Hildegard Von Bingen, care of Mary Sharratt. Or Constance/Ash via Laird Hunt. Or Alma, from Elizabeth Gilbert's Signature Of All Things.

Most beautifully written book of 2014: Dept. of Speculation, by Jenny Offil. And, again, Neverhome, by Laird Hunt.

Most thought provoking/life-changing book: Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell. Or Bird by Bird, y Anne Lamott. Or If This Isn't Nice What Is, Vonnegut speeches.

Book you can't believe you waited until 2014 to read: Harry Potter. Though I'm glad I did, because reading them with my kid for the first time is pretty neat.

Shortest read: something poetry, like Splinter Factory, by Jeffrey McDaniels.

Longest Read: A History of the World in 100 Objects... can't remember who wrote it. I listened to it on audio technically, and got the hard copy from the library strictly for the pictures. it was over 1000 pages. phew.

Book that shocked you the most: Psychopath Test, by Jon Ronson. Yeeeeeesh!

Book you pushed the most people to read and they did: Currently it's Attachments, by Rainbow Rowell. Though I'm still pushing Neverhome on everybody and awaiting results.

Favorite non-romantic relationship. The girls in Attachments. Or Bill Bryson and his kids in I'm A Stranger Here Myself.

Favorite book read in 2014 from a previously read author: Great Expectations, by Dickens. Or, Look At The Birdie, by Vonnegut. Or At The Gates Of The Animal Kingdom, by Amy Hempel.

Best book read in 2014 that I read because of peer pressure: probably Harry Potter. Does offspring pressure count as peer pressure?

Best 2014 debut I read: Neverhome, by Laird Hunt. And so I don't sound like a broken record, One More Thing, by BJ Novak. That's an excellent book.

Most fun to read: I'm A Stranger Here Myself, by Bill Bryson. Or, My Planet, by Mary Roach. Or, Adam And Eve's Diaries, by Mark Twain.

Made me cry, or nearly cry: Slouching Toward Bethlehem, by Joan Didion. I NEVER cry at books or movies. I just don't. The joke is that I probably have a heart of stone. But damn, that one essay about Hawaii and Pearl Harbor and the teenage soldier boys...damn. It must've been an off day for me.

Hidden gem of the year: Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys. Quite literally a HIDDEN gem. Though not an actual gem. I found this while cleaning out my garage. I think it used to belong to my sister-in-law. It's anyone's guess as to how it ended up in our garage. I read it back to back with Jane Eyre. Very neat.

Book that crushed your soul: Farewell To The East End, by Jennifer Worth. The workhouses! The poverty! If that's not soul crushing, I don't know what is.

Book that made you the most mad: Eat Pray Love, UGH! The whining. THE WHINING! It should be titled, Throwing Money At First World Problems. Also, it should be a criminal offense to base an entire book on some giant, catastrophic, life-altering horribleness and then refuse to delve into or explain what the horribleness is, like at all, but still constantly, CONSTANTLY elude to it, and use the phrase, "suffice it to say..." a bunch. Bleck. Elizabeth Gilbert, you're so much better than that. Stick to fiction.
Also The Good Life Lab, by Wendy Tremayne made me pretty mad. Do not, seriously DO NOT, claim to have zero homesteading skills over and over and over, and chant "if I can do it, anybody can!" and then later reveal that you had a 6 figure salary banked before starting a rural homestead and also a wealth of previously acquired homesteading skills...like being well trained in welding. Sheesh. I have strong feels about this.

The Numbers Breakdown (that will be interesting to no one).

Fiction: 30
Nonfiction or other: 22

Authored by women: 27
Authored by men: 23

2 were collections authored by both men and women.

Goodreads Star Breakdown

5 stars: 12
4 stars: 21
3 stars: 10
2 stars: 7
1 star: 2

Pages read in 2014: 14,600 not including abandoned and unfinished books.

Hard Copies: 37
Audio books: 7
Ebooks: 5

Owned: 22
Free Audiobooks App: 4
Library: 26

Searching For "Maps to Anywhere," By Bernard Cooper: My Personal "Serendipity," But With More Books And Less John Cusack

There are times when I question if I should actually be a writer. (As in someone who writes, not someone who makes money at it.) As if it is something I can choose. Like I could make a conscious choice to stop feeling the compulsion to write things down. Once, in a college writing class some of the students discussed where this compulsion sprang from. One student spoke of photographers, and how they need to take pictures to immortalize things, to stave off their fear of death, or the passage of time. There is admittedly, some of that at play here, I think. From a strictly historical stand point we could say, like the tree falling in the woods, if nobody writes it down, did it actually happen? So no, I couldn't stop writing if I chose to. But I could be less diligent. I could fall to the guilt that so many other things need my attention. Most notably these kids I've got running around my place. When I get into this sort of guilt-ridden mood I always think of one book, Maps to Anywhere, by Bernard Cooper. It isn't something outright said in the book that gets to me about writing and guilt, but rather, how I came by the book. I wholeheartedly feel it was kismet. This is going to sound incredibly sentimental, I get that. And not nearly as fantastical to the reader's mind as in mine. Still, it remains one thing, perhaps the one thing that evidences to me that this is something I was made for. I read the book in college, one essay, Roget's Thesaurus to be exact, as an assignment. I borrowed the book from the professor and quite simply devoured it. I searched in vain for my own copy. Bookstores were not brimming with it. The book was not exactly a page turner for normal people. But for an 18 year old that knows little of what can be done with language beyond Roald Dahl and Catcher in the Rye, it was an education in itself. I added the book to a list I would take with me to used bookstores. Years later I had resolved that I would probably never see the book again. But I'm sure you know that this is not where this story is going. So, one day after haranguing bookshop owner after bookshop owner... I found it, in the travel section. The travel section. My hands shook! I couldn't believe it! I took it home and devoured it again. Shortly after that all of the used bookstores started closing down. As ridiculous as it may sound, I still count finding that book, in an out-of-the-way, suburban used bookstore, among one of the miracles of my life.

There is a Sufi poet who wrote something to the effect of, God has drawn a circle around where you are standing right now. You have always been coming to this place. Right here. Right now.

So I think about writing. About whether or not it is a waste of time. About hiatusing from writing. About more time for the dishes, and exercise, and the little humans. And then I think about finding this thin, obscure book with an orange spine. What purpose could there be in our traveling to this one circle together? What purpose other than to remind me of the things that can be done with language, and to remind me that the Universe is rooting for me to do them.

P.S. I searched before typing this up and have found that Maps to Anywhere is now easily purchasable online. So if you want to read this book you will not have to search used bookstores for years upon end. However the intent of this post is not to convince you to read the book (though clearly I love it), but to simply write about the sometimes unanticipated effects books can have upon us.

In Which I Betray My Unsquashable Love For Bill Bryson, Overalls, and Dark Lipstick

I just finished I'm a Stranger Here Myself, by Bill Bryson. The book is actually a collection of newspaper columns he wrote for a British audience from 1996 to 1998 on the ceaseless hilarity and befuddlement that is living in the United States of America. He is qualified for this job because he was born and raised in the US, then moved to England for 20 years, then came back to the US again. Everything he says is so astute and well observed. Our obsession with cup holders and law suits, our farcical war on drugs, how stupid snow is, the sheer glee of buying diabetes inducing breakfast cereals, what a completely perfect word "Globule" is. It's all in there.

I like Bill Bryson, because he's a nonfiction book nerd and I can really get on board with people like that, but also, he's totally useless at dealing with washing machine repair men, as am I, and he admits that the smell of skunk (from a distance) is actually not that bad. I've been saying that for years! And my husband never lets me forget it. Here he is, every time we smell a skunk from the car, "There's that smell you love so much. Your favorite smell in the world." Oh please.

In 1996 I was 11 years old and thought that The Lost World was a pretty cool movie. Bryson sets me straight on this point and calls to attention the ridiculousness of dinosaurs in downtown San Diego, mostly that at approximately 8pm everyone in an SD suburb is in bed for the night. All of this really puts the date of things in perspective. When Bryson wrote this The Lost World was in theaters, cell phones weren't really a thing, nor the internet, overalls were an acceptable article of clothing to wear in public, and I was convinced that maroon lipstick would always be considered a timeless look. Unfortunately, those days are long gone. Or are they? All of the material for this book was written between 1996 and 1998, so one of the main things I took away from I'm a Stranger was how different and yet how glaringly the same everything was back then as compared to now. I've see overalls cropping up in store windows downtown. And the main political issues he discusses in the book are immigration, gun control, and prison overcrowding via the war on drugs. I don't know about you but those are the three things my facebook newsfeed is currently clogged with. Well those and posters comparing Obama to Hitler. (HITLER!) Seriously, enough already, Obama is not responsible for the slaughter of 11 million of anything. Except perhaps aphids in the White House garden, snuffed with some organic and environmentally responsible soap spray. So please, if you must compare, find a more succinct historical super-villain. Bryson's solutions to problems then (and now) are brief but strike me as effective. Example: Make it a criminal offense to be Newt Gingrich. He admits that this plan of action might not actually solve anything but it would make him feel much better. Agreed.

Not everyone finds Bill Bryson as hilarious as I do. Which is garbage, but whatever. Still, you can't say that he doesn't do his research. So many FACTS and yet its so interesting. Well, to me it's interesting, everyone in my last book club made me fairly aware of how stupid some people think reading non-fiction is. Quote: nonfiction is stupid and I don't waste time with it. To each their own. But nonfiction will always be my first love. And Bill Bryson is, quite simply, the best at it. Learn and laugh (ok, not out loud probably, but smile wryly to yourself) at the same time. He is the male species answer to Mary Roach. I mean, how awesome would it be if they wrote a book together? Or were married? Oh the hilarity that would ensue! Judging by their jacket flap photos it's obvious that they both enjoy a sensible sweater. If that's not a solid foundation to build on I don't know what is. I think we can all agree that it's only a matter of time.

Everyone read this book and then one of you start a company that makes shirts that say "Bill Bryson For President" so I can wear one. Thanks.

On Why Used Bookstores Are The Coolest Places On Earth

I have an extensive collection of books that I have never read. And honestly I will probably never get to them. I blame used bookstores. Tobias Wolf for 25 cents? Who is going to pass that up? Sure, I've never read more than an essay or two by Wolf in my life, but what a steal!

Ten years ago there were three used bookstores in town that I frequented. One run by a mayoral hopeful that stocked a healthy stack of campaign flyers -in bookmark form- next to the cash register. Another, run by the sweetest old man who kept 3x5 cards in a recipe box with the names, phone numbers and a list of books that certain patrons were looking for. So he could call if that special book ever arrived. And a third bookstore, dark and stacked to the ceiling, that always aggravated my asthma. But by gosh what a treasure trove!

In full disclosure I should mention that I also worked next door to a woman who ran an online used bookstore. She gave me full run of all her cast-offs. Which is how I came by an advanced reading copy of The Last Voyage of Columbus (I know, some people have all the luck) and a beautiful hardcover copy of Atlas Shrugged, that actually wasn't a cast-off but she thought it, "too pretty to sell but too big to keep." And many, many others.

I always say that if I win the lottery (after I start playing the lottery) the first order of business will be to replace our kitchen with a full time taco shop. But it is at a very close race with putting in a killer library, complete with one of those Beauty and the Beast style rolling ladders. It will be entirely stocked by my used bookstore sickness (let's call it obsession). 10 cent science fiction as far as the eye can see. and 6 copies of the Scarlet Letter, which I've never read but the covers are so pretty, and at 50 cents a piece, I mean, come on. And thus you see how I assuage my guilt over the slow (swift) and steady accumulation of books which I haven't actual time to read nor bookshelf space to house. Gotta stock that pipe dream library.

The used bookstore 6 miles from my house is newer to me, all the others have gone the way of the Blockbuster Video. It's run by the local library and manned wholly by sweet, old lady volunteers. The aisles are so slim that you have to find an empty one if you hope to make it all the way to the back, there's no hope of passing by another human. And there's an alcove of romance novels framed in white lattice, that fairly glows with flesh and rosy cheeks. No joke. I call it "the pink light district," but only to myself because I am a dork.

In this bookstore the shelving of books is, at all times, left to the creative license of the old ladies. Often it is so nonsensical that I am sure they do it on purpose to entice one to stay. (As if I needed a reason!) You want a Barbara Kingsolver? Ok, but you're going to have to search every shelf, including "Animals and Pets". Last time I was there I found Slouching Towards Bethlehem in the comedy section between a Bathroom Reader and 100 Best Golf Jokes. I grabbed it out and motioned to the octogenarian next to me. "I think this is in the wrong place."

"Oh my my...let's see," Peering through her quintessential librarian glasses (complete with gold chain) she was all puzzlement, then almost indignant, "you don't think Joan Didion is funny?"

"Well, ummm" I said, "I think we have to draw a line somewhere between bathroom humor and 1960's teenage runaway drug culture."

She blinked at me. "Yes dear, that happens sometimes." I couldn't tell if she meant to aim that at what I had said or the miss-shelving. She is, from what I can tell, Queen Bee of the old bookstore ladies. And she is always, always there. Once while sorting through donations she called out into the store, "I've got a rare Bradbury here if anyone is interested." I walked over to see. It was a regular paperback of The Illustrated Man.

I offered, "that's just a regular Bradbury, I think." (They must really hate me there.)

"Oh really?" she was shocked, "I've never seen this one...Illustrated Man...hmmmmm."

"Yeah...sorry."

She then went on to tell me, in great detail, the story of hearing Bradbury speak when she was in college. Including the history of how he'd written 451 (she called it "451". You know...me and Bradbury...we're tight like that.) on a hired typewriter in the basement of the university, how many cents he'd paid by the hour and how much it had cost overall.

I interjected, like an idiot, "oh yes, I've read that somewhere...in one of his books I think."

"Well I heard him tell it!"

And she was right. That's so much cooler. It was 100 degrees outside and she had on a long sleeved floral shirt overlaid with a pink cardigan, I've already mentioned the glasses, and she was one upping me with Bradbury stories (not a hard thing, but still!). This was such a bad ass place. These were my people! I imagined myself leaning in and colluding, "let's put up a sign over the romances that says 'Pink Light District'." But she had already walked off to shelve the ordinary Bradbury masterpiece. 50 cents. You just can't beat that.