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.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Friday, August 29, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, August 22, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Ten Books I Love, Described Quite Briefly
In no particular order
The Sirens Of Titan: By Kurt Vonnegut
Science Fiction yes, but my entire belief in the nature of God's view of things is explained in this book. And it's not a book about God. At all.
The Good Earth: By Pearl S. Buck
There's no explaining it. Buck has created, in Wang Lung, a selfish bastard I can really get on board with.
For The Time Being: By Annie Dillard
Tons of amazing and intricately woven vignettes musing about life and stuff. Or, How To Write About Visiting Christ's Tomb Without The "UGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH Christian Theology."
One More Thing: By BJ Novak (yeah that guy on The Office)
There's this one story about placating the evolving and complex feelings of a sex robot, and that's not even close to the best one.
Bradbury Stories: By Ray Bradbury (it's big and red and might actually be called 100 Bradbury Stories or some such thing.)
Believe in a God because something created Bradbury's short story riddled brain and it wasn't coincidence or a paltry human doing.
Diabetes With Owls: By David Sedaris
SEDARIS!!! After reading all of the essays the title still makes as much sense as Halloween gift wrap. But that's ok.
I'm A Stranger Here Myself: By Bill Bryson
Because Bill Bryson. All Day Long.
Ready Player One: By Ernest Cline
Read it, loved it. Everyone I recommend this to absolutely LOVES it. But I have an inkling that if I read it for a second time I'd hate it. So...do with that what you will. But read it, its good.
Great Expectations: By Charles Dickens (obviously)
All the Dickensiness to be expected AND Mr. Wemmick, AND Herbert and Pip's bromance, AND Magwitch's unshakable belief that shorts are the perfect disguise.
Here's Looking At Euclid: By Alex Bellos
Because I am a big fat nerd.
And one more, because I'm a grudge holder:
Me Talk Pretty One Day: By David Sedaris
I loaned this gem to a friend and then he never read it, never returned it, and moved to San Francisco. I'm looking at you Aaron. And I hope a seagull poops in your mouth. I'm not a monster. The book is just that amazing. Read it or return it.
The Sirens Of Titan: By Kurt Vonnegut
Science Fiction yes, but my entire belief in the nature of God's view of things is explained in this book. And it's not a book about God. At all.
The Good Earth: By Pearl S. Buck
There's no explaining it. Buck has created, in Wang Lung, a selfish bastard I can really get on board with.
For The Time Being: By Annie Dillard
Tons of amazing and intricately woven vignettes musing about life and stuff. Or, How To Write About Visiting Christ's Tomb Without The "UGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH Christian Theology."
One More Thing: By BJ Novak (yeah that guy on The Office)
There's this one story about placating the evolving and complex feelings of a sex robot, and that's not even close to the best one.
Bradbury Stories: By Ray Bradbury (it's big and red and might actually be called 100 Bradbury Stories or some such thing.)
Believe in a God because something created Bradbury's short story riddled brain and it wasn't coincidence or a paltry human doing.
Diabetes With Owls: By David Sedaris
SEDARIS!!! After reading all of the essays the title still makes as much sense as Halloween gift wrap. But that's ok.
I'm A Stranger Here Myself: By Bill Bryson
Because Bill Bryson. All Day Long.
Ready Player One: By Ernest Cline
Read it, loved it. Everyone I recommend this to absolutely LOVES it. But I have an inkling that if I read it for a second time I'd hate it. So...do with that what you will. But read it, its good.
Great Expectations: By Charles Dickens (obviously)
All the Dickensiness to be expected AND Mr. Wemmick, AND Herbert and Pip's bromance, AND Magwitch's unshakable belief that shorts are the perfect disguise.
Here's Looking At Euclid: By Alex Bellos
Because I am a big fat nerd.
And one more, because I'm a grudge holder:
Me Talk Pretty One Day: By David Sedaris
I loaned this gem to a friend and then he never read it, never returned it, and moved to San Francisco. I'm looking at you Aaron. And I hope a seagull poops in your mouth. I'm not a monster. The book is just that amazing. Read it or return it.
Oh No She Di'int!
Judging A Book By It's Lover: By Lauren Leto
I wanted to love this book SO HARD. But to be honest I would have given up on this book after the "Fan Letters" chapter but I felt like it was so glaringly, unashamedly bad that I had to finish so as to be able to critique it in it's entirety. You are welcome, dear reader. First off, the writer comes across as super pretentious. By the end of the first few chapters she makes it clear that only two types of books are acceptable: Russian Literature (which she obviously fell in love with in college...how different!) and "The Virgin Suicides", honestly if I had to read her tout that book one more time I might have done something regrettable. Like finish the book. wait...
According to Lauren every other book is trash, for example...
Kurt Vonnegut fans are creepy, pot-head morons.
You can only like Salinger if you're an angsty teenager (did you not catch that? don't worry she mentions it in every chapter).
Chuck Palahniuk is only for boys who can't read.
Sloane Crosley is a boring New York Jewish girl exactly like every other New York Jewish girl, she isn't funny and should never have gotten a book deal. Leto's obvious and unabashed envy of Crosley becomes almost laughable...or would if I could see through my book-rage.
Charles Dickens is only for pretentious 9th graders.
C.S Lewis is for people who pick their nose.
Michael Pollan is for girls trying to cover up their eating disorders.
Miranda July lacks substance and is for unoriginal girls.
It goes on and on. My mistake going into this book was thinking that it was going to be a slightly kumbyah bit about loving books and reading (YAY!) But it quickly devolves into an excessively negative book with the Author focused on trashing as many authors as she possibly can. It also becomes glaringly obvious that the Author's underlying reasons for doing so are her own jealous insecurities. Give me a break. The Sloane Crosley dig really drove it home for me, Sloane and Lauren are both young, attractive, dark-haired, New York based, Humor writers...Hmmmm.... Me thinks someone should suggest to Lauren the chapter in Bird By Bird where Lamott counsels, at length, on how to not sink into a pit of despair when a friend writer's number comes in. Read it Lauren.
There's a chapter about what your children will turn out to be if you read them certain books, I was really excited to read it and clung to the hope that it would be funny. Nope. They are all negative and I find her conclusions hard to grasp. Harold and the Purple Crayon? Serial adulterer. Where the Wild Things Are? Navel-gazing idiot Hipster. The Wind in The Willows? Boring crusty-nosed girl who hangs out at the library. Madeline? Horrifyingly obedient/annoying church group leader. etc. etc. etc. I might add that she, in all her 24 years of wisdom, offers no suggestions for what we should read to kids. Who cares? kids are pretty awful. We certainly do not want them getting all of this...knowledge.
I fully grasp that while I condemn her for her negativity I myself am reviewing her quite negatively. It could not be helped. I make no apologies. And I get that the author is trying to be funny. But it really, really, really does not come off that way. I am not without humor! Snarkiness! I love it! I really wanted this book to be funny. It's not. It's offensive and mean, which might have worked if it was somewhat founded or inspired in its conclusions. But it really just feels like grasping at ideas that might sound humorous. The author (did I mention yet that she's 24? I had my wisdom teeth out at 24, however I also had a 2 year old sooo...who am I to judge) has focused her efforts on tearing down the life's work of Dickens, Salinger, Vonnegut, Austen, Lorrie Moore, (insert author here). Thanks but no thanks Lauren Leto, the literary community just doesn't need this.
Also her writing is...weird. The first thing I learned in a lower level creative writing class was to trust the reader. Don't feel the need to blatantly spell everything out for them. So in her chapter "The Rules of Book Club" she does not need to flat-out say, "this is in the style of the rules of fight club from the book Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk." It's painful. Everyone understands what you're smacking at, Leto. Let it lie.
In another chapter she drones on about how AWFUL it is when beginning writers (in high school) try to learn from other authors. I, too, hate that, when teenagers start experimenting with things like language. Ugh. Enough. She then goes on, in another chapter, to give tips about how to effectively copy the style of other authors. What? WHAT?! P.S. it's all a ruse, and yet another template for her to all-knowingly discuss other author's shortcomings. Joan Didion? "Be redundant and scattered." Next.
This book is really awful. I don't think I've ever hated a book so much. (Except maybe The Giving Tree. I'm sorry Shel Silverstein, I still love you.) The author says she likes books and reading but it is hard to find evidence of that here. She is pretentious, negative, and fancies herself a gift to the literate world. She insults classic and contemporary alike, simply based on her own personal taste. She also manages to insult the reader, telling them that their poetry is awful and insulting their intelligence by teaching them (Gee thanks! what would I do without you, all-knowing Lauren Leto?) how to pronounce names like Kerouac, Proust, Ayn Rand, Dostoyevsky, etc. And also she teaches you how to understand the terms literary critics use like "morose," "cultivated," "digress," "inexplicable," and "compelling." Wow! Actually I wouldn't really mind either (Have you ever properly pronounced Dostoyevsky? Be honest. No joke, I'm not even sure I'm spelling it right.) if she didn't do it in such a condescending manner and if the rest of the book wasn't proof of her glaring smugness.
She attempts to write a few self deprecating essays, perhaps in an attempt to counteract all of the snootity. They are ineffective. They're also not funny. Spoiler alert: she misspells Spaghetti in a spelling bee. (GASP!) She then goes on to describe how her friends and family mock her. It reads as the equivalent of being a 10 year old and trying to explain a family joke to your best friend's Dad. Everything comes full circle towards the end when she writes about how depressing it is to be an aspiring writer in New York...how disheartening it is when another (OBVIOUSLY inferior) author gets a book deal, and how negative everyone can be (hmmmm...negative you say?). Her solution is simple, to murder them all. For real. She then gives suggestions on how to murder them...and not goofy or humorous ones...poison them, shoot them in the face while they are sleeping, whack them with a frying pan, carry a knife always so you can stab people in the gut. Oooook, Crazy-face. I guess bludgeoning someone with a frying pan can be considered humor if you're a cartoon character. Really breaking new ground there. Bravo.
At one point in the book she goes after Sarah Vowell saying she can't believe that Vowell doesn't drink coffee and that if she also said she didn't drink liquor then the author wouldn't believe Vowell had written her own books because, Leto says, she personally can't write without one or the other. To this I would like to say, no, Lauren Leto, you can't write...period.
And just so I myself do not fall victim to incessant negativity, as I have judged Leto for, I will say this: This book did inspire me in one way, which is to start a new Goodreads shelf. I think I'll call it "zero stars." Hopefully I can come up with a better title soon.
P.S. I'd like to thank the public library of Sacramento for allowing me to spend absolutely no monies on this book. And also for shipping it to me all the way from Sacramento. What a waste. But seriously, I really do have guilt about that.
I wanted to love this book SO HARD. But to be honest I would have given up on this book after the "Fan Letters" chapter but I felt like it was so glaringly, unashamedly bad that I had to finish so as to be able to critique it in it's entirety. You are welcome, dear reader. First off, the writer comes across as super pretentious. By the end of the first few chapters she makes it clear that only two types of books are acceptable: Russian Literature (which she obviously fell in love with in college...how different!) and "The Virgin Suicides", honestly if I had to read her tout that book one more time I might have done something regrettable. Like finish the book. wait...
According to Lauren every other book is trash, for example...
Kurt Vonnegut fans are creepy, pot-head morons.
You can only like Salinger if you're an angsty teenager (did you not catch that? don't worry she mentions it in every chapter).
Chuck Palahniuk is only for boys who can't read.
Sloane Crosley is a boring New York Jewish girl exactly like every other New York Jewish girl, she isn't funny and should never have gotten a book deal. Leto's obvious and unabashed envy of Crosley becomes almost laughable...or would if I could see through my book-rage.
Charles Dickens is only for pretentious 9th graders.
C.S Lewis is for people who pick their nose.
Michael Pollan is for girls trying to cover up their eating disorders.
Miranda July lacks substance and is for unoriginal girls.
It goes on and on. My mistake going into this book was thinking that it was going to be a slightly kumbyah bit about loving books and reading (YAY!) But it quickly devolves into an excessively negative book with the Author focused on trashing as many authors as she possibly can. It also becomes glaringly obvious that the Author's underlying reasons for doing so are her own jealous insecurities. Give me a break. The Sloane Crosley dig really drove it home for me, Sloane and Lauren are both young, attractive, dark-haired, New York based, Humor writers...Hmmmm.... Me thinks someone should suggest to Lauren the chapter in Bird By Bird where Lamott counsels, at length, on how to not sink into a pit of despair when a friend writer's number comes in. Read it Lauren.
There's a chapter about what your children will turn out to be if you read them certain books, I was really excited to read it and clung to the hope that it would be funny. Nope. They are all negative and I find her conclusions hard to grasp. Harold and the Purple Crayon? Serial adulterer. Where the Wild Things Are? Navel-gazing idiot Hipster. The Wind in The Willows? Boring crusty-nosed girl who hangs out at the library. Madeline? Horrifyingly obedient/annoying church group leader. etc. etc. etc. I might add that she, in all her 24 years of wisdom, offers no suggestions for what we should read to kids. Who cares? kids are pretty awful. We certainly do not want them getting all of this...knowledge.
I fully grasp that while I condemn her for her negativity I myself am reviewing her quite negatively. It could not be helped. I make no apologies. And I get that the author is trying to be funny. But it really, really, really does not come off that way. I am not without humor! Snarkiness! I love it! I really wanted this book to be funny. It's not. It's offensive and mean, which might have worked if it was somewhat founded or inspired in its conclusions. But it really just feels like grasping at ideas that might sound humorous. The author (did I mention yet that she's 24? I had my wisdom teeth out at 24, however I also had a 2 year old sooo...who am I to judge) has focused her efforts on tearing down the life's work of Dickens, Salinger, Vonnegut, Austen, Lorrie Moore, (insert author here). Thanks but no thanks Lauren Leto, the literary community just doesn't need this.
Also her writing is...weird. The first thing I learned in a lower level creative writing class was to trust the reader. Don't feel the need to blatantly spell everything out for them. So in her chapter "The Rules of Book Club" she does not need to flat-out say, "this is in the style of the rules of fight club from the book Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk." It's painful. Everyone understands what you're smacking at, Leto. Let it lie.
In another chapter she drones on about how AWFUL it is when beginning writers (in high school) try to learn from other authors. I, too, hate that, when teenagers start experimenting with things like language. Ugh. Enough. She then goes on, in another chapter, to give tips about how to effectively copy the style of other authors. What? WHAT?! P.S. it's all a ruse, and yet another template for her to all-knowingly discuss other author's shortcomings. Joan Didion? "Be redundant and scattered." Next.
This book is really awful. I don't think I've ever hated a book so much. (Except maybe The Giving Tree. I'm sorry Shel Silverstein, I still love you.) The author says she likes books and reading but it is hard to find evidence of that here. She is pretentious, negative, and fancies herself a gift to the literate world. She insults classic and contemporary alike, simply based on her own personal taste. She also manages to insult the reader, telling them that their poetry is awful and insulting their intelligence by teaching them (Gee thanks! what would I do without you, all-knowing Lauren Leto?) how to pronounce names like Kerouac, Proust, Ayn Rand, Dostoyevsky, etc. And also she teaches you how to understand the terms literary critics use like "morose," "cultivated," "digress," "inexplicable," and "compelling." Wow! Actually I wouldn't really mind either (Have you ever properly pronounced Dostoyevsky? Be honest. No joke, I'm not even sure I'm spelling it right.) if she didn't do it in such a condescending manner and if the rest of the book wasn't proof of her glaring smugness.
She attempts to write a few self deprecating essays, perhaps in an attempt to counteract all of the snootity. They are ineffective. They're also not funny. Spoiler alert: she misspells Spaghetti in a spelling bee. (GASP!) She then goes on to describe how her friends and family mock her. It reads as the equivalent of being a 10 year old and trying to explain a family joke to your best friend's Dad. Everything comes full circle towards the end when she writes about how depressing it is to be an aspiring writer in New York...how disheartening it is when another (OBVIOUSLY inferior) author gets a book deal, and how negative everyone can be (hmmmm...negative you say?). Her solution is simple, to murder them all. For real. She then gives suggestions on how to murder them...and not goofy or humorous ones...poison them, shoot them in the face while they are sleeping, whack them with a frying pan, carry a knife always so you can stab people in the gut. Oooook, Crazy-face. I guess bludgeoning someone with a frying pan can be considered humor if you're a cartoon character. Really breaking new ground there. Bravo.
At one point in the book she goes after Sarah Vowell saying she can't believe that Vowell doesn't drink coffee and that if she also said she didn't drink liquor then the author wouldn't believe Vowell had written her own books because, Leto says, she personally can't write without one or the other. To this I would like to say, no, Lauren Leto, you can't write...period.
And just so I myself do not fall victim to incessant negativity, as I have judged Leto for, I will say this: This book did inspire me in one way, which is to start a new Goodreads shelf. I think I'll call it "zero stars." Hopefully I can come up with a better title soon.
P.S. I'd like to thank the public library of Sacramento for allowing me to spend absolutely no monies on this book. And also for shipping it to me all the way from Sacramento. What a waste. But seriously, I really do have guilt about that.
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