Occasionally I am caught in the grip of a nonfiction frenzy, usually focusing on a series of books with one theme running through them all. Last year, for a brief period, I was enamored with food journalism (The Zen of Fish is still one of my favorite nonfiction books, and probably always will be), picking up book after book on seafood and produce.
I’m guilty of doing this with fiction as well, buying up large quantities of a single author’s works (Barry, Gibson, Block and Wallace last year, Coupland this year), but it really seems to stand out when this happens with nonfiction. I think this is mostly the case because my nonfiction benders are fueled by topic and theme rather than a single author.
I have been dusting off my writing books as of late, straightening them out on the shelf to make room for new additions. Writing books are crucial to me, the tomes I turn to when I need advice, reassurance or examples of proper form. These are the books that most successfully help me aggregate my back brain for ideas, that illuminate the path ahead of me so that I don’t stumble completely and make a right ass out of myself when submitting manuscripts. They are my templates for style and substance, and while similar to one another there is not a single book in my collection that is not wholly unique.
I stumbled upon The Forest for the Trees while perusing the writing reference section of the local Barnes and Noble. The cover is absolutely brilliant, bright #2 yellow pencils slowly morphing into various trees where the sharpened graphite points ought to be. Flipping it over, I was also impressed by the collection of publication-submitted review blurbs. There are no overenthusiastic urgings by individual writers here, merely words of of praise by major journals and newspapers. Not overly minimalistic, but to the point. I liked it.
I also liked the fact that the author, Betsy Lerner, has run the gamut of bibliophilic employment, from a budding poet in an MFA program to an assistant editor working her way up the editorial chain at several major publishers to a literary agent. It’s much easier to take the advice, anecdotes and bad news (the whole industry is a crap shoot of timing, luck and talent, after all) when it’s coming from someone who has experienced the subject from multiple angles.
Inside, the book is divided into two main sections, Writing and Publishing. The first section, Writing, details the various motivations to write and different types of authors, which has garnered Lerner a bit of criticism, especially on peer-review sites like Amazon. It seems some authors, amateur and professional (though leaning more towards the amateur), do not appreciate being pigeonholed, even when it is done lovingly by a person who has spent years in the business. I don’t mind it. I found little bits of myself in each of the chapters, The Ambivalent Writer, The Natural, The Wicked Child, The Self-Promoter and The Neurotic. The only chapter I did not identify with directly, Touching Fire, is about substance abuse and mental illness, and I have had some small indirect contact with those types of people as well. Overall, I felt that Lerner explained her examples well and provided a great deal of feedback to each type of person she felt would benefit from her work. I didn’t for a moment find myself offended. Rather, I found myself full of new avenues to explore, mostly in the form of other writing-related books, as Lerner has a habit of citing other works in her examples.
The second part, Publishing, is broken down into the natural stages that a first-time writer will encounter and outlines what to expect with each one. There are six chapters, Making Contact: Seeking Agents and Publication, Rejection, What Editors Want, What Authors Want, The Book and Publication. Some of the information is common knowledge, or at least should be, but interspersed in with the advice that all authors should already be aware of (and aren’t always, judging by the personal stories of bad writer behavior) are insider details on editorial processes, book designing, publicity and the interpersonal relationships between the writers and the team of people that help them get their work into the public. It’s fascinating, really, and more than a bit humorous in places.
The Forest for the Trees reads much like Bird By Bird would if Anne Lamott were able to step back from her work and view the situation more objectively, though Lamott’s own work will always have a warm, welcoming spot on my bookshelf. Having the multiple-angle viewpoint helps quite a bit in getting the whole picture, rather than just the neurotic nail-biting writerly side. However, this is not really a book for someone who needs advice on how to write. The fact that you’re writing is just assumed, and it never goes into technical detail. For that, I would suggest the work of James Smith (if you have to pick just one, go for The Writer’s Little Helper, as he has the annoying habit of reusing exercises in multiple books) or James Scott Bell’s entries in the Writing Great Fiction series.
4/5
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
#6 of 2009: Microserfs by Douglas Coupland
I didn’t think it would take me so long to get to book number six for the year, seeing as how I sped through everything last year. This time around, though, I’m in the middle of revising a rough draft and I’m whittling away at my DVD collection along with reading novels.
For the longest time, while reading Microserfs, I got the feeling that it wasn’t as good a read as jPod. It took me much longer, and some of the concepts were outdated, but when I got to the end of it I came to the conclusion that it might, in its own way, be even better.
The book begins in late 1993 and runs until January of 1995, a period of time where I was slowly becoming more and more obsessed with technology. My fascinations were directed more at word processing, game playing and general screwing around rather than actually learning to code, which wouldn’t present itself to me until around 2000 and in such a poor fashion that I never really gave it my full attention. The characters in Microserfs, however, are fully immersed in the world of corporate coding farms and the Bill Gates deification that almost always tagged along back then.
Wave after wave of nostalgia hit me while reading Microserfs. I remember the commercials the characters bring up constantly, the Play Doh and Lego, the sugar cereal and megacorporations and clothing labels. I remember the current events, the celebrities, the earthquakes and fires on the news. So much of this book seems like it was yanked out of my life that it feels surreal, like pulling memories out of a dark corner that I wasn’t aware held anything at all.
Fast food is addictive but about as bad for you as a bunch of simultaneous chest x-rays.
Apple was, and always shall be, the height of cool.
Lego are impressive, but the claw-like hands on their little people (minifigs) are creepy as hell.
Not too long after this book came out I would wind up owning the much-ridiculed (in the novel and in my life) Geo Metro. It really didn’t have the capacity to kill anyone, or even so much as bruise.
This was like prematurely opening up a time capsule full of VCRs, fax machines, early-stage cell phones, GAP khakis, laptops, processed foods, Crystal Pepsi, Melrose Place and ramen noodles and going “Oh yeah, I remember this stuff. Man, weren’t those the days!”
I’m not going to delve into it in too much detail, but lest anyone think this book is some shallow jaunt down memory lane (or, around its publication, a piece of pop culture masturbation) let me say there is a very subtle but noticeable human undercurrent present at all times that comes out in full force towards the end.
Man, I miss the 90s.
5/5
For the longest time, while reading Microserfs, I got the feeling that it wasn’t as good a read as jPod. It took me much longer, and some of the concepts were outdated, but when I got to the end of it I came to the conclusion that it might, in its own way, be even better.
The book begins in late 1993 and runs until January of 1995, a period of time where I was slowly becoming more and more obsessed with technology. My fascinations were directed more at word processing, game playing and general screwing around rather than actually learning to code, which wouldn’t present itself to me until around 2000 and in such a poor fashion that I never really gave it my full attention. The characters in Microserfs, however, are fully immersed in the world of corporate coding farms and the Bill Gates deification that almost always tagged along back then.
Wave after wave of nostalgia hit me while reading Microserfs. I remember the commercials the characters bring up constantly, the Play Doh and Lego, the sugar cereal and megacorporations and clothing labels. I remember the current events, the celebrities, the earthquakes and fires on the news. So much of this book seems like it was yanked out of my life that it feels surreal, like pulling memories out of a dark corner that I wasn’t aware held anything at all.
Fast food is addictive but about as bad for you as a bunch of simultaneous chest x-rays.
Apple was, and always shall be, the height of cool.
Lego are impressive, but the claw-like hands on their little people (minifigs) are creepy as hell.
Not too long after this book came out I would wind up owning the much-ridiculed (in the novel and in my life) Geo Metro. It really didn’t have the capacity to kill anyone, or even so much as bruise.
This was like prematurely opening up a time capsule full of VCRs, fax machines, early-stage cell phones, GAP khakis, laptops, processed foods, Crystal Pepsi, Melrose Place and ramen noodles and going “Oh yeah, I remember this stuff. Man, weren’t those the days!”
I’m not going to delve into it in too much detail, but lest anyone think this book is some shallow jaunt down memory lane (or, around its publication, a piece of pop culture masturbation) let me say there is a very subtle but noticeable human undercurrent present at all times that comes out in full force towards the end.
Man, I miss the 90s.
5/5
Thursday, April 2, 2009
#5 of 2009: Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott
There are fifteen single-star reviews for this book on Amazon. I have to disagree with them all.
I’m not going to come out and say this is the perfect book on writing and will be a monumental help for people needing strict literary guidance. It’s not. It really is a self-indulgent, self-centered, rambling little book that careens all over the place while attempting to impart a bit of wisdom on the reader.
It works, though. It really does.
This is more of an author’s memoir than it is another guide to style, grammar and revision. It’s not going to help you with your plotting issues, or your overuse of dangling modifiers, or net you an agent. Not directly, at least. But what it will do is motivate you to keep going, to ignore the nasty voices in your head that slow you down or stop you completely, and it will make you very aware that you are absolutely not alone in your fears and insecurities and doubts.
We are all mentally ill, and it is beautiful.
I’m not going to come out and say this is the perfect book on writing and will be a monumental help for people needing strict literary guidance. It’s not. It really is a self-indulgent, self-centered, rambling little book that careens all over the place while attempting to impart a bit of wisdom on the reader.
It works, though. It really does.
This is more of an author’s memoir than it is another guide to style, grammar and revision. It’s not going to help you with your plotting issues, or your overuse of dangling modifiers, or net you an agent. Not directly, at least. But what it will do is motivate you to keep going, to ignore the nasty voices in your head that slow you down or stop you completely, and it will make you very aware that you are absolutely not alone in your fears and insecurities and doubts.
We are all mentally ill, and it is beautiful.
Monday, March 9, 2009
#4 of 2009: Number9Dream by David Mitchell
Mitchell is another author whose works seem, at first glance, to be simplistic and tongue-in-cheek and easy to finish, but they end up being all of the above and none of the above at the same time. What should be a quick read always finds a way of becoming complex without ever hinting at the mechanics that allow this trick to happen, a deceptively simple narrative unfolding into something rife with literary gimmicks and bizarre tales-within-a-tale that will leave you placing a bookmark between the pages and taking a break just to make sure your brain has absorbed the info properly.
That’s my excuse. I’m sticking to it. That’s my reason for never finishing Mitchell in a timely fashion.
Unlike Ghostwritten, Number9Dream sticks with one main character the whole way through, but in the eight chapters that cover the four-hundred-page novel there is a cast of characters almost too bizarre to be believable. Almost. We follow a young island hick in the big city looking for his unnamed father, a man who impregnated his mother and ran off, only to run into yakuza (multiple times), a concert pianist, a video store owner/capsule hotel landlord, a crazy train station employee, a wannabe hacker, a Korean bar hostess and several weirdo pizza delivery employees. Not to mention the equally weird pizzas they make.
It’s a strange story, told in a strange style, and once again I’m going to have to come out and claim a better understanding of the work would be had after a second reading. I notice myself making this claim a lot. Perhaps I read too quickly, to shallowly, to understand everything my eyes scan over. Perhaps I’m just not cut out for “intellectual” work. Perhaps I’m lazy.
Perhaps, like Number9Dream, I’m everything at once.
3/5, only for being layered enough to require a second reading.
That’s my excuse. I’m sticking to it. That’s my reason for never finishing Mitchell in a timely fashion.
Unlike Ghostwritten, Number9Dream sticks with one main character the whole way through, but in the eight chapters that cover the four-hundred-page novel there is a cast of characters almost too bizarre to be believable. Almost. We follow a young island hick in the big city looking for his unnamed father, a man who impregnated his mother and ran off, only to run into yakuza (multiple times), a concert pianist, a video store owner/capsule hotel landlord, a crazy train station employee, a wannabe hacker, a Korean bar hostess and several weirdo pizza delivery employees. Not to mention the equally weird pizzas they make.
It’s a strange story, told in a strange style, and once again I’m going to have to come out and claim a better understanding of the work would be had after a second reading. I notice myself making this claim a lot. Perhaps I read too quickly, to shallowly, to understand everything my eyes scan over. Perhaps I’m just not cut out for “intellectual” work. Perhaps I’m lazy.
Perhaps, like Number9Dream, I’m everything at once.
3/5, only for being layered enough to require a second reading.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
#3 of 2009: JPod by Douglas Coupland
2009 started off funny and has continued that way for a while.
First I became rather entranced with the idea of using this year to whittle my way through all the DVDs I’ve amassed over the years. If there’s one thing I love to collect as much as books it’s DVDs. I’ve been running on the elliptical and watching movies every day with the dual goal of losing a considerable amount of weight and seeing a considerable amount of movies and so far this year I’ve shed fifteen pounds and twenty-five DVDs.
Not too shabby.
Of course, all of this comes with the sacrifice of reading time. Not to despair, though, because I’ve lost my job as well, freeing me up for all kinds of time-consumptive projects. At this point in my life, losing my job might very well have been the best thing to happen in years, but this period of empty space is going to have to be incredibly short and bittersweet as I try to find a job in this very depressed market while reading, writing and watching movies on a tighter budget.
Good thing I have all this stuff already on my shelves, huh?
I burned my way through JPod in a matter of days. This is my fist Coupland novel, though I’ve been aware of him for years, and I’ve got to say I’m a bit angry at myself for not turning on to him much sooner. JPod is the kind of sarcastic, ironic, meta-book that I think I’ve been dreaming of. It’s almost post-modern but not quite so, caught up in a world full of penis-enlargement emails, lists of pi that last ten pages, missives from Nigerian scammers and concepts for the shittiest video games ever almost-made.
God, I love it. It's almost like reading Max Barry, whom I've already fallen quite head over heels for in a strictly literary-related sense, but not quite. It's Coupland's own distinct voice, completely different from Barry's, but they have the same sense of irony and humor combined with distaste for corporate retardation that gets me every time.
One of the traits of successful writers that I don’t believe I myself possess is the ability to create characters that flow through any and all situations, and the ability to make these situations arise without feeling contrived. God, when I write any emergence of the absurd or grotesque feels so forced that it immediately shames me. I feel like a walking cliche generator, a hack, someone who can’t even conjure the most basic characters or personalities.
JPod is life, the life of nerds and techies blending in with the rest of society, as seen through the glass of a slightly morbid funhouse mirror. What you’re looking at is completely real and mostly true, but it’s stretched a bit in ways that are physically improbable at best. But it’s great, and a blast to look at, and it reminds you of yourself in some kind of fucked-up manner that makes you also grateful at the same time that it’s not a complete mirror of your life.
Really, really good. I’m looking forward to rereading it sometime soon.
5/5
Now, back to Number9Dream, another great book that was misplaced somewhere in my house for a while. Hope I haven’t already lost my momentum with this one.
First I became rather entranced with the idea of using this year to whittle my way through all the DVDs I’ve amassed over the years. If there’s one thing I love to collect as much as books it’s DVDs. I’ve been running on the elliptical and watching movies every day with the dual goal of losing a considerable amount of weight and seeing a considerable amount of movies and so far this year I’ve shed fifteen pounds and twenty-five DVDs.
Not too shabby.
Of course, all of this comes with the sacrifice of reading time. Not to despair, though, because I’ve lost my job as well, freeing me up for all kinds of time-consumptive projects. At this point in my life, losing my job might very well have been the best thing to happen in years, but this period of empty space is going to have to be incredibly short and bittersweet as I try to find a job in this very depressed market while reading, writing and watching movies on a tighter budget.
Good thing I have all this stuff already on my shelves, huh?
I burned my way through JPod in a matter of days. This is my fist Coupland novel, though I’ve been aware of him for years, and I’ve got to say I’m a bit angry at myself for not turning on to him much sooner. JPod is the kind of sarcastic, ironic, meta-book that I think I’ve been dreaming of. It’s almost post-modern but not quite so, caught up in a world full of penis-enlargement emails, lists of pi that last ten pages, missives from Nigerian scammers and concepts for the shittiest video games ever almost-made.
God, I love it. It's almost like reading Max Barry, whom I've already fallen quite head over heels for in a strictly literary-related sense, but not quite. It's Coupland's own distinct voice, completely different from Barry's, but they have the same sense of irony and humor combined with distaste for corporate retardation that gets me every time.
One of the traits of successful writers that I don’t believe I myself possess is the ability to create characters that flow through any and all situations, and the ability to make these situations arise without feeling contrived. God, when I write any emergence of the absurd or grotesque feels so forced that it immediately shames me. I feel like a walking cliche generator, a hack, someone who can’t even conjure the most basic characters or personalities.
JPod is life, the life of nerds and techies blending in with the rest of society, as seen through the glass of a slightly morbid funhouse mirror. What you’re looking at is completely real and mostly true, but it’s stretched a bit in ways that are physically improbable at best. But it’s great, and a blast to look at, and it reminds you of yourself in some kind of fucked-up manner that makes you also grateful at the same time that it’s not a complete mirror of your life.
Really, really good. I’m looking forward to rereading it sometime soon.
5/5
Now, back to Number9Dream, another great book that was misplaced somewhere in my house for a while. Hope I haven’t already lost my momentum with this one.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
#2 of 2009: Spook Country by William Gibson
Another book needing a dictionary with a plot that’s just a few inches over my head. I “got” it, but there are a few subtle detours in the storytelling I’m sure need a second reading to pick up.
Unlike Pattern Recognition, which deals with a subject that I loathe but am simultaneously fascinated with (advertising), Spook Country delves into a bit of territory that I’m firmly involved in, at least somewhat - GPS technology. As a geocacher, I really got into some of the concepts in this book, especially placing “invisible” art at specific coordinates that require special equipment to view. Other things, like using GPS to track objects around the world, caused the gears in my head to begin working overtime. All of the neat things that could be done with these satellites...
As it is with everything Gibson, there’s no such thing as a single story line. In this book, there are three, the story of the rock star turned journalist, the story of the young, spiritual mafioso and the story of the drug-addicted translator held captive by the supposed government agent. This last story line is where the book’s title comes from, as both the man employing the mafioso and the man holding the translator against his will are current or former intelligence agents.
It was a great read, but like everything of Gibson’s I’ve read, it’s long, arduous, and requires a lot of concentration. I’m glad to have read it, and I’m keeping my copy, but I think I’m going to hold off on any more Gibson until I’ve read some of these “essentials” I’ve been rambling about lately.
Unlike Pattern Recognition, which deals with a subject that I loathe but am simultaneously fascinated with (advertising), Spook Country delves into a bit of territory that I’m firmly involved in, at least somewhat - GPS technology. As a geocacher, I really got into some of the concepts in this book, especially placing “invisible” art at specific coordinates that require special equipment to view. Other things, like using GPS to track objects around the world, caused the gears in my head to begin working overtime. All of the neat things that could be done with these satellites...
As it is with everything Gibson, there’s no such thing as a single story line. In this book, there are three, the story of the rock star turned journalist, the story of the young, spiritual mafioso and the story of the drug-addicted translator held captive by the supposed government agent. This last story line is where the book’s title comes from, as both the man employing the mafioso and the man holding the translator against his will are current or former intelligence agents.
It was a great read, but like everything of Gibson’s I’ve read, it’s long, arduous, and requires a lot of concentration. I’m glad to have read it, and I’m keeping my copy, but I think I’m going to hold off on any more Gibson until I’ve read some of these “essentials” I’ve been rambling about lately.
4/5
On to The House of Leaves. I’m not sure I should be complaining about a book requiring intense concentration before I’ve tackled this. I’m almost breaking out in cold sweats already.
On to The House of Leaves. I’m not sure I should be complaining about a book requiring intense concentration before I’ve tackled this. I’m almost breaking out in cold sweats already.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
#1 of 2009: Bangkok 8 by John Burdett
An American Army sergeant in Bangkok is found under a bridge in a luxury car with its handles forced shut, the interior of the vehicle teeming with angry cobras. On the man’s head coils an equally angry python, bound and determined to swallow him whole. Two police officers, devout Buddhists and perhaps the only two non-corrupt cops in the Royal Thai Police Force, have been assigned to tail this man for reasons unknown, and when he slips away for a half hour he winds up dead.
Who killed William Bradley, and why? If you follow the pattern of other crime novels, the pages of this book should be devoted to finding the answers to these two questions.
Set in Bangkok, however, against the backdrop of two teeming, illegal industries, the most important question becomes “Who are all these people, and why do they live the way they do?” Prostitution and drugs abound, intertwined with Buddhist philosophy, as a half-Thai, half-American near-saint of a cop ponders the case and questions both himself and the people around him.
Call me stupid, but I’m still not sure why this is called Bangkok 8. Perhaps as a reference to the Eight-Fold Path of Buddhist scripture, I don’t know [It's a reference to the Royal Thai Police district Sonchai works in. Ignore me, I'm dense. - JB ]. What I do know is that this is one damn fine novel, a crime novel for sure but a bit apart from what classifies as detective fiction. I would probably refer to it as a character study steeped in illegal activity, or a character study because of illegal activity. Burdett’s Thailand seems to be fueled by it, though in a way that makes everyone both culpable and blameless at the same time. It’s all for the better of society, right? The redistribution of Western wealth into the East? And who doesn’t like to have a good time?
When the last page is flipped, two points will have been made. First, there is no black and white in Thailand, only shades of grey. Everyone is corrupt, even if only a little. And the second point?
Everyone is a whore.
5/5
Who killed William Bradley, and why? If you follow the pattern of other crime novels, the pages of this book should be devoted to finding the answers to these two questions.
Set in Bangkok, however, against the backdrop of two teeming, illegal industries, the most important question becomes “Who are all these people, and why do they live the way they do?” Prostitution and drugs abound, intertwined with Buddhist philosophy, as a half-Thai, half-American near-saint of a cop ponders the case and questions both himself and the people around him.
Call me stupid, but I’m still not sure why this is called Bangkok 8. Perhaps as a reference to the Eight-Fold Path of Buddhist scripture, I don’t know [It's a reference to the Royal Thai Police district Sonchai works in. Ignore me, I'm dense. - JB ]. What I do know is that this is one damn fine novel, a crime novel for sure but a bit apart from what classifies as detective fiction. I would probably refer to it as a character study steeped in illegal activity, or a character study because of illegal activity. Burdett’s Thailand seems to be fueled by it, though in a way that makes everyone both culpable and blameless at the same time. It’s all for the better of society, right? The redistribution of Western wealth into the East? And who doesn’t like to have a good time?
When the last page is flipped, two points will have been made. First, there is no black and white in Thailand, only shades of grey. Everyone is corrupt, even if only a little. And the second point?
Everyone is a whore.
5/5
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