Here's Where I've Been Writing

This year, I've been participating in a 52 week writing challenge as part of The Writing Cooperative on Medium.com.  Weekly, I'll be writing here https://medium.com/@karenthompkins

Here's a summary of what I've written as part of the challenge for the last 5 weeks:

Arriving to the Present is based on a book that I've been reading about meditative walking and how walking can bring us back to the present.

Failure Set Me Free - A life without comparison is about how I learned not to compare myself to others through the experience of failure.

52 Weeks and Counting are my thoughts on participating in a year-long writing challenge.

Slow Down and Live Better is about how our lives can be better if we just slow down...even in a 21st century contemporary world.

Rituals and Writing is about my writing process and the ritualistic nature of writing.

Pursue Your Interests

Pursue your interests. I think this is the answer to many of our questions — How can I get out of a rut? How can I meet new people? What shall I do with extra time on my hands? It’s even a good response to What shall I do with my life? Often, we are in search of more than income and career.

You don’t have to pursue your interests with a big payoff in mind. Some things should be done just for the joy of doing them. When my mother retired 23 years ago, her doctor said, “Now…you’re going to have to find something to do with yourself. You can’t just sit around the house and go crazy.” So, at the age of 60, my mother took her first quilting class. Over the years, she has made many quilts for herself, family members and friends. She even introduced me to quilting. I made a few quilts until I discovered that my fingers and temperament were more adept to writing than sewing. People would see her quilts and encourage her to sell them. “Rudell, you could start a little business for yourself!” She would look at them in contempt, as if they had taken away all her joy. Even today, Mom continues to quilt — working at her own pace, to her own satisfaction.

Don’t worry that your interests are so different from the work that you do or the persona that you have created. It’s not as if you need to make a grand announcement to the world about it. When I’m thinking of doing something new, I just keep it to myself. I don’t need anyone’s permission to experience a life different than the one I know.

Pursuing our interests can be an approach to life. It’s easy to stick with what we know and continue to live in these experiences. Trying something different will open us up to new experiences and opportunities.

Is there something that you have always wanted to do? Do it. There’s no age limit to self-discovery or joy.

One of Mom's quilts. December 2009.

A wall hanging Mom made for me.

Inscribed - Love Mom, February 14, 1996

In Lieu of Photos...Stories

My mother recently showed me a picture from her college days.  She is with her friends, Katie and Hazel, on the lawn of Morris College in Sumter, SC.   Like most college students, they look happy, carefree and hopeful.  Mom was so happy to receive this picture from Hazel over the summer.  She said that Hazel’s husband, and college sweetheart, had taken the picture.  Hazel came across the picture and sent it to Mom, along with a lovely handwritten letter.

I have not seen photos of my parents when they were young– no bundles of joy, no pigtails and missing teeth, no pimples and no diplomas in hand.   The most youthful picture I have of my parents is from their wedding day.  When they married in 1962, they were in their late twenties.    Over the years, as their family expanded, more pictures were taken.  As a school teacher, Mom would have her picture taken each year.  They were like my school pictures, a frozen smile and a stiff body perched in front of a bland background. These pictures served their purpose but didn’t reveal much.   

What I know of my parents, prior to their meeting, comes by way of stories they’ve told. My father is more of a historian and storyteller, so in some ways, I know more about his early life.   He could paint a good picture, like the day he left the South and headed to New York.  He went to the bus station with one suitcase and determined how far he could go based on what he had in his pocket and the location of his relatives.   I can see him in the bus station with a hat on his head and a brown suitcase by his side, asking “How much to get to New York City?”

  

My mother’s storytelling presents as brief commentary but her reenactment is quite compelling.  A few times a year, especially on her birthday, she tells of the inaccuracy of her birth certificate.   She reenacts the words of her much older sister, Parthenia:  Your birthday is on August 19th and not the 18th. Momma kept saying “I’m gonna die today…I’m gonna die today!”  You were born on August…the 19th!   Soon after, Mom breaks out into laughter – as if she is hearing of the day of her birth for the first time.  By the way, my grandmother did not die on that day but lived to be 89 years old.    My grandmother, born in 1889, had my mother at the age of 44.  Mom was her 11th and final child. 

These stories are not presented to me like a well-crafted biography that I can pull from a shelf.  As stories do, they arrive when they are ready to be told, often triggered by a present-day experience that takes them back to another place and time. These stories provide a glimpse into the times in which they lived, those they loved and experiences that shaped them.  In this way, I have come to know my parents.  

Katie, Rudell (Mom), Hazel - The College Years (1954-1957)

Another Path

Now is the time

to move along
another path.

In spite of fear,
past attempts and
ruminations.
 
Be the explorer,
going out
into the unknown.

In search of what

you have yet to see,
and long to know.

 

Mornings & Days Off

On days off, I like to get up early.  With a good night of rest and without an alarm, I begin to stir just before 7 am.  Still in my pseudo PJs, I head to the kitchen. 

In celebration of the day, I cook a nice breakfast.   A nice breakfast could be banana pancakes with bacon, salmon cakes and grits, or an egg scramble and fruit.  I keep my pantry and refrigerator stocked with more than the essentials.  My father once looked through my pantry and refrigerator and said, “Girl, I can tell you have southern roots…look at all this food!”  

On this July 4th morning, I made a simple meal of steel cut oatmeal with cinnamon, blueberries and walnuts.   I tried to make steel cut oats before and the texture and taste were odd, almost disgusting.  I assumed that I didn’t like steel cut oats.  After a recent visit from my friend Mitzi, I reconsidered my position.  One morning, she had surprised me with breakfast; a big bowl of steel cut oats with blueberries and walnuts.  I didn’t know that they could taste so good.  With her tips, I would try again.  I discovered that my failure the first time was mostly due to my use of instant steel cut oats.   This time, I used the oats that take about 30 minutes to cook.  I gave them the same respect that I would give grits. I hovered close by, often checking on them while they simmered along slowly.   When they were ready, they did not disappoint.  I sat at my table and enjoyed every spoonful – the hearty texture of the oatmeal, the crunch of walnuts and the occasional burst of a blueberry.

I return to the kitchen to brew coffee.  From a high pantry shelf, I reach up and pull down three unopened packages of flavored coffee – hazelnut, crème brulee and coconut crème.   The silver and earth-toned packages, with Artisan scripted across the front, resemble Christmas gift bags.  Sometimes, I patrol the gourmet food section of Home Goods, T.J. Maxx and Marshalls for coffee.  These are from a recent score from Home Goods.  I select hazelnut and toss the other two back onto the shelves.  I listen to the slow drip of the coffee while the aroma fills up my 715 square feet of living space.

Living on the 8th floor provides me with a lovely view.  Leaning against the counter in the kitchen, I can look out across the horizon through large balcony windows.  In spite of what looks to be a cloudy day, I admire the city’s thick green flora that stretches out into the distance.  My building is 2 blocks from the District of Columbia line.  I always point this out to visitors --D.C. is right there!  -- as if the street along the district line somehow looks different from other streets in the neighborhood.  It would be different if I could cross the street and step right onto the White House lawn.  But still, that’s what I say every time visitors ask about my proximity to D.C.

I pour my coffee, grab my journal and sit at my table.  On days off, I prefer writing from my bed.  But today, I will journal from my table, where I can write and enjoy my city view.  I open it and record the date and time.  I no longer remember why I started recording the time so now it’s just a habit.  I write about a range of observations and experiences, freely moving from one topic to the next.  I think I write without inhibition and with no audience for critical review.  Yet, most entries include scratched out corrections of misspellings and grammar.   I used to find this behavior to be quite annoying but now I’m amused.  Is it possible for me to stop editing myself? 

In time, my cup of coffee is almost empty and what is left is cold.  In the last hour, I have paused between sips and words, holding the warm cup in both hands.   At some point I must have put it down without knowing it.  Soon I’ll have other things to do.  But for now, I refill my cup, pick up my pen and hold on a little longer.

Angels in the Snow

Falling back

and sinking deep,

we made angles.

Our arms

went up and down and

our legs in and out.

Above, lived the sky

and trees with

spindly branches.

I wondered,

where do birds go

when it snows?

We stayed out

until called back in

 to love –

A home,

 and hot chocolate
from the stove.

_________________________________________________

Self-portrait

Georgia Avenue, Silver Spring

A couple, below the metro 

East West Highway, Silver Spring

Grocery store parking lot

Outside the Silver Spring Metro 

Evening view from home

Snow Angel (Courtesy of Lissie)

The Getaway

When Rehena (Re), my high school friend, invited me to get away for the weekend, I said yes.  We have managed to stay in contact over the years although we don’t see each other often.  In high school, we both played on the volleyball team. We first came to know each other riding the after school activity bus. The bus was stationed at the middle school down the hill from the high school.   Many afternoons I would run down the hill just in time to catch the bus.  Per Re, it was on one of those bus rides that I suggested that she try out for the volleyball team.  I was already playing on the team and she was two years behind me and in middle school.

Re owned a timeshare and wasn't sure where she wanted to get away to.  It didn’t matter to me where we went as long as we went somewhere.  It was in the spirit of adventure and friendship that I said yes.  I love to get away – to leave the familiar and experience something new.    I’ve written about this before in Sunday Get Away and Exhaling in Memphis and in other pieces.  

    

Re selected a property in the Old Town area of Alexandria, Virginia.  If you were to take a map and put a pin point at my apartment in Silver Spring and the other in Alexandria, you could draw a vertical line between the two cities that would cut right through the District.  The two cities are only 12 miles away. Growing up in Maryland, I don’t remember visiting Alexandria as a child.   Since relocating back to the DMV – not the Department of Motor Vehicles but the District of Columbia, Maryland and Virginia region – I’ve been to Alexandria quite a few times for dinner, shopping and even a meetup group at The Sacred Heart Book Store.   

Could a drive over to Alexandria even qualify as a getaway?  This became my preoccupation.  I was hankering for the excitement that comes with doing something new.   When faced with a modern-day, middle-class “dilemma” such as this, one has two options:  make a big deal out of nothing or get over yourself.  I went with the latter.    It didn't make sense to diminish or devalue this experience because of my preconceived notions.  

 

Now, let me describe Old Town as if I’ve never been there before.  Old Town is a beautiful historic district in Alexandria – with cobble stone streets, red brick sidewalks and red brick buildings.   It has cute little shops and restaurants all along the main street, AKA, King Street.  King Street ends at the waterfront along the Potomac River.   There’s a lot of interesting history nearby such as George Washington’s Mount Vernon and the Alexandria Black History Museum.   

We parked our cars for the weekend and got around either on foot or on the King Street Trolley.   It was the weekend before Christmas and holiday decorations and lights framed store windows and homes.    The trees along King Street were adorned with white lights.  Maybe it was just my imagination, but some lights resembled animals perched in trees.  

Walking along King Street at night reminded me of a Christmas Eve several years ago in Annapolis.   It was a rare occasion in which it was snowing in Maryland on Christmas Eve.   It was also one of those years in which Re and I happened to connect again and went shopping at the mall. Not ready to go home and not threatened by a little snow, we drove to the harbor.  We walked along similar cobblestone streets and shops with holiday decorations.  Most of the shops were closed and the streets were quiet.   At the pier, the boats rested on dark, rippling waters that reflected their white frames and holiday lights.  We went inside one of the coffee shops and watched the snow fall.   That moment was etched in my mind as it seemed rather Dickensian but Re didn’t remember it at all. 

I was satisfied walking around Alexandria in a cloud of holiday nostalgia but we found other things to do.   We mostly walked in and out of shops, casually shopping for ourselves and for others.  There was good food – the first night we went to Joe Theismann's restaurant and the next night we went to The Chart House.  The Chart House sits right along the waterfront so it offers not only an elegant menu but lovely views.  We also took a water taxi from Old Town to the National Harbor.  Sitting outside, it was cold but tolerable because of the bright sun and the beauty of the day.  A family sat in front with us and we shared a single bench along the front of the taxi. With them, a little girl singing and dancing to a song playing from her mother’s phone.  Her cuteness and joy was remarkable – from her pigtails and pink coat down to her white laced socks and black patent leather shoes. We clapped and cheered at the end of her performance.   Arriving at the National Harbor, I could see that a ferris wheel had been constructed since my last visit.  It loomed over the ledge of the pier. We ate at Rosa Mexicano and did a little more shopping  at America!, a tourist gift shop.    I purchased a Christmas ornament of Santa riding Air Force One.   

        Soon, we were back at the pier, waiting for our water taxi to return us to Old Town.  The sun set beautifully over the water and we could see pieces of a rainbow in the sky.  

As quickly as the sun set, the weekend came to a close.  No, it was not my typical getaway.  But does it matter when there’s friendship, good food, sweet memories and rainbows?  

Walking along King Street

Riding the water taxi beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge

The sun setting at the National Harbor

Karen and Re selfie

Chesapeake High School Varsity Volleyball Team - 1986
Me (front, center) and Re (back row, 2cnd from left)

Volleyball Team after a slumber party
Me center, Re on back row right

Fall in Photos

I love everything about the fall – the colors, traditions and celebrations.   Here are some of my favorite fall photos taken over the last few years.

Apartment view - October 2015, Silver Spring, MD

Lunchtime walk - October 2015, Rockville, MD

London Eye -  November 2014, London, England

Whole Foods - October 2014, Silver Spring, MD

Double Rainbow - October 2014, Rockville, MD

Park across from my apartment - November 2013, Washington, DC

Runner up to a superhero (Halloween contest) -
October 2013, Washington, DC

Morning walk and a fright
October 2013, Washington, DC

Pumpkin carving contest at work -  October 2011, Atlanta, GA

My home and my reflection - September 2011, Tucker, GA 

Arabia Mountain Trail - Fall 2010, Lithonia, GA

Arabia Mountain Trail with Arlene, Fall 2010

Stone Mountain Park - November 2010, Stone Mtn, GA

Leaving Work - October 2009, Atlanta, GA

Autumn...the year's last, loveliest smile.  William Cullen Bryant

Happy Hours

It’s not often that I go to happy hour.   People crowded into tight spaces, noise, chatter and boisterous glee – this is not what I need at the end of a long workday.   For me to unwind and recharge, I like to be alone.  Most days, I scurry home to my woman cave.  But every now and then, I crave something different.   So, here I am, off to happy hour.

Exiting at Gallery Place-Chinatown, I make my way up 7^th street.  Seventh Street is its usual carnival of activity. Cars and buses fill the street with their obligatory honking.   People on foot are rushing to get somewhere until slowed by dazed tourists.  And bicycles brazenly cut through it all.  But it’s Friday, and a little more mayhem, somewhere between kids on the last day of school and animals escaping the zoo.

  

I arrive at La Tasca and I’m pleasantly surprised.  There is a sea of dark wood throughout – the flooring, tables, chairs and the bar.   Large, wrought-iron chandeliers hang from the ceilings.   The restaurant is warmed by golden walls.   Red and yellow accented décor remind me that LaTasca has brought Spain to downtown Washington. 

After excusing my way up to the crowded bar, I find James and Hilda.  James greets me with his usual “Heyyyy…KayKay!”  James I’ve known for almost 20 years, and Hilda I only know through James.  A few times a year I go out with them and experience something new.  I once went with them on a bar crawl which was cool until we reached the third or fourth bar, a club with 3 floors.  Shortly after entering, I knew I had had enough.  When they went to another floor, I headed straight to the exit.  Via text, I bid James adieu.

After settling in beside Hilda I look over the menu.  I don’t usually fool around with sangria but La Tasca has seven sangrias on their happy hour menu.  Hilda, a connoisseur of happy hour, says the sangria they’re drinking won’t bother me.  Although my stomach wasn’t convinced, I follow Hilda’s suggestion.  There are only 2 bartenders behind this very long bar and they spastically move from one customer to the next.   Without much effort, Hilda gets the attention of one of the bartenders and orders another pitcher of sangria and my dinner of mini empanadas and calamari from the $4 happy hour tapas menu. 

The three of us chat about everything but nothing in particular.  Hilda and James have been here for 2 hours before my arrival enjoying their sangrias and appetizers.   They had caught up on their lives since last seeing one another.  Hilda’s ability to get the attention of the bartender was impressive and we tease her about it.   Most of our fun is in watching the bartenders and the happy hour patrons crammed around the bar.  These patrons were mostly young professionals and they dressed as if they took their young professional jobs seriously.  We, on the other hand, are not that; but can appreciate those not-so-good-ol-days. 

James went to check the meter and soon after, Hilda and I find ourselves discussing men and dating.  I smiled at the thought of two single gals at a bar talking about men and dating – a bit stereotypical but great fodder for happy hour.  We giggled, raised eyebrows, and pursed our lips as we talked.   We took a more whimsical approach to our single status instead of war stories and hopeless resignation. James has returned and we finish off the last pitcher of the evening.  James asks “Ya’ll ready to go?” which was a statement that it was time to leave.  We made our way out of the restaurant that was still packed with those that had come for happy hour. 

Hilda and I headed to the train station and the last thing I said to James was, “I hope I make it home ok.”   Pointing at me, he answered, “Look, all you have to do is get on the train.”   I nodded like a younger sibling receiving step-by-step instructions.   But first I had to keep up with the fast pace and chirpy conversation of Hilda.  All of this, I did; in spite of a queasy stomach and the dizzy detachment from the happy hour sangrias. 

On the train, I sat back and relaxed; smiling at these last few hours.  I was happy to make it to the metro and down the escalator, amidst moving people and morphed objects.  Happier still, that the contents of my stomach remained intact and in my stomach.  I really enjoyed myself as I was with friends - talking about nothing, eating, drinking, laughing, living.   It was our time to caste off or delay the worries of this life.  Once home, I texted James to let him know that I had made it home and that I was alive.   He said he was glad that I came out.  I texted, “Me too! I had fun!  Imagine that.” To this he replied, “Smh. Imagine.”

For non-texters...Smh = shaking my head

Listening, Reading & Writing

After meeting a friend for lunch last weekend, I visited Second Story Books.  It’s a used and rare bookstore in Dupont Circle that I like to check out when I’m in the area.  About two years ago, I decided to collect books written by or about James Baldwin.   I had a few already and thought I could build a collection.  While at Second Story Books, I was able to pick up my 11^th Baldwin book, Notes of a Native Son.

While perusing the aisles, I discovered a lovely little book by Eudora Welty, One Writer’s Beginnings.  Published in 1983, the memoir was developed from lectures Welty gave at Harvard University. Welty won the Pulitzer Prize for the Optimist’s Daughter.  After I purchased the $3 book, it occurred to me that I was also building a collection of books about writing and publishing.

I love the style of the book and decided to include an excerpt from the book from the chapter on Listening.  I read this passage over many times, as it resonated with my experience as a reader and as a writer.

Ever since I was first read to, then started reading to myself, there has never been a line read that I didn’t hear.   As my eyes followed the sentence, a voice was saying it silently to me.  It isn’t my mother’s voice, or the voice of any person I can identify, certainly not my own.  It is human, but inward, and it is inwardly that I listen to it.  It is to me the voice of the story or the poem itself.  The cadence, whatever it is that asks you to believe, the feeling that resides in the printed word, reaches me through the reader-voice.  I have supposed, but never found out, that this is the case with all readers – to read as listeners -  and with all writers, to write as listeners.  It may be part of the desire to write.  The sound of what falls on the page begins the process of testing it for truth, for me.  Whether I am right to trust so far I don’t know.  By now I don’t know whether I could do either one, reading or writing, without the other.

My own words, when I am at work on a story, I hear too as they go, in the same voice that I hear when I read in books.  When I write and the sound of it comes back to my ears, then I act to make my changes.  I have always trusted this voice.

Eudora Welty

One Writer's Beginnings

Goodbye Summer
Miami 2009

Lost In a Book

I’ve rediscovered my love of reading.  Once again, I feel like that little kid sitting on the floor of her pink bedroom.   My long and sometimes ashy brown legs would be stretched way out against the light green carpet.   I was lost in a book.

I remember this intensely pleasurable reading taking place during the summer of my childhood.  My mother, a school teacher, would be home with us during the long summer months.  As soon as we mentioned that we were bored, Ma would say Bored?  Ok.  Go get your things.  We’re going to the library.  Her tone suggested that we were in some sort of trouble.  I loved to read so I was always a little confused by this parental display.  She piled her 3 kids into the back of the green Chevy Nova and off we went. 

The authors of my childhood were Beverly Cleary, Maya Angelou and Judy Blume.  Not too long after that I discovered James Baldwin.  I don’t remember my mother scrutinizing my stack of books which is why I could slip in James Baldwin at a fairly young age.  At that time children were really children.  This was before cable and the only source of corruption was the Brady Bunch, Threes Company and Fat Albert.  Even if my mother saw me reading James Baldwin she probably thought I was trying to learn about my black history.   

Somewhere along the way I lost my love of reading.  It probably started with all of the volumes of required reading for college and graduate school.  This was followed by jobs that required more reading.  When I got home in the evenings, the last thing I wanted to do was deal with more words.   But I kept reading anyway.  There were moments that I enjoyed but it felt a lot like laundry.  The main difference is that I could remember a time when I loved reading and that memory buoyed me along from book to book. 

It made no sense for me to approach a book like a kid trying to get through a plate full of peas. So I stopped trying.  I would read what I wanted and when I wanted.  I would read an article here and a blog there.  Sometimes I would read parts of books with no goal of completion.  This went on for a few years. 

Last May, I was with my walking buddy Arlene and we decided to visit a new library we noticed on our way to Arabia Mountain.  We casually walked around the library marveling at the architecture.  Eventually we got to the books to check out their selection.  Suddenly I had this urge to read which took me by surprise.   I ended up choosing Jonah’s Gourd Vine by Zorah Neale Hurston which was first published in 1934.  I loved the wonderfully flawed main character of preacher John Pearson.  The dialect was challenging and delightful.

I then turned to my own bookshelf for the next selection, Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin.   I savored every word.  When I finished the last chapter, I declared once again that Baldwin is the best.  Now, I’m reading Anne Lamott’s book – Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.  She has some very practical suggestions that I find quite helpful.  I’m amused by her use of lavish sarcasm.

I continue to read as I can.  I take my time.   I lay across my bed with only a night lamp on and sometimes I burn a candle.  And the sensation is the same as it was a long, long time ago.



Note:  First posted on breakfastatkarens.blogspot.com on 9/18/12  

Summer Reading- How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

Summer is for reading and summer is a time to be carefree.  So, I tend to keep my reading light.  I stay away from most non-fiction; especially anything geared towards self-improvement or serious biographies.  Maybe that’s why I was drawn to “How I Became a Famous Novelist” by Steve Hely. While wandering the aisles of the Mount Pleasant Library, I noticed a bright yellow book on one of the shelves.  On the cover was a tornado and white pieces of paper strewn about.  Something about the cover design, including a title in red and blue font, seemed contradictory, humorous; even juvenile.   I wondered what the book was really about.  After reading the back cover, I discovered that the book is a parody of the literary industry.

Standing in the library aisle, I read the first two pages.  The first was an excerpt from the “Tornado Ashes Club”, the book that the main character (Pete Tarslaw) writes that will make him famous.  This gives you a taste of Pete’s writing.  It’s horrendous and terribly hokey.  The second page begins with a great line “You have to understand how bad things were for me back then.”   I was intrigued by this simple line, hoping that this would provide insight into how someone writing so poorly could become a famous novelist.  So, I checked the book out.

When we first meet Pete, he is post-college and employed by a shady employer writing college entrance essays for wealthy kids.  He doesn’t seem to be motivated by much in life until he receives an invitation from his ex- girlfriend (Polly) to attend her wedding.  It is then that he decides to become a famous novelist so that he can show up at the wedding to make Polly feel as if she married the wrong guy.

Once Pete comes up with this brazen idea, he sits down and writes 4 goals for himself (in Pete’s words): fame, financial comfort, stately home by the ocean or scenic lake and humiliate Polly at her wedding.  Pete also comes up with 16 rules for writing his novel.  Here are a few:

• Abandon truth

• Write a popular book.  Do not waste energy on writing a good book.

• Include nothing from my own life.

• Must include a murder

• Give readers versions of themselves, infused with extra awesomeness.

• At dull points, include descriptions of delicious meals.

• Include plant names

• Must include a club, secrets/mysterious missions, shy characters whose lives are changed suddenly, surprising love affairs, women who’ve given up on love but turn out to be beautiful

Pete’s motivation for writing and his rules are blasphemous for those that view books and writing sacredly.   Even if you do, Hely will cause you to laugh about it.

Hely also intertwines other characters and story lines that keep the book moving along while we watch Pete write his novel.  Some that stand out are his roommate Hobart, his aunt Evelyn and employer John Sturgis.  There are outrageous encounters with famous authors and a movie producer.

In the end, Pete finishes the book and becomes a famous novelist.   He describes his pinball route to fame into 4 distinct stages.  One includes a famous actress swinging his book at paparazzi and the photo ends up on the cover of a magazine.  Later, as I personally hoped, Pete will crash and burn.  He attends Polly’s wedding and humiliates himself while in a drunken stupor.  

The book is a worthy read and jam-packed funny.  Sometimes I would laugh out loud or get the giggles while reading the book in public.  It’s obvious that Hely is a comedy writer.

No book is perfect.  At the beginning of most chapters, there are one page excerpts from fictional books, manuscripts, newspaper columns and email communications. This slowed me down as I tried to figure out how each tied into the next chapter. Mostly it demonstrated Hely’s impressive writing skills as he had to create all of these with a unique voice and writing style.  One such example that I loved was Hely’s recreation of the New York Times best sellers list that includes book titles such as “Cracked Like Teeth,” “They Play Red Rover in Heaven,” “Jockstraps Ain’t for Eating,” and “The Jane Austin Women’s Investigators.”

Another challenge with the book was the ending.  It was adequate but seemed abrupt or incomplete.   Midway through, I wondered how Hely would end the book. I liken it to being in the last season of a really good TV series like Mad Men, BoardWalk Empire or Six Feet Under.  I know there’s a good chance that I’m going to be disappointed.   It’s always hard to wrap up a really good thing.