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.

Latest Reads

All fiction is true.  I read that somewhere.  I wanted to attribute that to Chinua Achebe but when I did a quick internet search I couldn’t find it.  I really held my quick search to about 15 minutes.  I’ve tried “quick” searches before in an effort to find material to support my writing only to emerge a couple of hours later with absolutely nothing. Along the way I would find myself about to purchase shoes online, listening to music and then to facebook and somehow I find myself on a website about people that look like their pets.   

So forget Chinua Achebe and what he might have said.  Instead, I found this quote by Emerson which was on brainyquote.com: Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.

I thought about this as I finished my latest read The Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah.  I had mentioned in a previous post that I discovered that I could get in a lot of reading while riding the metro to and from work.  I was able to get through this book in three weeks.  Sister Souljah really took me on a wild ride with this fictional tale although I believe that all of these characters are recreated from her experiences. These characters live in some form in everyone.  To see it, most would have to get past the obvious - a black, drug dealing family in Brooklyn.   You can go to work every day and encounter people who are schemers and do not hesitate to stomp out other people for their own advancement.  Let’s not forget all of the functional alcoholics and those with drug problems in the workplace.  Our experiences may just be more sanitized and politically correct.

I was very impressed with the book because of the development of the characters.  Souljah provided a lot of different angles to consider regarding these characters.  The characters were multidimensional and had depth which isn’t how black characters are often portrayed.  She handled them sympathetically. 

Prior to this, I had read Amy Tan’s book The Opposite of Faith which is about her writing life.   It was interesting reading a work of fiction following a book about a writer of fiction.  In Tan’s book I read about her writing process.  In Souljah’s book, I often thought about her writing process and the choices that she made in her storytelling.  I think this was also her first work of fiction so I gotta give the sistah a break and hey, it was a national best seller.  But I wonder about choices made in writing in almost everything that I read.  I think that most people are this way.

For my next read, instead of purchasing something new, I think that I will go to my bookshelf and pull out something that has been waiting to be read.  I’m contemplating picking up ‘Tis again by Frank McCourt. ‘Tis is a memoir about his life in the U.S.   I read some of it many years ago.  It did not grab me like Angela’s Ashes which was about McCourt’s life in Ireland.  That’s kinda unfair to expect the same thing again when it is a different book.   I’m sure that he was a different person when he was writing it.    I find McCourt fascinating because he didn’t write Angela’s Ashes until after he had retired from 30 years of teaching.  Anyone worried about their dreams deferred can look to McCourt for inspiration.

Time to Read

Of course I believe that everyone should read.  I enjoy television but books stretch your mind more. Unlike TV, books don’t tell you every doggone thing to think or feel by way of sound and visual effects. There is also the liberal use and reliance on stereotypes.   With a book, your mind has more work to do in terms of experiencing the characters, the scenes and filling in the blanks.  Long after I have finished a book, I continue to wonder about the characters and what happened to them.

I am always challenged with finding the time to read.  I’m a busy lady.  I guess I could find a way to un-busy myself.  When I was much younger, I would read a lot at night while in bed.  As a child, I read throughout the summer.  But now, reading at night just puts me to sleep and as an adult there really isn’t any difference from one season to the next since I don’t get summers off.   

I am amused that I can write at night but I can’t seem to read at night.  I’m pretty sure you have to be able to read in order to write. 

Not too long ago I had a not-so-deep revelation.  I discovered that I could get in some solid reading time during my bus ride to work.  I’ve been riding the metro to work for about a year now.   I would sit on the bus watching other people read.  A few times, I brought parts of the Sunday Washington Post to read.  You can imagine that could be annoying to me and to others.   Even with my long arms, constantly opening and folding and not trying to elbow anyone was a challenge.  And who really wants to listen to a noisy paper being opened and folded repeatedly at 7 am in a crowded, enclosed space?   Although a presumed natural progression, this did not lead me to try to read a book.

Nope.  Instead, I would allow my idle mind to wander here and there.  And just like Ma said, an idle mind is the workshop of the devil.  I wondered why the lady in front of me would choose a wig that appeared to be a bird’s nest on her head.   Other times I would replay a recent experience that left me angry, sad or feeling diminished in some way.  I needed to give my mind something constructive to do.   

Then one day, on my way out the door, I grabbed Amy Tan’s The Opposite of Fate.  I had picked up and put down this book so many times over the last few years.  Just last week I finally finished it.  The book is about her life and her creative process.  She seems to be coming from an honest place.  I learned a lot from it and it will help you to see that you can get your creative work done in spite of life happening to you and in spite of yourself. 

I like to follow non-fiction with fiction.  So I picked up The Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah.  I had been hearing about this book for years.  She is taking me on a wild ride that I love.  She is quite clever and I can’t contain my amusement.  That’s one great thing about riding the metro; nothing really seems to be that odd.  It’s perfectly acceptable for me to periodically laugh out loud.