One thing about these rainy summer months is that it gives me plenty of time to read. (Although, truly, if it were nice outside, would I really be Out There instead of in here reading? I am known for my aversion towards the sun. Sort of like a vampire, only without the penchant for blood, black capes and dramatic overtures to women with immaculate necks.) Over a seven day period, I have devoured four books, ranging in quality from meh to wow! Let's take a look at them, shall we?
When you are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris—There's a wrestler by the name of Terry Funk who was taking blows to the head and being slammed into barbed wire well into his 50s and maybe even 60s. By then the announcers would refer to him as "middle-aged and crazy". For some reason, I thought of that phrase as I read this book. David Sedaris is a humorist, who writes about his life, both the odd and the mundane, in a conversational tone. I was actually surprised how much I enjoyed this book. He talks about a number of things I can't really relate to, including drugs, alcohol, smoking, living abroad, and, most shocking of all, keeping a spider as a pet. *Shudder*. In the end, though, he uses wit, wordplay and occasionally self-deprecation to put readers at ease, and let them into his thoughts, as strange as those might be.
A Model World and Other Stories, by Michael Chabon-This is a short story collection from years back; only his second published work. Although I liked a few tales, and appreciated the ambition of following one character's life through several short stories, this collection was a bit disappointing overall, considering how much I loved his other works. You can clearly see where he has yet to advance as a writer, and where he forsakes plot and character to get lost in flowery language. This short collection doesn’t reflect the brilliance of his later novels or essays.
Relentless, by Dean Koontz-This one is the hardest to classify. I read it over the course of two evenings, so there was clearly something to enjoy, yet the plot suffers because of easy outs taken by the author. Too many coincidences and sci-fi elements muck up the second half of the book, I mean, really, what are the odds that the characters happen to have a genius five-year-old son who just happens to invent two impossibly complicated devices that figure so prominently in the climax; or that the wife just happens to have a family who not only is gun crazy, but have seemingly unlimited resources and a hidden, underground bunker. Like I said, too many coincidences. It also suffers from what I refer to as the Koontz Ending. Frequently in his books, Koontz builds up the "big bad" only to have them be defeated rather quickly and easily in the end after the protagonists go through much suffering. So, even with all its faults, why did I find it hard to put down? Although Koontz may have taken the lazy approach to plot, he puts a lot of effort into character and dialogue. The main protagonist, writer Cullen "Cubby" Greenwich, is not only likeable, but he reminds me a bit of me (without the tragic secret/backstory). He's wisecracking, loving and appreciates the written word. The hilarious exchange with his agent, who is pushing him to write a sequel to The Great Gatsby, Jaws and other literary works, makes any plot holes totally worthwhile. This is a person I want to know and this is someone who I will follow to the end of the book, even if the circumstances get a little hokey towards the end.
I am the Messenger, by Markus Zusak-A fantastic book, without a doubt. The characters are alive and rich; the story is original, heartfelt and meaningful. It's classified as a teen book, though there's enough swearing in it that I wonder about that designation. It truly is an adult book about growing up, realizing your potential and coming away from your own life to help others who may not be as fortunate. It's one of those books that make you sad when it ends. These are characters I want to know and that keep me coming back page after page. Between this book and The Book Thief, this author is making a very clear and wonderful impression on me.
Despite my busy schedule, and even though my wife and I have a ton of adoption related stuff to deal with still, I always find time for books, both good and bad. Oh, and about a palette of comic books. Yeah, I just made up that measurement.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Literary currency
A picture, we are told, is worth 1 000 words.
That's a horrible exchange rate, if you ask me. Has anyone thought to check the ticker in the last few centuries to see if it's gotten any closer to par? It is way past time for writers to come up with their own system of "art currency"; one that fairly reflects the real worth of words. (For a brief and perhaps inaccurate [considering the source] history lesson on this expression, visit Wikipedia)
First, let us talk about value of writers, because words are only as good as the writer who wields them. There is a presumption Out There that because most people use writing to a certain extent in their every day lives (memos, e-mails, crank letters to the editor), that anyone can write, that it’s an easier dream to attain. An artist, though, is seen as having a great talent that cannot be duplicated. This isn't to say that we don't appreciate our authors, but if you ask around, I'm willing to bet that a lot more people have a dream of being a writer than an artist. This, by virtue of the fact that they say to themselves, "I know English, I'm well read, I have that story my Great Aunt Flo used to tell me about that fishing trip to Poughkeepsie. I bet I could write that down and become a Writer!" So pretty much any schmo with a laptop can sit down one day and claim to be a writer, while those same schmos know that they would not be able to sit down at an easel and be an artist.
Ah, but what goes into being a writer? Most would say that you are a writer when you are published, which is partly true, because for most people, unless you are independently wealthy or are a "starving artist", you are a writer slash something. (some are lucky enough, like me, to be a writer slash writer, but I digress). Being a writer/something comes with the knowledge that although writing is a serious goal, it could be seen by some right now as a hobby that you do in your spare time. I am of the opinion, however, that an unpublished writer is no less of one than a painter who has never held a gallery showing is considered less of an artist. Either way, stories and art are being produced. Whether people read or see them are inconsequential. But that doesn't mean that just anyone can be a writer...
So if you don't have to be published, what do you need to be a writer? In my mind, writing takes a few things: a sound knowledge of grammar; a knack for storytelling and having a story worth telling; an ability to paint a picture with words; the commitment to telling the truth; a history of reading a broad range of material; the dedication to finishing something you started, no matter how long it takes. Some of these can be learned and others will evolve over time, but they are all things that people need to have a rudimentary sense of in order to be a writer. In this way, a writer needs just as much talent and training and has to work just as hard as an artist for his or her craft.
Now that we know the merit of a good writer, how much are words worth?
Consider this sentence:
Tragic, no? Tugs at the heartstrings, don't it? Did you shed a tear or two? You know you did. You can see the pain of a mother as she clutches at her child; the shock, the feeling of helplessness, of fear. You wonder what happened to bring this about and you wonder what comes next. This, my friends, is why words are worth any number of pictures. With these 15 words, you are transported to your own imagination, you are caught up in a story and you are invested emotionally in an intense situation. A photo may be able to capture this image, but with words, you can truly feel like you are there. (And just so you don't worry, the blood turned out to be ketchup; he was playing a prank on his mother. Watched too many episodes of Punk'd. He got grounded for two weeks, missed playing in the playoffs at little league. Didn't get a trophy. Very sad. Kids today)
So the next time you are at a gallery and you hear someone say that a picture is worth 1 000 words, you turn around and say, "You might be able to describe a picture in 1 000 words, but
1 000 words can paint a picture more vivid than any on canvas."
I've just checked the ticker, we're finally at par.
That's a horrible exchange rate, if you ask me. Has anyone thought to check the ticker in the last few centuries to see if it's gotten any closer to par? It is way past time for writers to come up with their own system of "art currency"; one that fairly reflects the real worth of words. (For a brief and perhaps inaccurate [considering the source] history lesson on this expression, visit Wikipedia)
First, let us talk about value of writers, because words are only as good as the writer who wields them. There is a presumption Out There that because most people use writing to a certain extent in their every day lives (memos, e-mails, crank letters to the editor), that anyone can write, that it’s an easier dream to attain. An artist, though, is seen as having a great talent that cannot be duplicated. This isn't to say that we don't appreciate our authors, but if you ask around, I'm willing to bet that a lot more people have a dream of being a writer than an artist. This, by virtue of the fact that they say to themselves, "I know English, I'm well read, I have that story my Great Aunt Flo used to tell me about that fishing trip to Poughkeepsie. I bet I could write that down and become a Writer!" So pretty much any schmo with a laptop can sit down one day and claim to be a writer, while those same schmos know that they would not be able to sit down at an easel and be an artist.
Ah, but what goes into being a writer? Most would say that you are a writer when you are published, which is partly true, because for most people, unless you are independently wealthy or are a "starving artist", you are a writer slash something. (some are lucky enough, like me, to be a writer slash writer, but I digress). Being a writer/something comes with the knowledge that although writing is a serious goal, it could be seen by some right now as a hobby that you do in your spare time. I am of the opinion, however, that an unpublished writer is no less of one than a painter who has never held a gallery showing is considered less of an artist. Either way, stories and art are being produced. Whether people read or see them are inconsequential. But that doesn't mean that just anyone can be a writer...
So if you don't have to be published, what do you need to be a writer? In my mind, writing takes a few things: a sound knowledge of grammar; a knack for storytelling and having a story worth telling; an ability to paint a picture with words; the commitment to telling the truth; a history of reading a broad range of material; the dedication to finishing something you started, no matter how long it takes. Some of these can be learned and others will evolve over time, but they are all things that people need to have a rudimentary sense of in order to be a writer. In this way, a writer needs just as much talent and training and has to work just as hard as an artist for his or her craft.
Now that we know the merit of a good writer, how much are words worth?
Consider this sentence:
"The woman, numb and trembling, collapsed over her broken child, the
blood soaking her blouse."
Tragic, no? Tugs at the heartstrings, don't it? Did you shed a tear or two? You know you did. You can see the pain of a mother as she clutches at her child; the shock, the feeling of helplessness, of fear. You wonder what happened to bring this about and you wonder what comes next. This, my friends, is why words are worth any number of pictures. With these 15 words, you are transported to your own imagination, you are caught up in a story and you are invested emotionally in an intense situation. A photo may be able to capture this image, but with words, you can truly feel like you are there. (And just so you don't worry, the blood turned out to be ketchup; he was playing a prank on his mother. Watched too many episodes of Punk'd. He got grounded for two weeks, missed playing in the playoffs at little league. Didn't get a trophy. Very sad. Kids today)
So the next time you are at a gallery and you hear someone say that a picture is worth 1 000 words, you turn around and say, "You might be able to describe a picture in 1 000 words, but
1 000 words can paint a picture more vivid than any on canvas."
I've just checked the ticker, we're finally at par.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
If a blogger blogs and there's no one around to read it, has anything been written?
Neil Gaiman recently wrote a blog entry titled "The Unblogged Life", which certainly describes me in the past month. After returning from our vacation, my wife and I made a monumental decision, which has taken up most of my time and forced me to venture outside the house far more than usual. We have begun the adoption process.
I'm told that children are not something you just jump into, not like buying a house or a car; you have to plan and prepare for the eventual upheaval of your life. No more so is that evident than with adoption. In Ontario, there are rules stacked on rules, with more rules peaking out from beneath tables, ready to trip you up if you aren't careful. We've begun the process with a few weekends’ worth of classes, as well as with many articles and books.
And the forms! I've never seen so much paperwork! Not only "sign-here-please" forms, but full on essays on our lives, delving into our childhood, our marriage, our families, our parental views, what we had for breakfast and so much more. It's invasive, it's time-consuming, but in the end, it is all worth it.
So now you perhaps understand where I've been, what I've been doing and why, in the next few months, postings will be sparse. I haven't, however, been lapse in my reading. Here are some of the books I've read in the last month, which come highly recommended:
The Alchemist: A short book, but a poignant one about following your dreams and never giving up, and perhaps realizing that it was never about the destination, but about the journey. Also, never be too wrapped up in yourself that you miss the signs the world gives you (And before you ask, I’ve already tried. I can’t go to Dairy Queen just because I saw the commercial. “Honey, it’s a sign that I need ice cream!” “No, it isn’t dear. It’s a sign that you watch too much TV”).
The Book Thief: One of the best books that I've read in quite some time. A unique narrative flow (it is narrated by Death, who jumps through the years to tell the tale and interrupts with his own interpretations and views), yet, instead of jarring, it is wholly appropriate given the subject matter. It is sad, funny, haunting, memorable and heart-warming. The prose flows like honey, making even the bitterest scenes go down easy. There are many things to take away from this book, but what hit me the most was the power of words; the impact they have en mass and for individuals. This is essentially a love letter for the written word and a warning to use words carefully, because an errant one can not only hurt, it can kill.
Smoke and Mirrors: A fantastic short story collection by a master of his craft. What strikes me the most about reading any work by Neil Gaiman is the extent of his imagination and the boundlessness of what he can conjure up. He makes connections with words that few of us can see, and no matter how many times I read the same tale, I am always entertained in a different way. His books, short stories, etc., are like sitting in front of a fire, listening to an old man who you just met, but who seems vaguely familiar, tell you a story that takes you back to a time where all things are possible. Oh, and since Neil Gaiman is English, I always picture the old man with an English accent. Classes up the joint.
Whiteout Vol. 1 & 2: Two excellent comic book collections, featuring a murder mystery and a “high speed” chase respectively, both taking place in the harsh climate of Antarctica. Wonderful characters, superb art and a hard-nosed US Marshall all make for an enjoyable trip.
Blankets: Not all comics need be superheroes, procedurals or genre specific. This graphic novel, clocking in at more than 550 pages, tells the tale of the writer/artist's childhood, his first love and his relationship with his brother, his family and the world. It is a character study, which must have been cathartic to create. Craig Thompson bares his soul; his pain as a troubled child and an awkward teen; his struggle with religion; and the overwhelming urge to follow his heart. I haven't read many non-superhero, non-genre related graphic novels / comics, but this one definitely proves that, like books, this medium has something for everyone.
Calvin and Hobbes: I've had this collection for a few years; my wife got it for me for my birthday (I still feel bad that I asked for this, as I was unaware that it weighed over 20 pounds. My wife literally had to drag it back to her office over lunch). I have already read through the collection at least twice, but I was compelled to pull it out again a few days ago after I felt the need for some "comfort food". Starting with Peanuts when I was very young, comic strips have always had a way of calming me down, relaxing me instantly. Each strip transported me to a simple world. A monochromatic world, in most cases, where site gags ruled and the sarcasm and characters flew off the page. Calvin and Hobbes was one such collection, the imagination and ingenuity oozing from each panel. For me, whenever life seems to get overwhelming, whenever something's bothering me, I know that I can open up a page of this book and lose myself in an age of innocence. That, for me, is heaven, and it is one of the reasons that I so enjoy not only comic strips and comic books, but the written word in general, no matter where I find it.
And so, my wife and I continue our adoption journey, one that will keep me busy, keep me up at nights, and keep me from writing, but it is a journey we will make together, and one we will happily make. And in the meantime, I'll lose myself in the words when I need to and pop my head in occasionally to let you know that I haven't forsaken you, my legion of fan.
I'm told that children are not something you just jump into, not like buying a house or a car; you have to plan and prepare for the eventual upheaval of your life. No more so is that evident than with adoption. In Ontario, there are rules stacked on rules, with more rules peaking out from beneath tables, ready to trip you up if you aren't careful. We've begun the process with a few weekends’ worth of classes, as well as with many articles and books.
And the forms! I've never seen so much paperwork! Not only "sign-here-please" forms, but full on essays on our lives, delving into our childhood, our marriage, our families, our parental views, what we had for breakfast and so much more. It's invasive, it's time-consuming, but in the end, it is all worth it.
So now you perhaps understand where I've been, what I've been doing and why, in the next few months, postings will be sparse. I haven't, however, been lapse in my reading. Here are some of the books I've read in the last month, which come highly recommended:
The Alchemist: A short book, but a poignant one about following your dreams and never giving up, and perhaps realizing that it was never about the destination, but about the journey. Also, never be too wrapped up in yourself that you miss the signs the world gives you (And before you ask, I’ve already tried. I can’t go to Dairy Queen just because I saw the commercial. “Honey, it’s a sign that I need ice cream!” “No, it isn’t dear. It’s a sign that you watch too much TV”).
The Book Thief: One of the best books that I've read in quite some time. A unique narrative flow (it is narrated by Death, who jumps through the years to tell the tale and interrupts with his own interpretations and views), yet, instead of jarring, it is wholly appropriate given the subject matter. It is sad, funny, haunting, memorable and heart-warming. The prose flows like honey, making even the bitterest scenes go down easy. There are many things to take away from this book, but what hit me the most was the power of words; the impact they have en mass and for individuals. This is essentially a love letter for the written word and a warning to use words carefully, because an errant one can not only hurt, it can kill.
Smoke and Mirrors: A fantastic short story collection by a master of his craft. What strikes me the most about reading any work by Neil Gaiman is the extent of his imagination and the boundlessness of what he can conjure up. He makes connections with words that few of us can see, and no matter how many times I read the same tale, I am always entertained in a different way. His books, short stories, etc., are like sitting in front of a fire, listening to an old man who you just met, but who seems vaguely familiar, tell you a story that takes you back to a time where all things are possible. Oh, and since Neil Gaiman is English, I always picture the old man with an English accent. Classes up the joint.
Whiteout Vol. 1 & 2: Two excellent comic book collections, featuring a murder mystery and a “high speed” chase respectively, both taking place in the harsh climate of Antarctica. Wonderful characters, superb art and a hard-nosed US Marshall all make for an enjoyable trip.
Blankets: Not all comics need be superheroes, procedurals or genre specific. This graphic novel, clocking in at more than 550 pages, tells the tale of the writer/artist's childhood, his first love and his relationship with his brother, his family and the world. It is a character study, which must have been cathartic to create. Craig Thompson bares his soul; his pain as a troubled child and an awkward teen; his struggle with religion; and the overwhelming urge to follow his heart. I haven't read many non-superhero, non-genre related graphic novels / comics, but this one definitely proves that, like books, this medium has something for everyone.
Calvin and Hobbes: I've had this collection for a few years; my wife got it for me for my birthday (I still feel bad that I asked for this, as I was unaware that it weighed over 20 pounds. My wife literally had to drag it back to her office over lunch). I have already read through the collection at least twice, but I was compelled to pull it out again a few days ago after I felt the need for some "comfort food". Starting with Peanuts when I was very young, comic strips have always had a way of calming me down, relaxing me instantly. Each strip transported me to a simple world. A monochromatic world, in most cases, where site gags ruled and the sarcasm and characters flew off the page. Calvin and Hobbes was one such collection, the imagination and ingenuity oozing from each panel. For me, whenever life seems to get overwhelming, whenever something's bothering me, I know that I can open up a page of this book and lose myself in an age of innocence. That, for me, is heaven, and it is one of the reasons that I so enjoy not only comic strips and comic books, but the written word in general, no matter where I find it.
And so, my wife and I continue our adoption journey, one that will keep me busy, keep me up at nights, and keep me from writing, but it is a journey we will make together, and one we will happily make. And in the meantime, I'll lose myself in the words when I need to and pop my head in occasionally to let you know that I haven't forsaken you, my legion of fan.
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