A Random Self-Help Title

I read a self-help book, but I don't feel like telling everybody what I wanted help with. So I'm just logging it here... there, I read it.

It didn't help.

The Help

So I finally broke down and read The Help. Everyone was doing it. How could I not? I’ve always been desperate to fit in with everyone, so this just seemed inevitable. (My pathetic-ness is even worse when you find out that the only reason I read it was because I got wind of an upcoming chick-movie outing that I wanted to be a part of, so I had to hurry up and read it so the movie didn’t ruin the book for me.)

Anyway, so what did I think? Not bad. Pretty good. Actually, I thoroughly enjoyed the book. I started reading with a purpose (get it done as quickly as possible so I can go see the movie) and ended with a much more enjoyable purpose (get to the end as quickly as possible because I want to know what happens, darn it!). I thought it was well thought-out and the voices of the three narrators were realistic and clear. It was especially impressive as a debut novel from an unknown author. I was impressed by the Stockett's creativity (although there are rumors that some of her episodes were “borrowed” from real-life incidents) and was impressed by her willingness to beat her characters up a little bit.

It gets tiresome to read the same story of the heroine over and over again- you know, the one who tries, tries, tries, only does the right thing, but the world just keeps screwing her over and just when she thinks she’s as far down as she can get the clouds open and boom! Happily ever after. This story isn’t like that. The characters are a part of the action rather than merely being affected by it. What I liked most about them is that even though they were likable and crusading to do a good thing, they were each nice and flawed. They did good things, they did bad things. They were strong, they buckled under pressure. They were brave, they were chicken. You get it. Really, it’s not hard to get.

And there’s the rub. Really, it’s not that hard to get. Because what we have here is a story- a very good one, don’t get me wrong- about racial relations in the 60s in the south. Stories of which, point of fact, we have many. So I’m going to just be a complete snob here and say that I honestly didn’t think it was that groundbreaking of a book. Sorry, reviewers and ladies and socialites and maids- but really, did we honestly learn anything that new here? I don’t think so. We learned that some rich white ladies in the 60s were small-minded, manipulative witches. Oh, wait, we knew that. Okay, so we learned that some rich white ladies in the 60s were actually human and treated everyone they met with a standard degree of respect. Oh, wait, we knew that too. Okay, so we learned that some black ladies that worked as maids got pushed around, some were treated like queens, some actually ruled the roost at the house they worked at, some did indeed rip off their rich white employers, and some were falsely accused of doing such a thing. Oh. Wait. We knew that. Bottom line is, we know that the south was racially charged back in the 60s. (Truthfully, it still is, but of course nothing like it was back around the beginning of the civil rights movement.) This book- let’s be honest here- didn’t really shed any new light on an admittedly ugly subject.

There’s been a lot of talk about this book: “It’ll change your life…”, “You’ll never see a housekeeper the same way again…”, “It’s just as controversial as To Kill a Mockingbird was…” Come on. None of that’s true. If it changes your life, you were living in a bubble. If you never look at a housekeeper the same way again, you were definitely looking at housekeepers in the wrong way to begin with. And comparing this book to To Kill a Mockingbird? Nonsense. Harper Lee probably wrote To Kill a Mockingbird just so that books like this would eventually be commonplace on our shelves. It was written back in 1960, when most people had never even heard of Martin Luther King, Jr. and black skin was considered diseased by the most enlightened of society. It was bold, daring, and made a huge impact on society and literature that we still compare other works to today. And then…The Help hit the shelves fifty years later. Wow, way to stir things up. Really. If we haven’t heard and learned from the tales of the civil rights movement by now, fifty years later, well, there’s just no hope for us. We didn’t need another story to teach us a valuable lesson. History should have already done that.

So, groundbreaking? Meh. “Most important piece of fiction since To Kill a Mockingbird?” Hay-all no. But a great book? Definitely! Really! It was a great book! I highly recommend it! Just… don’t go casting your votes for the Pulitzer just yet. I’m sure we’ve got another story about holocaust survivors on the way that should take that impact-on-society award hands down…

Where the Red Fern Grows

I’m not sure what it is about certain books that makes me keep going back to read them over and over, but this book is one of those. I first met this book back in elementary school when at some point a teacher read it aloud and then showed us the movie. I’m not really sure why people thought this was a good book for kids considering all the blood, gore, and violence, but whatever- I liked it. Loved it, in fact, and read and re-read it over and over again despite the ending which, to this day, will still get me a little choked up and make me go hug my dog.

In fact, I pretty much have to read the whole book cuddled up next to Old Dog (who turns 13 this week) because the main character’s relationship with his dogs is just as dysfunctional as mine. Billy is one of those people who has an unnatural symbiotic attachment to his canine friends, as do I, so now I relate even more to the story than I did when I was a kid. Just a boy and his dogs, making their way through the big bad woods of the Ozarks… ah, poetic. And then there’s me- just a girl and her dog, making their way through the big bad wilderness of the Pacific Northwest… ok, there’s nothing poetic about my life or about my unhealthy attachment to my dog, but still- those of us who are dog lovers love books like this. The boy is telling us the story, but the heroes are the dogs and we all know it. First the dogs teach him how to be a (miniature) adult- he is only 12 after all, then they give him something to live for, and then when they will get in the way of the better life they’ve helped create for him they do the hero’s thing and step aside for the greater good. Wow, what a story. You can almost hear the inspirational music.

But it’s a book, so no music- but luckily we have an even more epic indicator of our heroes’ awesomeness: the striking visual of a red fern. Ah, there it is, the payoff we’ve been waiting for. Was it all for naught? Will their struggle, suffering, and perseverance pay off? Will it be worth it in the end? Of course it will. Here’s a plant for your trouble. Makes it all good, right?

I should probably be poking fun at this, but I just can’t. This was one of those definitive childhood books for me, so I’m not going to mess with its memory by picking apart the goofiness of it all. It’s a kids’ book, after all, so let’s give it some license. I better just stop and say, if you haven’t read this book, you probably should. It’s no Nobel winner or anything, but you’ll like it. If you don’t, I’m guessing you probably just have no soul. So read, enjoy, and go hug your dog.

Library Cat-a-Log

Don’t worry, I don’t always pour buckets of self-righteous complaints upon the books that I read. Sometimes I even enjoy the books that I read. (I’ll write about those, too, I have a couple in the queue that I can’t wait to talk about.) This book, however, is NOT one of those lucky few that makes my awesome list. In fact, I’ll just tell you right now: I have nothing nice to say about this book at all, I’m about to rip it to shreds, there will be spoilers, there will be smug self-assured criticism, and if I have my way, there will be blood. Ok, probably not blood. But you’ve heard the term bleed onto the page? Well, this author did not bleed onto the page. But I did. While reading it. It was so bad my eyes literally bled. Right on the page. That’s right. I said literally.

There are many reasons I hated the book. I can’t share them all, because I believe this is a storage-restricted blog. But I will sum up my loathing for these pages in one simple, always-true concept: Just because you can does NOT mean you should.

Period.

That’s it. Anybody, yes, ANYBODY can write a book. All you have to do is put enough words in order to create a length that can be considered a novel. But just because you know how to string a sentence together does not give you the right to stir up some tripe with a side of nonsense, self-publish it, and wave it in front of my face under the guise of an actual literary achievement.

Now, don’t get me wrong here- I’m all for creativity among the masses. I know and enjoy reading many, many an amateur writer who can create short stories, novellas, and novels that are both spellbinding and worth reading. (They are also, incidentally, punctuated.) Heck, I myself celebrate the NaNos and threw in my 50,000 words with the best of ‘em. I have a T-shirt that loudly proclaims my status as novelist, woo hoo! But know why you don’t see my book on the shelves? ‘Cause it sucks. That’s right, sucks. I know suck when I see it, and that bit of nonsense that I babbled onto the page wasn’t even worthy of finishing, so I didn’t. See what I did there? That’s called discernment. It is the act of exhibiting good judgment. I had it. It’s something that every professional anything should really attempt to use in their day to day activities.

So. Just because you have the ability to write a novel does not mean that you should. But even if you do go ahead and write something that you arrogantly believe to be an amazing novel, well, you still have to get it published. And if you get rejected by five publishing houses, perhaps you should, I don’t know, consider the fact that your book may not be the literary treasure that you think it is? And if you are doing all that waiting for your rejection letters, perhaps you should, I don’t know, spend your time editing your piece of junk, er, literary treasure? Heck, screw the editing, maybe you should just proofread it, eh?

Here’s a side bit: when I was a kid I used to notice typos in the books that I read. (Okay, maybe “notice” is a little too light of a word, I actually sat there with a magnifying glass and a notebook to document all the errors I found in the final printings.) I found an average of one typo per book, which I considered to be an excellent ratio. After all, I type documents that are only 20-30 pages, and I’m certain that I myself have never caught every single typo in my work. Typo per book? Perfectly acceptable.

Back to it: therefore, the first typo in this book didn’t faze me all that much. Nor did the second. After all, after about 47 references in the first 20 pages to downtown Portland, it was clear I was reading a self-published book from a local author that was being supported by the local library, which is where I picked up this gem. After the 117^th typo, however, I stopped keeping track. Yes, I was keeping track. I started making tick marks after the 10^th or 11^th because I was so blown away by how bad these things were. I’m not just talking about a random capitalization here or a semicolon instead of a colon. Those are annoying, yes, but not nearly as confusing as, say, quotation marks around entire paragraphs that weren’t actually speeches- or quotation marks that started in the middle of a sentence. (Yes, both of those happened.) Or perhaps dialogue between two people that isn’t broken into paragraphs or sentences or makes any use of quotation or punctuation marks whatsoever. (See how confusing that not-a-real sentence was to read? Imagine a whole book like that.) Or my favorite how-the-heck-did-they-miss-this-in-the-read-through moment: seven, count ‘em, seven pages of reversing italics with standard font. How does one confuse those, you ask? Well, see, it’s simple. When the cat is communicating telepathically, his voice is in italics. When there is regular dialogue or narrative, we’re back to standard font. Except when you haven’t PROOFREAD your BOOK and you REVERSE this, so the reader spends SEVEN PAGES trying to figure out why “she walked down the hall, waiting for Milo to follow her” is in super-mysterious italics. Not annoying AT ALL. Perhaps you notice my frustration? Good. I’m trying to communicate emotion in print.

So, to write a novel you should probably first at least consider your grasp on the English language. If you don’t know the difference between a comma and a period, go back to elementary school and learn why Yoda didn’t understand the basics of SVO.

Second, perhaps you should consider your story. Caught that up above, eh, about the cat communicating telepathically? Yeah. I can see how that might actually be a good story. But, you know, if the cat communicates telepathically, maybe you should make that the story. Maybe you should forget about the weird guy that we’ve never heard about in the first 170 pages who kidnaps someone on page 171 and then just disappears when kidnappee wakes up a page later no worse for wear. Or maybe you could do without the mysterious meanie who is a dog-lover and the worst red herring ever. You definitely need the alien race, of course, because someone (here, kitty, kitty) has got to communicate with them, but you could skip the page-long description of the mysterious ceremonial circle on their floor (since you never bothered to explain what it was) and also the strange love affair that Mr. Cat seems to be having with his human- really, no one needs that mental picture. To sum up- maybe trim the fat just a tad.

Third. This is important. Very important. To write a novel, it is highly recommended that you have just the teensiest bit of follow-through. Don’t just slap your story down, bind it up, pick a UPC, and call it a day. For goodness sake, author- take some pride in your work!! Proofread! Edit! Get feedback! Yes, have someone else (not just your mom) read this thing!! Then go back and hack according to their directions! And then go back and hack again just because you probably should!! Seriously! Do not make it crystal clear to your reader that you were so excited by the action in a particular scene that you never bothered to a. spell check, b. grammar check, c. proofread, and d. pick a bloody font and stick with it. Really. These are basics. You would never turn in a paper without going through the necessary end-check and expect to get a good grade. What kind of grade would you expect from this giant work that hasn’t even been looked through? Don’t waste your novel debut on this. Please. You end up looking foolish. You lose all your credibility. Bloggers whine about you.

Yes, you. I am addressing this entire entry to one person: You, A. P. Adams. You, who are probably very capable of writing a good book, but just didn’t take the time to do it. You, who bound up this crazy book without even reading it from front to back yourself. You, who wasted so much of your time self-publishing something that might have had a chance, but you were too lazy to give it one. You, A. P. Adams, you must do better!!

I fear these pleas are falling on deaf ears. I’ve just spent a few minutes researching this author’s website, FB, etc…whoops. If the misspellings and inability to punctuate on all those sites indicate anything about Ms. Author’s competence, well, I guess the book probably was proofread. Just not very well. And I’m pleased to see that Ms. Author is now to become Ms. Filmmaker- congratulations on deciding to venture into the realm of amateur film making! I’m pretty sure your plan to make your own movie brings me right back to where I started: just because you can make a film does not mean you should.

I’m sure there are a few (Ms. Author probably included) who are right now saying to yourself, well, just because you can blog, Ms. High Horse, does not mean you should.

I agree. And to that I answer: Just because you can read my blog does not mean you should.

Say You're One Of Them

I know better than to read anything off of Oprah’s booklist. I really do. And yet… there was this nice innocent looking book on the shelf… it was in the As and I hadn’t read it yet… it was a collection of short stories… and that’s what did it. I’m a sucker for short story collections. I don’t know why. I mean, short stories aren’t any better than long stories. In fact, they’re usually a whole lot lamer because authors consider it a lost genre so they cram as much “artistry” into as few words as possible- generally we’re treated to at least 20 pages with no dialogue and a staggeringly obvious political statement at least once per collection- but I still like them. Maybe it’s because I have a really short attention span, which is just another way of saying that I’m too lazy to commit to reading an entire book in one sitting. Take now, for example: I am currently in the middle of reading eight, count ‘em, eight separate books and- hey, why not?- one magazine. I’ve got a book out on the bathroom counter for reading while I get ready in the morning, one by my bedside table for reading before I go to sleep, one in the car to read when I go buy myself an ice cream treat and have to eat it before I get home and it melts (and I have to entertain myself while I’m eating), one in my purse just in case I get “stuck” somewhere without a book (and yes, I realize that the car book and the purse book really could double up), one loaded onto my phone to read in case I ever get stuck somewhere without either my purse book or my car book, one loaded onto my iPod for listening/reading while I’m out hiking or walking or just cleaning the house, a nice little self-help book for reading about something that I need help with (which only gets me annoyed because I don’t find it helpful so I put it back down), and one that I’m reading along with a group of people from church (although they don’t know I’m reading along with them because that would invite conversation about said book, which would only reveal that I’m not keeping up with them because I’m too scatter-brained to do the required reading every day). So yeah, I guess you could say that the finer points of a novel might get lost on me considering I’m bouncing from finer point to finer point at any given time of the day.

It’s possible I digress.

So anyway, I fell a sucker to the short story and took this book home from the library despite Oprah’s endorsement. Sigh. I know better. Hated it. Hated it with the passion of a thousand boy dogs deprived of fire hydrants in their neighborhoods hated it. It was ridiculously awful.

I’m sure on many levels it was a good book… just not on any of mine. And so I find myself unable to withhold the negative thoughts that I so strongly hold in my heart about this depressingly horrific piece of literature.

Here we have a few short stories, all told from the eyes of children, all based in different countries in Africa. Okay, I get it. There are bad things happening in Africa, things that our spoiled and over-privileged little American minds can’t even begin to comprehend. The world would be a better place if we were all aware of these atrocities and set about finding a way to stop the madness. What a marvelous sentiment.

Here’s the thing though: I have a spoiled and over-privileged American mind. Now, I recognize that this is a flaw in me. I should be outgoing and generous and willing to give of myself every second of every day in order to benefit those in need. I should forego my ice cream treat with novel entertainment and travel to Nigeria to stop the child trafficking instead. But I don’t! Because I can’t! And not only that, because I don’t want to! That’s right! I! Don’t! Want! To!

I recognize the fact that I am naught but a miniature human being in the grand scheme of things. I personally am unable to do anything to affect the child trafficking in Nigeria in any way, shape, or form. I will not be taking on the drug lords that ravage the streets of Rwanda because, well, that would be dumb. Instead of trying to make huge waves in a world that is too big for me, I recognize the fact that I am limited in my capabilities and choose instead to put my best helps out into my own little circle of influence. You know, I support a missionary here, bag the pregnant lady’s groceries there, support a friend going through a hard time here, buy the hard-pressed-for-cash stranger’s meal there. I do what I can when I can.

Is that so wrong? Am I just completely lazy because I have no Worldwide Social Cause? I really don’t think it’s THAT bad… and if it is, the last time I want to be told about it is when I’m trying to relax and read a book! C’mon, people, even God rested on the seventh day! Shouldn’t I be able to take a few minutes to lose myself in something restful- a nice little story about mermaids or bunnies or teenagers going to prom- in order to refresh my mind for the next day’s hard work? What’s the big idea, sneaking stories about Hutus and Tutsis and genocide into my happy reading time?

Call me ignorant, call me lazy, call me oblivious, call me whatever the heck you want. Just don’t call me when I’m reading. That’s when I’m allowed to be ignorant, lazy, and oblivious. Welcome to the American dream.

I Feel Bad About My Neck

Okay, so a few posts ago I made a comment that authors should never read their own audio books. Now it's time for me to eat my words. Authors are allowed to read their own audio books if the author is also a stand-up comedian. (Do not confuse that with the idea that all stand-up comedians are allowed to write their own books. One of these things does not equal the other. Trust me.) But my point is, if the author has some pre-recognized performing ability, well, I can stand listening to that. And this book was funny! Nora Ephron is funny! Hallelujah! Something funny! Finally! Enjoyment of the written word!

Darn it. The spoken word.

Close enough.

Bottom line, Nora Ephron is pretty funny. I may not like her politics, but she tells funny stories. However, I feel that to share these funny stories would be sort of like giving the magician's secrets away- if you know going into the show how the lady is sawn in half, then you're pretty much bored the whole way through.

So I'm not going to spoil the secrets. I'll say that you're going to read a bunch of funny stories about everything from the Kennedys to Kelly bags and turtlenecks to terminal illness and you'll probably enjoy most of them. Well, the one about her love affair with Bill Clinton is a little less than amusing, but that's just because I was bored with the White House stuff by that time.

So, this has nothing to do with the book, but my dog has been barking behind me for the past five minutes and not only is the noise maddening, but his doggie bark-breath is filling up the room with an intolerable stench. Yeah, so I'm going to go see who was at the door and end this entry. But the book was pretty fun. I recommend. And for the first time, I think I can comfortably say it's probably better to listen to this one than to read it.

Dog, be QUIET!!! Oy.

Raven Summer

David Almond is an interesting writer. Since his last name begins with A I am acquainted with quite a few of his novels. (That’s right, I just keep reading.) Anyway, he writes these young adult novels that always have a small element of the fantastic in them- a fallen angel, a magic cave, or in this case, an abandoned baby. True, there isn’t anything that other-worldly about a baby lying around in a park, but the way everybody in the book acted, there was. This brings me to my only real problem with the book. It’s a good story and all, save the baby, boys grow up, yada yada yada, whatever. But these pre-teens are kids that are filled with such angst and drama that I just can’t really buy into anything that happens.

It’s probably just because I can’t relate to them. Apparently I had this carefree easy childhood and I just didn’t need to behave or speak or think the way these kids do. I mean, I don’t remember ever playing war games that escalated into somebody actually trying to kill one of the players. Sure, I remember playing war games; everybody did that. But we didn’t use real knives, and we didn’t end up stabbing each other. If somebody got a scratch from one of our sticks-that-was-a-fake-knife, it certainly wasn’t because our little pre-adolescent brains took a moment to process the complexities of whether or not actually killing our friend was a good idea. And we definitely didn’t do it with this really artful, multi-syllabic language that belongs in some enigmatic Oscar contender that no one understands.

My real question is: are kids really like this now? Do they wander around poetically designing in their own heads their own individual meaning of life? Do they find the skies so glamorous that they have to consider each cloud and what it might be speaking to them? Do they look at a tree and see a gallows, or imagine the butterflies woven together in a net that flutteringly smothers their enemies? Do they even have enemies?

Wait, I had enemies. There were bullies and such, sure, but I didn’t lay awake at night dreaming up new and creative ways to kill them. I was a kid! I just wanted them to quit making fun of my big nose! The most creative way I had of dealing with my “enemies” was learning what corner of the playground they hung out in and staying on the other side.

Don’t kids like bikes and dolls and video games and books anymore? I mean, really. How old am I that these silly John Hughes wannabes are so much older than I am? Because that’s how I feel when I read young adult books these days… there’s no kids anymore. There’s just a bunch of old souls wandering around in awkward bodies.

Rescuing babies.

And then murdering the bullies.

And then escaping to Nigeria.

Nigeria? I’m lost. This is crazy. Somebody bring me my Ramona, I need a break.