Category Archives: Books

The Shelf Life of Edginess: January 2024 Reads

Book Review, Books, Reading, , , , , , , , , , ,

January. We race to be the people we vowed to be back when 2024 was fresh. The stuff of ball drops and champagne.

But the grinding. But the January.

Glorious unbroken periods to think and work and create? NO.

Edginess to everything, poking and prodding and mushing us along, impaling us on time thieves? YES.

January is all swales and brambles, baby.

(I was going to say “copse” but “copse” is too close to “corpse” and lord knows January already nudges us to Zombieville.) 

It’s not forever, for sure. Hopefully, we are in the waning period and life’s edges will smooth out just enough to still be interesting and also tolerable

For now, folks are stressed and tired.

I can see this in the traffic. If my commute every day is any indication, I am in exactly the wrong place, going exactly the wrong speed at any moment. This is, of course, according to the lane weavers, the tailgaters, the capricious turn-signalers, the spacially ungifted, and the phone-up-to-the-face-while-the-car-is-in-motion drivers. I assume they’re looking up the Rules of the Road, but what do I know? 

It requires extra attention. It wasn’t so long ago that driving allowed for a certain “autopilot” and conversations or deeper thoughts than “Holy cow that dude’s a maniac!” Now it’s predicting the next bad behavior. My poor adrenals. (And sympathy to anyone in the car who is subjected to the noise my family refers to as “Mom’s Driving Gasp.”) 

My audiobook listening has taken a hit. Hypervigilance about distracted drivers leads to distracted audiobook listening, the one benefit of multiple one-hour round-trip daily commutes.

I lose the plot, quite literally. 

Which is to say, interestingly, these books made it through the cracks. 

I find the books I need at any given moment. The ones I finish, therefore the ones I respond to, are a snapshot of my life and needs at that time (as are, I suppose, the ones I do not finish, but I only write about stinkers if the book actively harms.)

They are a snapshot.

They are my story.

This month, fittingly, some were about being on an edge, some about going through the edginess, some offered respite from that, and some on how to actively seek and preserve your peace.

And in between the driving and the writing and the reading and the living and the lane changers, there is a trying. Some moments flash a sense of purpose and swerve around a very boring, utterly typical life. Is that what books are for? MAYBE. I DON’T KNOW.

Perhaps I’m just supposed to make some sort of learned-person comment about constant motion, fragmentation, and the struggle to find mental space for growth and art amidst chaos and eternal laundry. MAYBE. I ALSO DON’T KNOW THIS.

 Brief thoughts on some of what I read:

War of Art

“Are you a born writer? Were you put on earth to be a painter, a scientist, an apostle of peace? In the end the question can only be answered by action.

Do it or don’t do it.” — Steven Pressfield

One of those “read it because it keeps coming up in various writing communities” go-to recommendations. 

They were right. (Although I preferred Parts 1 & 2 to Part 3, any artist should consider giving this a thumb-through.)

An Unlikely Guru

Self-effacing, but not in a gross way. Charmingly eager. You can read my brief review here.

You Could Make This Place Beautiful

I wrote about that here.

Prequel: An American Fight Against Fascism

Chilling, hopeful. A cry for us to do the work of this nation.

Play It as It Lays

Brutal. Almost hostile. Maybe that’s the existential despair and ennui talking. It’s bleak. It’s fragmented. Short-tempered. This one, for me, isn’t Didion’s best, but it is not to be dismissed.

Paris Review, Issue 246 Winter 2023

A rare miss for me in terms of most of the fiction. Edgy in some ways that made me bristle, which then made me feel crotchety. I do not like feeling crotchety. Redeemed by the poetry and the interview with Louise Glück.

Raised in Captivity

Chuck Klosterman knows how to enter a story. He finds the trap doors, he floats down in a bubble like Glenda the Good Witch, he bursts through walls like the Kool-Aid man. His pieces are distinctive, hilarious, and often swerve into mildly disturbing. Excellent if a little uneven. 

Blue Nights

Aging, parenting, disillusionment, regret, grief, and the accompanying sense of fragility, presented with the calm of deep grief.

She slices and dices so keenly, so precisely that it takes a while to realize she is splayed open. Had she been any more nostalgic, any less crisp, the book would have veered into sensation rather than stark intimacy.

In Chapter 19, she talks about the struggle to put words on the page with precision and alacrity. 

She names this “Frailty.” 

Which is another word for what is underneath all of this in our Januarys. Perhaps we’re trying to speed and weave and tailgate to escape that as well. 

At least that frailty fades. If it must reappear each January, maybe we can do better and buffer it with soft things and soft people and soft kindness.

Fortunately, January has rolled into the rearview mirror.

Safe travels on our February journeys. 

November 2023 Reads

Book Review, Books, , ,

Superstars!

Strap on your parachutes, friends, we’re almost at the end of the year. I think I like measuring my year in books, which presents a much more pleasing picture of my 2023 than if I measured it by the number of vats of butter cookies I consumed. Here are the books I read in November that were worth finishing.

The few I’m jazzed enough to discuss? They are all about the heart, emotional landscapes, and their exploration and enrichment.

Continue reading November 2023 Reads →

Book Review: The Way of the Writer

Books, Recommendations, Writing, ,

With no apologies to William Saffire for the “Follow the Bouncing Ball” nature of this and all my reviews.

Do you know the difference between a dork, a nerd, and a geek?

If you answered an emphatic “yes,” you are a nerd (for your studious, eager nature) and a geek (for your deep knowledge of a specific area).

But I asked the question, ergo, je suis une dork.

Long, romantic beach walks with craft and philosophy are my nerdy indulgence. I get geeky about drawing connections between art, responsibility, and meaning, and I’m endlessly curious about the dance of words in the grand theater of thought.

And because I’m here blarping about it with absolutely no chill? Je suis toujours une dork.

Labels can be fun, especially with fuzzy ones like those.

But for Dr. Charles Johnson, a polymath who believes in the sanctity and precision of language, terms like “nerd” and “geek” fall short. He deserves better: Genius. Writer. Teacher. Artist. Peerless storyteller.

And generous, because he shares a lot of his genius and years of experience in The Way of the Writer.

In this collection of essays, Johnson explores sticky, beautiful webs of life and art, the responsibility of the author to the greater culture, the nature of storytelling and the discipline it demands, and how these together can, when lightning strikes hard work, transform writer and reader.

No photo description available.

I always snort when people in films finish a book and clutch it to their chest. I tend to dismiss that as over-the-top and kind of icky.

But I…I think I get it now. This is a book I want to hold to my heart, to wrap my muscles and bones around. I want to somehow physically intertwine with this book. At the very least, to hold my work up to his expectations and find it worthy.

We all hit those quiet crisis moments in life. What am I doing? Where am I going? I get those a lot, mostly when I’m brain-farting in aisle 9 of the grocery store. But also in a larger sense these days, and regarding many things, including my writing. The bliss of self-awareness and aging, amiright?

I want there to be an *aboutness* to not only my work but my process. My lifestyle. My life, I suppose, if I’m going to be sloppy about the whole thing. Purpose in outcome, though, means purposeful input.

These are not conversations that come up in my life often, especially in aisle 9 of the grocery store. So, in lieu of having a mentor – or at least a chatty package of erudite ramen – at the moment, I scour the world and bookshelves for wisdom.

Here it abounds.

In The Way of the Writer, Johnson fuses his philosophical background with insights on the craft, emphasizing discipline, the societal responsibility of writers, and the symbiosis of art and life. He underscores the importance of mentorship, drawing from his personal experiences, and presents writing as both a dedicated vocation and a reflection of life itself.

It’s a soulful work chock full of anecdotes and classical references alike.

Some readers have commented that Johnson’s work is self-focused. I disagree. His thinking (his writing) draws from deep wells of his world, his careers, and his studies, as we can and should draw from ours. His reflections on the cycle of artist – apprentice, journeyman, mentor, public intellectual, artist (with an eye towards cultural impact) — pull from his own life and allow for richly detailed and invaluable insights.

Reading The Way of the Writer is like auditing a masterclass, yes, but also engaging in a deep tête-à-tête with a gifted storyteller. Johnson would be both a life-changing professor and a charming dinner companion.

Not only has this work secured a place in my personal pantheon of craft books, but I will squeeze this book tightly to my chest. Literally. Metaphorically. Perhaps in aisle 9.

Because that’s the kind of dork I am.