The Folio: What I Read Mid-September Through Mid-October 2024

Book Review, Books, Fiction, The Folio

In a word? “Bangarang!”

Ye gods, what excellent books.

This was one of those months when books held fast and made claims on a corner of my inner world. It’s cramped in there and I probably should Marie Kondo the place, but for now, these books are welcome to squat in my brain corners and bring me joy.

This was not just a “hey, nice book” kind of month, but the kind where at least two of these are straight-up shoe-ins for my end-of-year Best Of list.

The silvery thread binding these books together is that they are all about the act of storytelling, how sometimes that’s the only way to get through. Or in. Or out.

I’ve been reshaped by these works.

Which is all just to say these are the books that I enjoyed enough to finish in the last month:

James by Percival Everett

If you’re going to take on Twain, you’d better bring the goods. 

Percival Everett not only brings the goods, the whole goods, and nothing but the goods — he delivers them with such unapologetic brilliance that you’ll find yourself wondering, ‘How has no one done this before?’ And then you realize — no one else could have done this.

I am thunderstruck.

James is not merely a retelling of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, it’s a complete reimagining where Jim — now James — steps into the center of the narrative. He is now a man with his own inner life, vibrant with intellect and grappling with the cruel complexities of his life. Cerebral, flawed, painfully conscious of what it means to exist in his circumstances, James becomes a moral force.

Everett critiques both the historical portrayal of Jim in Twain’s original work and contemporary issues of race. The narrative blends humor, satire, pathos, and sharp commentary, with James often confronting his situation with a deep sense of survival, wit, and profound love for his family. It’s brutal and beautiful and fresh.

I marveled at the fullness of James as a character. He is no longer a sidekick, no longer just a figure for Huck to bounce off. He’s no “Mary Sue,” either. He’s deeply human. If this book isn’t immediately welcomed into the American Canon, I’m not sure what would be.

There’s also a lot of philosophy thrown in there because YEAH, THERE IS. And it works. Some folks have expressed displeasure with how the book’s toe-dips into farce seem abrupt. Welcome to literature. Think of it like a journey. A journey on a river of some sort. Where there are twists and turns and sometimes the river is gentle and sometimes… Do we see where I’m going with this?

This is a genre-bending boundary-pusher for sure, and any liberties it takes with the original story are just and satisfying. To tackle Twain requires a certain audacity, and to succeed requires genius. Everett has both in abundance.

There is no doubt that schools will use this as a parallel text when studying Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

There is also no doubt this will be on my Best Of 2024 list.

Astonishing work.

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin

All towns should have a bookstore, don’t you think?

Island bookstore owner A.J. Fikry is definitely not having the time of his life. Grieving the loss of his wife, struggling to keep his bookstore afloat, self-medicating, bereft of passion and connection. However — hooray! — everything begins changing when a toddler is left in his bookstore. What follows are not thunderous events but a soft, deliberate opening of life.

This is a novel about a community only as flawed and fragile as the people within it, and A.J.’s bookstore becomes the fulcrum for everything: grief, love, indiscretions, second chances. It’s life, piece by tangled piece.

Perhaps by dint of being set in a bookstore, the book celebrates not just the joy of reading but the necessity of it. This sweet novel is a love letter to books, bookstores, and the communities that form around them. It’s well-paced, though it takes a few big leaps in time that might make you a little woozy. Still, the storytelling works beautifully. Zevin is deeply respectful of and never underestimates her audience, a skill also showcased in her Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. Zevin’s storytelling is tight and purposeful — there’s not a wasted word or superfluous scene. Every moment builds A.J.’s world and relationships, while also pulling the reader into the life of the bookstore and town, stitched together by books. 

The quirky main and secondary characters feel like they’ve stepped out of an exceptionally good sitcom — believable, loveable, and tinged with just enough sorrow to avoid being treacly. Literary references throughout the novel are sweet treats, and A.J.’s book notes are lovely touches. It eventually is made clear who these notes are for and how they tie into the plot, which made me hug the book to my chest. Yes, I’m weird. It’s fine.

Ultimately, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry is a love story. I’ve said before that all stories are love stories. This one isn’t sappy, disappointing, or cynical. Neither are real jaw-dropping twists here; instead, the story unfolds in small, quiet ways. This book may not cause you to bolt upright, but little moments you enjoyed will stay with you long after you’ve finished.

Zevin’s writing is self-assured, and she trusts the reader to keep up and fill in the gaps. It’s zippy. It’s wackadoo. And it’s a reminder that sometimes, a good book — and a good life — are about those quiet, small moments that happen when you crack things open.

It’s hygge at its finest.

All stories should come with a bookstore, don’t you think? After all, “a place ain’t a place without a bookstore.”

Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson

In Michigan earlier this year, I picked up a bag of Limited Edition Cherry Barbecue potato chips. (Stay with me.) They were…peculiar. Sweet, spicy, not quite balanced, all in a way that made me go, “What is happening?” I wasn’t even sure if I liked them. But two sittings later? Gone. Gone like yesterday’s regrets. And here’s the kicker: I’d eat those weird-a$$ chips again fistful by fistful in a heartbeat.

This was not unlike reading Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson. At first, it’s strange. This cannot hold up. But it does. You keep reading. You’re hooked. And suddenly you’ve finished the book, wondering what just happened and, more importantly, HOW DID THAT WORK AND WHERE CAN YOU GET MORE? 

And by “you” I mean “me.”

I’d read this weird-a$$ book again in a heartbeat.

(*extreme Stefon voice*) Nothing to See Here has (almost) everything — friendship, responsibility, and spontaneous human combustion. It’s strange, dark, and hilarious. Wilson somehow makes these fire children funny and tragic all at once. They’re weird, the narrator is weird. It’s all weird and it works.

After reading a string of heavy, intense novels, Nothing to See Here gave me literary whiplash. Let me tell you, though, I love a funny book that writes its own rules, that’s wholly original, and doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard to be ultra-cool or different. It just is. Wilson pulls this off.

Our narrator, Lillian, is sharp-tongued, jaded, and just messed up enough to carry a story. She may be even a little much…her vocal fry practically buzzes off the page. And I couldn’t get enough of her.

If I have one complaint, it’s that I wanted just a bit more at the end. A glimmer of what’s next, a sense of where these characters might land after the final page. But then again, that’s life, right? Stories don’t always wrap up neatly.

And that’s the thing — the story Lillian believes about herself is one of failure — she’s convinced that a mistake in high school sealed her fate as a woman with no prospects. Caring for these kids forces her to rewrite that story, imagining herself as someone capable of love and responsibility. Madison, the children’s mother and Lillian’s high school friend, on the other hand, has crafted a flawless public image. Both women’s stories are their emotional shields until they’re forced to confront the truth.

The children’s story is different — they’ve been treated like secrets, their combustive condition dismissed or explained away by crackpot theories. Wilson handles all this with great humor and pathos. It’s crackers and I felt like it shouldn’t work, but good grief, I devoured the book in two sittings. 

Sans chips.

The Testaments (The Handmaid’s Tale #2) by Margaret Atwood

Survival. Complicity. Resistance. Power.
It’s BACK, baby. (Kind of.)

Can outrageously great writing elevate an otherwise good book? Yes, it can. Exhibits A and B: Yes, it can. Exhibits A and B:

  • “You don’t believe the sky is falling until a chunk of it falls on you.”
  • “You’d be surprised how quickly the mind goes soggy in the absence of other people. One person alone is not a full person: we exist in relation to others. I was one person: I risked becoming no person.”

Atwood’s writing remains as sharp as ever, resulting in The Testaments punching above its weight. Did I love it as much as The Handmaid’s Tale? No. The Testaments feels a little like a victory lap, more epilogue than continuation, an attempt to close open loops.

The story picks up 15 years after The Handmaid’s Tale, with three narrators: Aunt Lydia (yes, the one we know and loathe), plus two new characters — Agnes, a Gilead-born girl, and Daisy, a Canadian teenager. Credit where it’s due — Atwood gifts each with a voice that feels real.

Aunt Lydia’s chapters were my favorites. We learn more about Gilead’s power structures and Lydia’s own twisted brand of resistance. Meanwhile, Agnes and Daisy get tangled up in a plot to take down the regime. The stakes are high…or should be. Lydia is fascinating — a judge turned ruthless enforcer turned murkily-motivated saboteur — but I wanted more of the internal fallout as she took on those roles. I WANT MORE RECKONING, please and thank you.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Atwood is telling us that authoritarianism rots you from the inside — and that Lydia, like the rest of us, is susceptible and sometimes their fates aren’t satisfying. But oof, I wanted to see more of that rot unfold on the page.

The two teens’ intertwined stories had some moments — like hearing about young brides-to-be inside Gilead — but the stakes didn’t quite hit the way they did in The Handmaid’s Tale. The glimpses of life outside Gilead didn’t pack quite the punch I was hoping for.

Am I unfairly holding The Testaments up to an impossible standard? MAYBE. I wanted more machinations, more urgency, more visceral danger, more fire. The story felt pale next to the original, and the big “reveal” at the end didn’t quite land. 

Or maybe I’m numbed because *mumbles something about 2024.*

Honestly, I’d have loved this to be only Aunt Lydia’s story from start to finish (bring in the teens, sure, but through her eyes.)

That being said, there were enough satisfying moments to answer a few lingering questions left over from The Handmaid’s Tale and for me to finish the book (and I’m quite brilliant at not finishing books.)

A worthwhile read for Atwood fans — fanatical and casual.

The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien

My boys and I read this at the same time. Them for class, me for connection. This is not a book one reads for pleasure, but it is a reminder that sometimes a great book stops being a story and becomes a reflection.

The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien is a collection of twenty-two interconnected short stories revolving around a platoon of American soldiers during the Vietnam War and the literal and emotional burdens each soldier carries, if only to remember they are human.

This is a demanding read — not because it’s obtuse or buried in authorial swoops and swirls, but because O’Brien splays himself open, unblinkingly and with an honesty that begs for his precise language.

O’Brien uses a blend of autobiographical details and fictionalization to share stories of the haunting complexities of war and its aftermath.

One of the central themes is storytelling — how stories help people cope, give meaning to their experiences, and preserve memory. O’Brien uses his characters to explore the meaning of truth in both war and writing, especially during and after times of extreme conflict. Against this backdrop, we witness (sometimes unwillingly) the worst and best of human nature. It is deep and disturbing, and hoo boy, did it earn its status as a finalist for the Pulitzer.

Read this when you are in a place to do so, if only because the writing and structure are elegant and majestic. But also, read it when you can stomach the violence and sorrow. The title story may be one of the best-crafted pieces I’ve ever read. The non-linear organization of the book is a lot like memory itself — asynchronous, spiraling, sometimes perseverating, sometimes rushing ahead because that’s the only speed one can self-preserve and still tell the truth. But ultimately, even that rushing is just procrastination from confronting the inevitable.

This is also most definitely going on my Best Of 2024 list.

What books have you been enjoying?

Whatever You Call It — September 2024

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Life and Other Existential Problems, Recommendations,

A Word Before My Shenanigans: While September brought its share of inconveniences for me, it brought devastation to entire communities. Both the community of Springfield, Ohio and those affected by Hurricane Helene faced unimaginable struggles. If you can support your fellow humans in need, I’ll list some places to donate in the comment section.

First, a formal apology for the excessive cuteness about to unfold. I know we’re all pulling ourselves out of the Septempurgatory like it was some sort of bar brawl. Honestly, I’m still finding to-do list shrapnel in my hair.

Septemperament feels like an identity crisis. It’s lumped into fall, and yet we’re standing here, sweating through our half-baked autumn dreams, waiting for the air to chill and pretending we’re not as swampy as an armpit. We can’t settle into the fiscal-year groove until October, yet Halloween candy is already out. Sure, maybe a sugar high is the only thing fending off the looming Septemburnout, but is it also contributing to our sweating? MAYBE. But fun-sized candy does help pass the time during the month’s IMPORTANT AND URGENT MEETINGS. Miss one of those and you activate Septemergency mode.

For a solid 75% of the month, my household was a Septempetri dish. The whole family was sick, overlap-style. And then it was me. Fortunately, just bad head colds, no Septemblarping.

There were new school year events, new responsibilities, and new car troubles, by which I mean Septempanic-inducing check engine lights popping on. Then off. Then on again. We even went to an event that required thematic costumes. My costume highlighted the bags under my eyes. I should have gone as a nice set of Samsonite luggage, possibly with a charming primate ready to toss me around to test my durability.

Emails started rolling in with all those “easy” one-pot meal recipes like it’s cuffing season for dinner plans. The Septemptation is real, though. If I could just toss all my responsibilities into a one-and-done situation — meals, laundry, driving, that would be the Septembest thing ever.

We watched the latest Ghostbusters film. I won’t go so far as to say it was Septerrible, but I didn’t look up from my book once, and I’m a big Paul Rudd fan.

Which is all to say, Septembrawl was a slap-fight with the calendar, the clock, and most of humanity. At any moment, it felt like I’d trip a wire and set off a Septimebomb if I didn’t run faster, farther, or with more finesse.

(That is all metaphorical. I don’t run.)

The busyness swallowed the month, and I haven’t even started on my Reedsy work, which doesn’t feel great. Once this newsletter is out in the ether (hello, Ether-friend!), that’s the next tab I’ll be clicking. Unless, of course, some turn-of-the-century cough starts going around the house again, because obviously.

Anyway, Septemblur has been brought to you (and me) by ibuprofen and my trusty day planner, which I now hope to fill in with ink rather than pencil.

And with that, we Septumble into glorious October — not a moment too soon.

Here are some splashes of marvelous from August, 2024

I got to attend this Printer’s Row Lit Fest and chat with the most marvelous Deborah L. King (whose books you really just have to read. I won’t argue with you about this). Learn more about her work here.

Have a poetry-hug.

We had milkshakes at Homer’s Ice Cream one night just because. And on another night, we went to Steak ‘n Shake. These are not the same, but each is satisfying in different ways.

Aaaand I’m realizing this blog is mostly an ice cream fandom account.

Apparently, referring to chores as “side quests” is a thing now. (See here and here.) I tried it. I still don’t do chores, but now I’ve got the added stress of imperiling entire worlds because I haven’t tackled the stuck-on gunk in the refrigerator crisper drawer.

Thoughts on creativity and friendship.

I love a good electric blanket, especially because I like to sleep with the windows open. Do not talk to me about how logical that is.

Do you love washi tape? You should, if you like fun and tape and loving fun and tape.

Cereal was something I tired of in college (after eating it three times a day for most of my freshman year), but boy, these are fun.

Ravelry is always a joy, prompting me to curl up on the couch — if only to scroll, if not to create. Do you knit or crochet?

This is all kinds of brilliant. Like, on a Frankenberry level, but for writing.

That’s it for now. May your cookies be dunkworthy and your milk cold and well-tolerated.

The Folio: What I Read Mid-August Through Mid-September

Book Review, Books, Reading, Recommendations, The Folio

Oliver Twist, Still Writing, Stein on Writing, Uncommon Type, Signal Fires

Books were patient companions this month as I clawed for guilt-free time and focus like some sort of book-hungry long-clawed, guilt-riddled thing.

And then, in a continuing pattern of completely unhelpful thoughts, sometimes all I do is read and wonder what would happen if someone did a vampire modern “take” of them.

Some ideas are best left unexplored.

Trust me. Then I often drift into casting a Muppet version of the books.

Some ideas are worthy of exploration.

Which is all to say these are the books that I enjoyed enough to finish in the last month:

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Like most people you know, Oliver was born. Unlike most people these days, he was born in a Victorian London workhouse. The kid eventually runs — of course, he runs — from the empty promises of that workhouse straight into the grime and grind of London. There he meets others who see him as Opportunity and still others who see him as Sweet Innocent. There is escape, reckoning, and eventually, identity in a world riddled with scarcity.

Speaking of scarcity, “Say it again, you vile, owdacious fellow!” is not as easy to work into polite daily conversation as you might think, but I’m giving it a go.

I have never seen the musical Oliver! But I can say with some authority that this novel, upon which the show is based, is no toe-tapper.

Oliver Twist, a bildungsroman with more gruel than most, is not a lovely book, but there’s a harsh beauty to it.

Hello, Dickens. Privation and agony, sadness and secrets, misery and humor. Whiskers abound!

Young Oliver’s innocence holds up for a while, giving readers a sense of protectiveness over and investment in the lad. However, in modern times, it can seem a bit…much. He had to be fundamentally good and hopeful for the story to work. That said, Oliver is probably the least interesting character in the book. The real genius is in how the disconnected characters, unresolved parentage storyline, and the dark portrayal of London all work together.

Read this very-much-of-its-time book through whatever lens you like — New Criticism, Critical Theory, heck, throw in some Game Theory while you’re at it. You do you, Boss.

Though a short work by Dickensian standards, it’s fairly hefty by modern ones. That said, the long descriptive passages are artful, surprisingly fun, and do not negatively affect the brisk pace of the work.

There’s irony, sinisterness, and chilling characterizations — problematic by today’s standards (e.g., “The Jew,”). Dickens’ wit helps ease any strained credulity. There’s crying, swooning, and urban underbellies — necessary steps toward his better child characters like Pip and David Copperfield.

Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life by Dani Shapiro

Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life by Dani Shapiro is an acknowledgement that writing can be a brawl between Self and Work. Shapiro is open about the writing process. It is not clean. It is not certain. One minute you’re queen of the keyboard, the next you’re face-planting into your coffee. It’s untidy, but good lord, when it clicks, it’s glorious.

Shapiro speaks to those of us who have walked that line between art and fear. This is not a manual for the pragmatist. It is a book for those who understand that the emotional life is as much a part of creation as the practical.

You will fall. You will get up. You are a writer.

In that simple rhythm lies everything.

This is a book written by and for the artistic temperament and is as much about the emotional aspect of creating as it is the practical.

A little digging around revealed that Dani Shapiro and I went to the same high school, although at different times, and there are many parallels between her upbringing and mine, at least based on little gems she drops in Still Writing. Similar upbringing, similar terrible ways of coping with difficulties as a teenager. Uncanny. I felt…seen? Heard? Acknowledged?

Kinship. That’s the word.

I have a massive document of “writing advice” carefully copied from great craft books or articles or blog posts.

With this, I was highlighting every page, and most of every page at that. Can I enter an entire book into my file? No.

Ok, yes.

I will type and keep them like the preciousssss they are. This helps me internalize them, to communicate and converse with the author. And, oh, it will be worth it to experience this book that way a second time.

I mean, please. Just look at these quotes from this gem of a book:

“Everything I know about life, I learned from the daily practice of sitting down to write.”

“The writer’s life requires courage, patience, empathy, openness. It requires the ability to be alone with oneself.”

“The page is your mirror. What happens inside you is reflected back. All of it.”

“The only reason to be a writer is because you have to. Because it gnaws away at your insides if you try to do anything else.”

It takes a great deal of courage to remain vulnerable. It takes a great deal of strength to remain soft.

Still Writing is a steaming hot bowl of chicken noodle soup — comforting, helpful, a little salty. Perfect. You want to rush through it? Wrong move. This is a slow-simmer kind of book. It’s the kind of thing you read and pause, read and pause. You mellow with it. That’s where the magic is.

Shapiro combines the clinical and the tender as she looks at writing. She has taken the time to consider what we do and how weird and wonderful it is. How complicated and simple. How important and futile. How wretched and worthy. And still — and STILL — she understands the infectious joy of it all, and we are better writers for her having shared it.

This one’s going on the “Easy-to-Reach Craft Book” pile, no question.

Stein on Writing by Sol Stein

TWO CRAFT BOOKS IN ONE MONTH? What am I, some sort of literary addict, jonesing for another hit of structure and plot?

MAYBE.

Stein on Writing does not mess around. It is a technical manual, craft-oriented, and if you so choose to metaphorically strap it on your back and hike through the wilds of your words, does it ever deliver. Stein offers actionable advice on key elements of effective writing, including structure, dialogue, pacing, and character development. Whether you’re writing fiction or nonfiction, his insights are spot-on, particularly when it comes to clarity and engagement — cornerstones for holding a reader’s attention.

Stein emphasizes “particularity,” (my new favorite word), and guides writers on crafting and revising prose. This is not a book of vague inspiration, abstract advice, or “fix the commas” or “cut adverbs” suggestions. The method is clear and pragmatic: shape your writing, tighten, refine, repeat, until you’ve produced polished, professional work.

Make no mistake, this is no dry tome. Stein practices what he preaches, often with great wit, as evidenced by gems like:

“Thou shalt not saw the air with abstractions.”

“One plus one equals a half.”

Too often, advice at this point in my career feels mushy, repetitive, or feasibly addressed by a simple search-and-replace. Stein’s book demands more of us as architects of meaning. This is about our responsibility for the reader’s experience, forcing us to organize our thoughts clearly on the page.

This one also earned a place on my “Easy to Reach Craft Book Pile”

It is a standout.

Uncommon Type by Tom Hanks

Short stories, perhaps more than any other form, demand perfection, an economy of words that leaves no room to hide. With a collection like Uncommon Type, comparisons are inevitable from one story to the next. Releasing a book of short stories is a courageous act in the base case.

And Tom Hanks? Well, he surprises. His authorial voice — fun, warm, with more depth than expected — makes this a sweet debut collection.

Fame, particularly when you’re an actor, can be a tether when you venture out into anything else requiring your voice. It’s also hard to be a novice when the world knows your name. The expectations may be unfair, but Hanks embraces his authorial voice and explores quite a range of topics including the adventures of a group of friends navigating space travel, a World War II veteran adjusting to post-war life, and a teenage surfer’s experiences.

That breadth is seen in the first two stories: the first is brash, cocky, filled with quips — vintage on-screen Hanks from the 80s and 90s. (Shout out to his guest role on Family Ties) The second story is tender, gentle, free of artifice, and unblinking in its look at permanent scars of war.

Some characters reappear throughout the collection, to varying effect, while others come and go. Yes, the book is uneven at times, but that’s part of its charm, like when a typewriter has its own signature quirks.

Every one of the seventeen stories in Uncommon Type is, in some way, a love story. A love of connection, of history, of place. The typewriter, in all its clunky glory, is the common thread (or ribbon, should I say?). Sometimes the presence of the typewriter feels a bit forced, but all things considered, this collection delighted me. I particularly liked “The Past is Important to Us,” “Three Exhausting Weeks,” and “Christmas Eve 1953.” These are the kinds of stories you imagine reading by a fireside in winter, or on a porch in summer, glancing up occasionally to watch the fireflies.

It’s the literary equivalent of a warm cup of cocoa. It’s not Red Bull.

Signal Fires by Dani Shapiro

Signal Fires by Dani Shapiro is a mighty novel about family, memory, and the not-so-invisible threads that connect us. The story begins in 1985 when tragedy strikes the Wilf family. The ripple effects of this unfold over time, with the narrative moving between the past and the present. Shapiro weaves a tale that examines how seemingly small choices or happenstances can lead to events with far-reaching consequences. The novel explores connection, unpredictability, the power of forgiveness, and the impact of personal histories.

Unlike many novels that jump between timelines, Signal Fires does so with purpose, reflecting the fluidity of time as a central theme. This revelation unfolds patiently, beautifully.

My kids have had several assignments in school where they are asked to write about a moment of beauty or frustration or failure or success in their life. I always tell them to go small. Signal Fires is a brilliant example of an author doing this. It’s a novel that looks at intricate, tender moments — the small, personal choices that ultimately shape our lives.