Counterbalance

{Insert Big Idea to Save Books & Reading & Literacy Here}

I have spent most of my life reading and writing. I've spent my entire professional life working at digital agencies. There is a congruence here that I've tried very hard, for most of my life, to ignore. Or keep at bay. I'd felt for so long that my marketing strategy, digital agency life had so little to do with my writerly, readerly, let's study meta-themes and discuss Proust until we're blue in the face life that I worked overtime to keep them separate. 

I was wrong.

They are inextricably linked (most notably because both parts exist within me and it's been hell trying to keep the two separate all these years) now because of the ever-shifting world of publishing in the age of digital. I can't tell you what a relief it is to see that external forces now match my interior state. I can now set aside my George Costanza-esque need to keep my agency friends separate from my literary friends. To keep my thoughts on marketing authors quiet, my desire to develop "social reading" tech solutions unknown, my obsession with geolocation and the impact it might have on hyper-local reading patterns a secret. I can finally talk about books with my tech friends and marketing strategy with my publisher friends and no one gives me crazy looks. I'm freeeeee....

However.

The road ahead for authors and publishers and readers and booksellers and libraries and kids who can't read has gotten better and murkier and worse and clearer all at once. There are so many tools and communities and technologies that have furthered the cause of reading and have extended the reach of independent publishers and their authors. Yet, these are also difficult times for authors to get paid what they deserve, digital rights management being what it is, big publishers being who they are, the structure being what it is. You know the drill.

I haven't been able to absorb it all and make sense of it yet. None of the big, lofty ideas swirling in my head over the past few months have coalesced into anything tangible, into anything valuable that will solve these problems or even some of them or even one of them. But at the beginning of every day and at the end of each long night...this is the big problem I come back to. This is one of the big ideas I want to meditate on, tease apart, figure out.

Call me idealistic, call me crazy, call me whatever you will: I believe reading changes lives and perspectives and prejudices and communities and nation's futures. I believe everyone has a right to learn how to read and I believe everyone should have access to every book they desire so they can dream big and change the world they live in...whether that's a room away, a street away, a block away, a town away, a country away, a world away. 

I don't yet know what the solutions look like to these problems and I know I'm not the only one who wants to solve them. What I do know is this: I am now certain that part of the reason I'm here is to help figure this out in whatever capacity I'm able, in whatever way I'm needed.

My big fancy dream is to find a way to have all this brilliant technology and the social web (and whatever else we've yet to discover and coin) do the one thing I care about most: get more people to read. Who's with me?

Loaded

We're in flight (Virgin America, digging your in-air wifi) and the eReader that shall not be named is loaded with much reading goodness:

• The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker
• Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon
• Nocturnes by Kauzo Ishiguro
• New World Monkeys by Nancy Mauro
• A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore
• Of Bees and Mist by Erick Setiawan
• Lies My Mother Never Told Me by Kaylie Jones
• Alice Fantastic by Maggie Estep
• Bury Me Deep by Megan Abbott
• This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper

First up, the much-awaited Baker book. Simply cannot contain self. 

And yes, it would seem that I'd need far more than a week of packed-full vacation days in DC to complete all this delectable reading.  But it's all there...just in case.

Stay tuned.

Oh yes.

 
Absolutely, 100%, with every fiber of my being, yes.  A swoon-worthy reading "room", no?

I've spent the morning admiring the gorgeous of work of another very talented Richard Powers (not Echo Maker, Galatea 2.2, The Gold Bug Variations Powers, but Federal NSW Australia, Havana, Kuala Lumpur Richard Powers) and I'm smitten & transported & thrilled. 

Wonder if the two have ever met? Wonder if I could write a whole story about men named Richard Powers?  Wonder if that sounds as nutty/cool to you as it does to me. No matter - breathtaking work that has my brain making other connections to other artists is always a good thing.

Photo above of Fire Canyon House in Santa Barbara, via Apartment Therapy.

The Value of a Book

"'But then what is literature?'

'Well, for instance, Marcel Proust. Or James Joyce.'

'Joyce?' he asked, moving closer. 'The one who wrote Ulysses? I tried to read it. It's boring. To be honest, I don't know what books like that are any good for.'

'How do you mean?'

'Nobody reads it, that Ulysses. Three people have read it, and then they live off it for the rest of their lives, writing articles and going to conferences. But no one else has ever got through it.'

'Well now', I said, throwing Werewolves on to the floor. 'Let me tell you that the value of a book doesn't depend on how many people read it. The brilliance of the Mona Lisa doesn't depend on how many people file past her every year. The greatest of books have few readers, because reading them requires an effort. But it's precisely that effort that gives rise to the aesthetic effect. Literary junk-food will never give you anything of the kind.'"

       -The Sacred Book of the Werewolf by Victor Pelevin

Six. Six. Six.

I can't tell if I'd like to read this or if I'd just like to look at it. Color me intrigued.

When a Book Brings It All Home, Literally

I put off reading Felicia Sullivan's The Sky Isn't Visible from Here for a long time. Which seemed odd to me. Very odd.

I know Felicia and was so excited about her book coming out that I'd pre-ordered it on Amazon months before it was available. Months. I was then so thrilled to see it at a local independent bookstore, that I picked it up, before my Amazon copy arrived.  Then, days later, the Amazon copy arrived.  This left me with two brand-spanking new copies of a book that I simply couldn't wait to read.  And they sat. And they sat. And they sat.

I read other things. Other books. Other articles. I even read "work" books on marketing strategy and being an influencer and how to have effective confrontations & crucial conversations. Really. I also cleaned my house in a way that it hasn't been cleaned in two years. I cleaned out my closet (I got rid of shoes!), I re-organized my kitchen drawers and I cleared away three-months worth of mail.  In short: I did the unthinkable to avoid Felicia's book.

Such a strong reaction - such an intense desire to avoid something - was curious and I'd like to say I didn't know why, but I damn well did: my mother (wow, here goes, I don't think I've ever said this here, among you) was an alcoholic. She died when I was 18. Cirrhosis of the liver.  Was my childhood dramatic in ways it shouldn't have been? Yes. Was I forced to be the adult when I was just a kid? Absolutely. I knew, knew, knew that Felicia's book would detail similar situations, would conjure up my own past as she examined hers. I tried to avoid it for as long as possible.

Then one day - two weeks ago - I got up the courage to just open it. "A page," I thought. "Just one. Maybe two. And then you can do a few more tomorrow.  Just start the thing already."  And so I read the first page. And the second. I was off and running.  I had to set the book down several times. I had to wipe away tears a few times.  I laughed. I nodded knowingly. I marveled at the things Felicia went through that were so outside my experience all I could do was admire her courage. But mostly? It felt wonderful to be in the company of someone who had figured out the very things I've been trying to figure out. I felt vindicated in a way I've not been vindicated before - even through years of very excellent therapy (which I highly recommend to all, alcoholic mother or not!) 

I was afraid to read this book for another reason as well: so much of my own struggle to complete a novel has centered around this issue for me - do I deal with my mother or don't I? Do I write the memoir and get it out of my system so I can move past it? Do I weave the experiences into fiction? Or do I ignore it entirely? Yet when I ignore it entirely, I get blocked. Stopped. Entirely flummoxed because I feel like a big chunk of my life experience and the many insights it has given me, are cut off, unavailable, not on-tap for me when I'm in my writing mode. As I look at the Writing folder on my computer desktop of stories and half-completed novels (yes, they're electronic, despite the fact that it seems every writer has their stuff neatly printed in a drawer - who are you, I ask?), 80% of them are either directly about my mother, tangentially about my mother, or they have gone off-kilter by trying to avoid my mother altogether.

It is safe to say that Felicia's book was akin to a ticking time bomb in my newly cleaned and organized home. I didn't want to read it until I was ready to revisit my past and how that past has colored the present.  Felicia's experiences are vastly different from my own. Yet, a few bigger themes, a few larger life conclusions resonated with me and have helped me move forward in a way I hadn't expected. Felicia's courage to face her own particular demons has inspired me to face a few of mine.

I cannot tell you what it would be like to read Felicia's book without this experience, as I wear different glasses than you. And you. And you. It is quite safe to say that these glasses are not rose-colored. I have read fine reviews of the book by those who have not had similar experiences (or at least those who have not yet confessed to them) and was thrilled to know her book has been met with such praise. 

What I can tell you is this: The Sky Isn't Visible from Here had an incredible effect on me. Felicia's writing - so witty and biting and bittersweet all at once - sings. It is an excellent book and I highly recommend it. In fact, I've got a copy to spare if you're so inclined...

Further Evidence that Art Books are Snobby

When I mentioned my recent visit to the Murakami exhibit at the Geffen Contemporary MOCA, I didn't mention that I'd also picked up the book for the show. I, like many others, have a thing about getting the book of the show that I just saw. So that I can pore over certain pieces in private and remember the collection as I saw it on that day.

I'd bet that most flip through these gorgeous coffee table books (ah, there is nothing like opening a fresh art book and smelling that ink!) to look at the photos of the art, not to read the text. I'd even wager that most don't ever read the text.  But I do. As a writer, I feel an obligation to read the work, not just look at the pretty pictures.

It must be said, though, that the text in art books isn't always brilliant. It is often crammed so full of references and hoity-toity "look what I know" passages that it's tough to get through it all. Especially when new fiction lies unread on the very same desk. I'm always tempted to scrap the big fancy art book and hunker down with a work I'd "rather" read.  I expected the Murakmi book might be different, though, especially with five different sections written by five different writers.  With this optimism, I dove in.

I've learned a lot about Murakami's style and influences. I've noted with appreciation the way the text places Murakami's work in context to today's vast array artists, going beyond the obvious comparisons to Warhol. I've also read through the nearly always tricky bit where art writers tell me what the art should mean to me, which annoys me. I've not finished the text portion of the book, so I can't offer my thoughts on the whole just yet. However, I have to report that, so far, it's tough-going and full of the usual art-book dreck. A case in point, from the "Flat Boy vs. Skinny" section written by Dick Hebdige:

"Redemption is historically and spiritually linked to ritual and survival practices involving a descent trajectory such as self-abjection, rag-picking, Dumpster-diving, or recycling, a truism borne out in the work of Occidental artists as various as Hermann Nitsch, Antonin Artaud, Bob Flanagan, Robert Rauschenberg, Walter Benjamin and Agnes Varda. It is perhaps not just because homeless gleaners, those disheveled Christs of the urban sidewalk who collect empty drink cans for the minuscule deposit, are literally engaged in the business of "value redemption" that they sometimes get referred to as "redeemers." The submersion-into-flight motif appears to be a universal trope for spiritual or psychic stumbling and recovery - though, in the right historical or mythological circumstances, the trajectory may be reversed as in the familiar tale of Icarus or, come to that, the by now no less familiar though probably apocryphal story of Joseph Beuys, the Luftwaffe pilot shot down over the Crimea in 1944, badly burned at the point of impact then saved/transformed into an artist-shaman courtesy of his immersion in lard by the nomadic Tartars who, according to the Beuysian fable, found him and nursed him back to health."

I take the point, I see where you're going and yes, I've learned something. But I'm quite, quite sure there's a simpler, more straightforward way to say that.

I suspect, though (you see, I can do it too!), that were I to read Hebdige's works in total, including - but also not excluding - Subculture: The Meaning of Style, I'd find a similar style employed, and possibly a dissection of other theorists' work such as Julia Kristeva and other French subculture experts that have studied things with big important words attached to them and that I'm loathe to, or am simply unable to, understand because, well, I'm not a media theorist and therefore can only speak in the more plain, common language of one who is trying to actually be understood, rather than writing for the express purposes of not being understood, or being understood only by other theorists and the rest can shove it.

There's a simpler way to say that too, but I think you can see where I'm going with this.  More once I've finished the text portion of the pretty book.   

Dixon's Meyer Akin to Meyer Lemon

I want to love Meyer. I do. But the ruminations of a writer - even a good writer - don't always work well on the page. The self-conscious mind-wandering and "is this a good idea?" and "no, scratch that, it's been done before" concerns feel used up and so five years ago. It has been done before. More successfully, I'd argue. Which I hate because I love Dixon.

There are some beautiful moments with Meyer's mother. I'm only halfway in, so perhaps there will be more.  I hope.

But for now, it all feels very Charlie Kaufman in Adaptation. Which I liked, but that was five years ago.

Crushing on Koestenbaum

I've got a thing for Hotel Theory. There's no point in hiding it. I didn't think I would. Its spine has been peeking out from my TBR pile for weeks now.  Maybe months.  After tackling Only Revolutions at some point in the past twelve months (more on this later today, do stay tuned), the mere thought of more than one column of text on a page made me queasy. Unsure of myself. Hadn't I already tackled the un-tackle-able? Must I commit to doing it again?

I packed it to read on my honeymoon, thinking that there would be a synergy between staying in hotels and reading about staying in hotels. You know. Hotel. Theory. Get it?  I didn't even crack the cover -- not once in two weeks of lugging it from County Dublin to County Clare to County Kerry and back.

And what an ass I've been.  It is delightful. It is funny and fun and nerdy - nerdy in the best way, what else could extrapolating Heidegger be than nerdy with all the lights on? I thought it would be stuffy and academic. It is accessible and light-hearted. It is a play on words, on hotels on theories. It is all of these things and more. I'm only at Chapter Three.

How do I know I like it? When trying to sort out what passages to quote, I find I'm in danger of quoting everything I've read so far. Surely a sign of excitement, no? My cheeks are flush, my fingers tingling. I fear there is not one passage or two that can really capture the delight this book holds for me (is it just me? you'll have to read it for yourself and see) and I find I want to read it slowly (I know, I know, many of you have written in to tell me that you don't believe it's true...that you've never enjoyed a book so much that you wished it would continue on and on) because each sentence is a little gem. A little back and forth, a little I thought you'd like this and so what do you think between Mr. Koestenbaum and I.

I expect to return in a week's time with a proper critical analysis befitting a book titled Hotel Theory (for surely a bunch of it's-so-delightful delcarations don't do it justice); there will be questions raised and answered, theories put forth and refuted or not. Grand gestures and discussions about what it all means in the context of several other novels with two columns and different fonts will certainly follow.  Perhaps a closer look at other books that engage in hotel theories of one kind or another is in order. It might even make sense to compare and contrast this particular piece of literature with literature from an actual hotel. Imagine. But until then...I'll steal these moments of pure enjoyment that can only be had if one ignores all that hooey. 

Here, then, are a few passages I'm crushing on at the moment:

"Do you check into a hotel? Or does the hotel condition check into you?"

"Dream: I rented a room in a dormitory-hotel. There, my friend S. gave me a blue perfume called Chopin. (The bottle was blue. So were its contents.) I marveled that Chopin was now an expensive French scent's name. (Then I remembered that Chopin was also a brand of cheap vodka in tiny bottles, sold as stocking stuffers and souvenirs.) Accidentally I'd left my friend's gift on her toilet lid. Didn't I value Chopin's blueness? Was it a depressed perfume?"

"At her room in the Hotel St. Claire, my grandmother kept a box of chocolates in the bureau's top drawer. She opened it to show me bonbons--proof of occupancy, supremacy, greed. It might not have been good candy."

As I scan ahead I can see paragraphs, passages with promising titles: Beauvoir Hotel, Sebald Hotel, Hotel Auster, Hotel Paves, Hotel Fuentes...

Books I Can't Get At Home

Quick, quick, before I lose my mind entirely and ship whole crates of books back from the Dublin bookstores that I could spend my entire life in: which books can I get here (Ireland/UK) that I cannot get at home?  In short, which books MUST I purchase now before returning to the states?

I'm counting on you as my bookish mind is on overdrive. Every corner I turn presents me with yet another literary inspiration, yet another reason why I could easily stay here for...ever?

Which, which books? Do tell...