Let's see how much of these I can tackle.
First, as I mentioned in my last post, I was reading The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland.
Well, I finished said book, and I really rather enjoyed it. I like Coupland's detached style – he's part of that middle-generation between the baby-boomers and what I guess is my generation, people whose formative years were in the late 70s and 80s, and he's clearly a voice for people who thought they were inheriting the future, but instead found themselves inheriting the past's problems.
He might come across as a little cynical.
But his cynicism has a sweetness to it – a glass-is-half-full kind of cynicism. As such we get the story of Roger and Bethany, an unlikely friendship as you'll probably ever come across. Roger is a forty-something alcoholic who is divorced, depressed, and working in Staples (which seems more like a cause rather than a symptom, for any of you who may have worked retail – by the way, if you have, and you want to check out a perfect representation of that life, check this out; Clerks works, too, although less box-storey). His life is shit, and when his journal finds itself in the hands of the 19-year-old Bethany, it is also the subject of ridicule.
Except Bethany is a bit of a pain-queen, a Goth-chick with enough suicide in her life, Sylvia Plath would be jealous. So while she has initial scorn, she quickly realizes she's found a kindred-spirit. What begins is a series of journal entries back-and-forth, as Roger and Bethany form a tenuous alliance to stave-off the direction their lives are moving in.
It is the format of the book that is the strongest feature. The use of journal entries, and then later letters, e-mails, and novel excerpts, combines to create a cohesive story. Roger's novel in particular, Glove Pond, is an exercise in metafiction that, in turn, is an exercise in metafiction. The layers Coupland stacks in this novel are very intricate, at one point writing a novel about a novel about a novel (which, in turn, is almost a re-telling of the primary novel). What's amazing is that there's nothing exceptionally intricate about the plot – it moves inexorably forward, the characters grow in an organic manner – nothing that happens is really extraordinary.
But it's funny and natural and sad. Roger is an anti-hero, but he's not a villain. Rather, he's a loser who is not only bad at the game, but doesn't seem to even know the rules. The same goes for Bethany – what you realize is not that losers find their own, but that trying to find yourself is an activity that knows no age. In the end, Roger isn't filled with redemption, but he isn't beyond finding it, either.
I think if you like Eggers or Foster Wallace or Lethem or Safran Foer, than you might find this a little lighter. But that essence is there, that bit of snark, bit of swagger, that makes those other readers enjoyable. This is what I think writing should be. It tells a story in an amusing and accessible way, staying intelligent without losing the reader in style or vocabulary.
You know – it's great to be able to actually understand the books you read, is all.
I just bought two recently released, wildly different albums, and I haven't been able to stop listening to either one. That is, um, except when I'm listening to the other one. Screw you, logic!
The first one – and boy, I don't know how else to say this without being covered in shame – is the self-titled album, Day26.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Who the hell is Day26 (and why isn't there a space between “Day” and “26”)? The second question I don't know the answer to, but the first can be answered by the powerful words: “Making the Band 4.”
Yeah, they're a put-together band, manufactured for look, sound, style. Their songs are written for them and their voices are honed to be commercially viable. They epitomize the very worst of what pop music stands for.
And I loved every minute of it.
I've mentioned my unnatural love for reality TV (“The Hills” is back! Lauren was in Paris, and she almost ruined 2 dresses!). Well, “Making the Band 4” sucked me in – especially once I heard the first song they had to learn. Sung a capella, the song “Exclusive” has a melody that is perfectly soulful. When the five guys put their heart into it, I get that tingly feeling.
Not that tingly feeling!
It's just that, for me, good music makes an emotional connection. I don't care if it's technically good, I care that I feel compelled to listen to it. Whether it's making me want to dance, or making me want to sing along, or just making me react positively, music means a lot to me, and I don't care if others think the music I listen to is crap.
So when I say Day26 is a great album, I mean that. I always say (always – I've said a few times) that if an album starts off strong, that can cover a lot of ills. This album is on exception. The first song, “I'm the Reason,” is a fun opening number, and it leads right into the first single, “Got Me Going.” After that you get solid hip-hop/R&B straight through, the possible exception being “Ain't Going” featuring the other “Making the Band 4” members, Danity Kane and Donnie, but even that has a great beat.
It's fun, danceable album. I could listen to it many-times over, and it didn't get old. I say check out the first three songs I mentioned, and, if you like them, you'll like the rest of album. Otherwise, you might be suffering from bitchassness, which is a terrible, terrible disease.
The second album, as I said, is really, really different. Not only is different from hip-hop and R&B, it's different from what the band is known for: overly verbose emo.
I've waxed rhetorical about emo before, so I won't bore you. But I will say that as much as I enjoyed Panic! At the Disco's first album, I also found it a bit wearing. Musically, it was fun, but lyrically, it was just too much. Arrhythmic (and that's a weird word to see capitalized, right?) sentence structures are a little hard to listen to.
So on their new album Pretty.Odd., Panic at the Disco (yeah, they dropped the exclamation point, although they took their punctuation to their album title) goes to a very new place. At least, new to them. And, like those old NBC promos: “If you haven't seen it, it's new to you.” Well, if you're like the members of Panic and you haven't gone to college yet, then listening to The Beatles will seem crazy. “Dude, have you ever heard of this rock & roll shit? It's crazy!”
I love The Beatles, though, so I have no problem with a band emulating them. And that's what they do. Pretty. Odd. is an accurate summation of the eclectic nature of this album. While never really delving into the harder rock of Sgt. Pepper's or The White Album, there is definitely a great mix of lyrical and musical content. These guys have grown up and discovered their parents listened to music, and said music was pretty good.
I highly recommend “Nine in the Afternoon,”
and “Northern Downpour,” but once again, this is another strong album. Like My Chemical Romance's Welcome to the Black Parade, this is a sophomore effort that can easily make a claim for being one of the best rock albums of their respective years.
Make a bolder claim than that, suckers!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I Don't Play "Favorites"
I had an interview the other day, and was twice asked (by separate people) “Who are your favorite authors.”
Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that?
The trouble with such a question is, like most dedicated readers (you know, the ones that skew the numbers of the NEA’s report on literacy in America), I read a lot. More than just “a lot,” though, I am fairly diverse in my reading choices, especially at this time in my life. If you had asked me, say, ten years ago, the answer would have had no trouble finding its way from my mouth: David Eddings, Orson Scott Card, Stephen King, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman (Dragonlance, baby!), and probably Dean Koontz (for Lightning and Oddkins alone, I’d put him up there). A few years later, I probably would have added J.K. Rowling.
Today, though, despite the fact that I still enjoy those authors, I find it hard to think of any of them as one of “my favorites.” For starters, I feel like many of these writers (except for Rowling, so far) have fallen off their game at one point or another. Eddings, whose Belgariad series was the first adult novels I ever read, is a great story-teller. His books, for me, are like macaroni and cheese – warm, comforting, and, well, cheesy. I love them and I love the characters, but his style never shifts from series to series: there are always strong, sassy women characters whose job it is to keep their men from getting too big for their britches. Here’s a line that seems to make it into every book he writes:
(After a group of women, in sync with their feminine desire to take men down a peg without needing to discuss it, verbally eviscerate our hero):
“Want to play again?” she asked archly.
I have nothing against strong women characters – they definitely add an element to the genre that hadn’t really been seen until then. The fact that it’s a male author writing it is impressive, too. But when the same dialogue creeps up from series to series, and the characters start to exert eerie similarities (tell me Polgara, in the Belgariad and Mallorean series, and Sephrenia, in the Sparhawk series (Elenium and Tamuli series, for all you/us nerds), aren’t almost exactly the same person. Go ahead, tell me it), you start to realize that maybe the writing isn’t as strong as you once thought.
And yet I still read these books, usually once a year. The stories are simply that good and my connection with the characters is, at this point, very personal.
Based on that, what I realized was that with all the authors I would have mentioned ten years ago, what made them my favorites were individual interactions with their works, and not necessarily their corpus (corpuses? corpi?) as a whole. I might like multiple novels of theirs, but I might also actively dislike some of their other works. For every Misery King writes, there’s an Insomnia. For every Ender’s Game there’s an Empire.
Basically, then, I’m left with a list of books I like, but have trouble bestowing “favorite” upon the authors. Even thinking about it now, I’m still not completely sure if it’s correct to make a list of authors I love. For while I might throw names like Jonathan Lethem, Zaidi Smith, or Douglas Coupland out, I’ve only read one of Lethem’s books (and an article I really enjoyed), only loved Smith’s first book (while not actively disliking her other two novels, I wouldn’t say I was enthralled), and have only read 1.66 Coupland novels (not really sure what the actual number should be, but I’ve read all of one, which I loved, part of another, which I couldn’t get into, and I’m currently reading one now, The Gum Thief, which I will review entirely when I’m finished). So are these really favorites?
Consider this: I do have favorite actors. Generally, no matter what the movie is, I enjoy the way the actor performs, even if I don’t like the film. For some reason, Ryan Reynolds is in that category for me – that man can do no wrong. More obviously (or seriously, depending on your interpretation), Denzel Washington, Will Smith, and Gene Hackman are all actors I find always work for me on the screen (oddly, I couldn’t think of a woman actor that fits this bill; while there are many truly fantastic female actors, I just can’t think of one that makes me go: I need to see her movie).
But that’s one of the more blatant differences between acting and writing – acting is in your face, and there’s a face attached to it. Writing, though, is simply a name – if you’re lucky! – and usually it’s a before- or afterthought of the audience. Once you’re immersed in a book, you aren’t constantly thinking Stephen King wrote this! Stephen King wrote this! Whereas, when you’re watching a movie, you are always aware, in some way, That’s Denzel! That’s Denzel! (God knows I am; that man is beautiful . . .). With books, we connect with the writing itself, while with movies, you connect with the story and/or the people.
This isn’t, then, simply a matter of loving everything someone produces. I’m sure the most ardent James Patterson or Janet Evanovich fan has at one point said “I don’t like Book X.” You can’t please all the people, etc, etc. But I think it goes beyond the matter of like/dislike, and ventures into a social reality on the state of reading.
First, there are way too many books. I may have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating (quick note: I totally brain farted over “bears repeating,” having no idea which “bare/bear” to use. I’m still not sure it’s correct . . .): Whenever someone asked if I’d read something, and I had to answer no (or worse, answer that I’d never even heard of said book/author), I always felt like it’s a shortcoming of mine for having not encountered this cultural artifact. That is, until I realized that for every book of yours I haven’t read, I can raise you one of mine. The fact is, there are thousands of books published each year, so reading all of the “good ones,” in addition to all the classics I’ve yet to read, is not really a doable task. And yet it’s one I attempt anyway, meaning I don’t have a great deal of time to spend on any single author – I’m playing catch-up here, folks!
Second, books are not objects that create “brand loyalty.” Never mind the publishing house; the author as a brand is virtually non-existent. Part of the problem is timeliness – even the most prolific authors, such as Danielle Steel or Stephen King, only produce at most, 3 books a year (and hey, you bust out 3 books a year and I’m going to question if you have a soul or not). We measure our time in YouTube clips, so imagine waiting a year for someone’s next book. While that’s not to say people don’t eagerly anticipate a new release, I think that generally happens with series (Harry Potter, anyone?) and genre-fiction (Harry Potter, anyone?). Readers either don’t have time for loyalty for an author or aren’t so enmeshed in author’s fabric that they aren’t distracted by other things.
Who are my favorite authors? I don’t think I can answer that. Unfortunately, as my rambling is testament of, I don’t know if I can explain why I can’t answer that. I guess, put simply, there are stories I’ll read that make me go: “I wish I had written that.” These books make me glad I spent time to read, and I usually want more of that book. While I may not like other offerings from the same author, I think it is the hope for that anxious contentment that makes me love reading so much. So if a writer can make me feel that, then I’d say you’re one of my favorites.
But I still think the question is flawed.
By the way, I once again apologize for the gap between posts. Between school, work, and pretending to be a social person, sitting down to write in a blog seems low on the priority-list.
It has made me respect bloggers, though. While the vast majority of blogs are probably crap (we’re talking millions, people), some are very, very good. And these are updated on a daily or weekly basis. While perhaps not typing up 1000-word opi (plural of opus) like moi, they are still, at least, gathering information and providing commentary. Try sitting down once a week and doing that, and I’m sure you’ll see what I mean by respect.
I’ll try to write more soon – plenty to review, just got to sit down and do it.
Peace.
Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that?
The trouble with such a question is, like most dedicated readers (you know, the ones that skew the numbers of the NEA’s report on literacy in America), I read a lot. More than just “a lot,” though, I am fairly diverse in my reading choices, especially at this time in my life. If you had asked me, say, ten years ago, the answer would have had no trouble finding its way from my mouth: David Eddings, Orson Scott Card, Stephen King, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman (Dragonlance, baby!), and probably Dean Koontz (for Lightning and Oddkins alone, I’d put him up there). A few years later, I probably would have added J.K. Rowling.
Today, though, despite the fact that I still enjoy those authors, I find it hard to think of any of them as one of “my favorites.” For starters, I feel like many of these writers (except for Rowling, so far) have fallen off their game at one point or another. Eddings, whose Belgariad series was the first adult novels I ever read, is a great story-teller. His books, for me, are like macaroni and cheese – warm, comforting, and, well, cheesy. I love them and I love the characters, but his style never shifts from series to series: there are always strong, sassy women characters whose job it is to keep their men from getting too big for their britches. Here’s a line that seems to make it into every book he writes:
(After a group of women, in sync with their feminine desire to take men down a peg without needing to discuss it, verbally eviscerate our hero):
“Want to play again?” she asked archly.
I have nothing against strong women characters – they definitely add an element to the genre that hadn’t really been seen until then. The fact that it’s a male author writing it is impressive, too. But when the same dialogue creeps up from series to series, and the characters start to exert eerie similarities (tell me Polgara, in the Belgariad and Mallorean series, and Sephrenia, in the Sparhawk series (Elenium and Tamuli series, for all you/us nerds), aren’t almost exactly the same person. Go ahead, tell me it), you start to realize that maybe the writing isn’t as strong as you once thought.
And yet I still read these books, usually once a year. The stories are simply that good and my connection with the characters is, at this point, very personal.
Based on that, what I realized was that with all the authors I would have mentioned ten years ago, what made them my favorites were individual interactions with their works, and not necessarily their corpus (corpuses? corpi?) as a whole. I might like multiple novels of theirs, but I might also actively dislike some of their other works. For every Misery King writes, there’s an Insomnia. For every Ender’s Game there’s an Empire.
Basically, then, I’m left with a list of books I like, but have trouble bestowing “favorite” upon the authors. Even thinking about it now, I’m still not completely sure if it’s correct to make a list of authors I love. For while I might throw names like Jonathan Lethem, Zaidi Smith, or Douglas Coupland out, I’ve only read one of Lethem’s books (and an article I really enjoyed), only loved Smith’s first book (while not actively disliking her other two novels, I wouldn’t say I was enthralled), and have only read 1.66 Coupland novels (not really sure what the actual number should be, but I’ve read all of one, which I loved, part of another, which I couldn’t get into, and I’m currently reading one now, The Gum Thief, which I will review entirely when I’m finished). So are these really favorites?
Consider this: I do have favorite actors. Generally, no matter what the movie is, I enjoy the way the actor performs, even if I don’t like the film. For some reason, Ryan Reynolds is in that category for me – that man can do no wrong. More obviously (or seriously, depending on your interpretation), Denzel Washington, Will Smith, and Gene Hackman are all actors I find always work for me on the screen (oddly, I couldn’t think of a woman actor that fits this bill; while there are many truly fantastic female actors, I just can’t think of one that makes me go: I need to see her movie).
But that’s one of the more blatant differences between acting and writing – acting is in your face, and there’s a face attached to it. Writing, though, is simply a name – if you’re lucky! – and usually it’s a before- or afterthought of the audience. Once you’re immersed in a book, you aren’t constantly thinking Stephen King wrote this! Stephen King wrote this! Whereas, when you’re watching a movie, you are always aware, in some way, That’s Denzel! That’s Denzel! (God knows I am; that man is beautiful . . .). With books, we connect with the writing itself, while with movies, you connect with the story and/or the people.
This isn’t, then, simply a matter of loving everything someone produces. I’m sure the most ardent James Patterson or Janet Evanovich fan has at one point said “I don’t like Book X.” You can’t please all the people, etc, etc. But I think it goes beyond the matter of like/dislike, and ventures into a social reality on the state of reading.
First, there are way too many books. I may have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating (quick note: I totally brain farted over “bears repeating,” having no idea which “bare/bear” to use. I’m still not sure it’s correct . . .): Whenever someone asked if I’d read something, and I had to answer no (or worse, answer that I’d never even heard of said book/author), I always felt like it’s a shortcoming of mine for having not encountered this cultural artifact. That is, until I realized that for every book of yours I haven’t read, I can raise you one of mine. The fact is, there are thousands of books published each year, so reading all of the “good ones,” in addition to all the classics I’ve yet to read, is not really a doable task. And yet it’s one I attempt anyway, meaning I don’t have a great deal of time to spend on any single author – I’m playing catch-up here, folks!
Second, books are not objects that create “brand loyalty.” Never mind the publishing house; the author as a brand is virtually non-existent. Part of the problem is timeliness – even the most prolific authors, such as Danielle Steel or Stephen King, only produce at most, 3 books a year (and hey, you bust out 3 books a year and I’m going to question if you have a soul or not). We measure our time in YouTube clips, so imagine waiting a year for someone’s next book. While that’s not to say people don’t eagerly anticipate a new release, I think that generally happens with series (Harry Potter, anyone?) and genre-fiction (Harry Potter, anyone?). Readers either don’t have time for loyalty for an author or aren’t so enmeshed in author’s fabric that they aren’t distracted by other things.
Who are my favorite authors? I don’t think I can answer that. Unfortunately, as my rambling is testament of, I don’t know if I can explain why I can’t answer that. I guess, put simply, there are stories I’ll read that make me go: “I wish I had written that.” These books make me glad I spent time to read, and I usually want more of that book. While I may not like other offerings from the same author, I think it is the hope for that anxious contentment that makes me love reading so much. So if a writer can make me feel that, then I’d say you’re one of my favorites.
But I still think the question is flawed.
By the way, I once again apologize for the gap between posts. Between school, work, and pretending to be a social person, sitting down to write in a blog seems low on the priority-list.
It has made me respect bloggers, though. While the vast majority of blogs are probably crap (we’re talking millions, people), some are very, very good. And these are updated on a daily or weekly basis. While perhaps not typing up 1000-word opi (plural of opus) like moi, they are still, at least, gathering information and providing commentary. Try sitting down once a week and doing that, and I’m sure you’ll see what I mean by respect.
I’ll try to write more soon – plenty to review, just got to sit down and do it.
Peace.
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