Shopgirl

Shopgirl

By Steve Martin

I need to pay more attention. I've been dismissing Shopgirl for over a decade because I, apparently, don't listen.

Somehow, I managed to confuse this little gem of a novel with the series of Shopaholic novels written by Sophie Kinsella, despite the fact that several people have repeatedly told me that it has nothing to do with the Shopaholic series. But, like I said, I don't listen. and since there is virtually zero chance of my ever picking up a Shopaholic novel (with no offense intended to either the Shopaholic series or Sophie Kinsella), this book almost passed me by due to my stubborn insistence that this book was going to be about shopping. Thank god my mother finally got it through my thick skull that Shopgirl was written by Steve Martin, untethering the book from Kinsella in my mind and placing it high on my list of novels to read. I love Steve Martin. I love his stand-up. I love his work on television. I love his films. I love his Twitter feed and I love that he can play the banjo. It would make sense that I would love his books as well. If you, like me, have dismissed this novel because you think it's going to be about shopping or something akin to consumption of items from a department store and/or a boutique on Rodeo Drive, I'm here to rest your worried mind. It's not about any of that.

Shopgirl is a bleak little love story told from the perspective of four individuals in the Los Angeles area as some point prior to the cell phone era (the novel was published in 2000). It centers around the doomed-from-the-beginning relationship between Ray, a wealthy, middle-aged man, and Mirabelle, a twenty something artist currently working the glove counter at an expensive LA department store (thus the name, Shopgirl). Jeremy, a going-nowhere slacker and Lisa, a ferocious sexual predator fill out the novel's dance card. The dating triangle of four is complete.

Martin is not exploring new territory. The modern dating scene has been raked throughout with a fine-toothed comb since the term "modern dating" came into existence. Much of the action is predictable and the outcomes are plain even to the most oblivious daters out there (read: me). Expect no Roald Dahl-esque twists in Shopgirl because they are not forthcoming. But, that's the nature of "modern dating in the pre-cell phone era," isn't it? There are no surprise endings. Only the same predictable results, relationship after relationship until we all die lonely and miserable in a house full of cats and tins of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup. It all seems so pointless.

Well, I did say it was a bleak story.

But there is a lot of charm and wit packed into this 130-page story to make it worth reading despite the fact that you know exactly how it's all going to turn out by page 25. Steve Martin has an observational tone that implies that he has lived this sort of life long enough to understand the exact physical, intellectual, emotional and psychological machinations, but not quite long enough to understand why we delude ourselves into pretending to not see those same machinations in our own relationships. This makes me like Steve Martin all the more because it's a war zone out there, kids.

Or something like that.

In Shopgirl, Martin explores the various manifestations of loneliness in an urban landscape where we are both surrounded by a millions of people and, at the same time, completely alone. Sort of like Facebook except with actual faces that move and talk and react to what you say immediately via speech rather than comments and pokes. Martin writes with a sincerity that is both comedic (expected) and tragic (surprising). Many of the observations within the novel are the sorts that we have all vaguely noticed but probably have never spent the time to collect up into a formal observation. Once Martin expresses them in words we find ourselves nodding in sad affirmation that he has nailed it on the head. Each of Martin's four principal characters have found ways in which to live with their loneliness, whether it is anti-depressants, psychological walls or dependence of self-help literature. It is fitting that one of the central characters in the novel, Lisa, works at the cosmetics counter. Her brand of loneliness is so completely covered over by vapidity and materialism that Lisa isn't even aware that she has set the controls of her life on a trajectory to disaster.

But the real strength of Shopgirl is setting. As with many of his better films, Martin brings a unique understanding of Los Angeles (or at least I think he has a unique understanding. I've never been to LA and most of what I believe about LA has been gleaned from Steve Martin Movies and The Big Lebowski). Much the same way Stephen King has the ability to capture the essence of Maine, Steve Martin has a keen sense of the particular eccentricities that make Los Angeles different and employs these eccentricities in a manner that accentuates rather than smothers the narrative. When Martin describes the various patrons entering and exiting a medical clinic while waiting for Mirabelle to fill a prescription for anti-depressants, he is expressing just enough of LAs unique qualities without over-burdening the reader with an editorial rant. It is plainly obvious that Martin loves Los Angeles and it permeates the novel, making it better as a result.

The literary style is simple. Martin employs simple, flat sentences in the present tense to convey complex social and sexual politics with the keen eye of a seasoned social scientist. However, the narrative remains stolidly detached and non-judgmental. In fact, Martin manages to evoke empathy for all his characters by focusing on the universal complexities of human relationships. I found it easy to relate to both Ray and Mirabelle despite the fact that their lives have virtually nothing in common with my own.

This is an exquisite little novel.

Every House is Haunted

Every House is Haunted

By Ian Rogers

Note: This is my first review in partnership with the good people over at I Read A Book Once.... Although all the reviews I write for them will also appear here, I encourage everyone to pay the site regular visits as it has lots more news, reviews and author interviews. I'm excited to be part of the team.

A blues guitar player whose name I cannot recall once said that the blues isn't about the notes a musician plays, it's about the notes he doesn't play. Horror works in exactly the same way. A horror writer is responsible for providing a precise amount of detail that is necessary to frighten a reader. No more, no less. Not enough detail and the reader cannot picture the scenario, too much detail and you eliminate the fundamental criteria in all scary stories: the reader's imagination. It's a literary balancing act that is often destabilized by a writer's overwhelming desire to add more (in this case unnecessary) detail. The writer should provide only what is absolutely necessary for the reader to conjure up the most horrifying aspects of their own imagination.

As P.T. Barnum may or may not have said: "Always leave them wanting more." While this is true of virtually every situation in life, this truism is especially true for horror writing. Good horror should end in a hair-raising climax that wraps up enough (but never all) of the story's loose ends. The unresolved (or unrevealed) issues at the end of a horror story are the most crucial. In my humble opinion, horror should leave the reader alone with their own imagination as to what happens next. Does Carrie rise from the dead and terrorize the town of Chamberlain? There should be room for infinite imagined terrors to occur in the readers mind after the last word has been written.

The reader, on the other hand, has responsibilities of their own when entering into a horror story. He or she must enter into a horror story with an open mind, devoid of preconceptions and biases and prepared unequivocally to suspend their disbelief beyond its usual boundaries. Unlike other genres of fiction, I make it a policy to enter into a horror story with no expectations. If you project your expectations onto a writer they are bound to disappoint. I will hereafter refer to this phenomenon as the Late-Era Stephen King Anomaly.

So as you can see, horror fiction is a social contract of sorts between a writer and a reader. A symbiotic relationship that, when it works, results in extraordinarily fun reading but when it doesn't.... egads!

So it was nice to sit down with Ian Roger's new collection of short stories with a wide open mind and be pleasantly surprised to find an eclectic anthology of stories that are not only well-written but also offer the precise amount of detail while leaving all the climaxes as open ended as possible. No awkward reveals, no detailed descriptions of monsters that never, ever live up to expectations and no not once was I disappointed with an ending. That's a difficult feat to achieve.

Every House is Haunted is a loosely intertwined collection of stories that range from paranormal to science fiction to strict horror. I'm not going to summarize over two dozen stories for you, so you'll just have to go find this book yourself if you are interested. I will tell you that it is cleverly divided into five sections, fittingly entitled The Vestibule, The Library, The Attic , The Den and The Cellar. A literary house tour, if you will.

Although Rogers notes in his introduction that his greatest influence was Stephen King (and who am I to question that?) I thought his style throughout the collection was predominantly reminiscent of Robert McCammon's short fiction. However, "The Tattletail" is a nod to J.K. Rowling. H.P. Lovecraft is manifest in "Charlotte's Frequency" and, most tellingly, "Winter Hammock" evokes the ghost of Kurt Vonnegut. Certainly not literary lightweights. If Rogers is running on even half capacity compared to those writers, you can't miss. I'll go so far as to say he's pacing them rather well, indeed.

Of course, I don't want to imply that Rogers doesn't have a distinct literary voice. He most certainly does. But short fiction is a difficult genre. The writer has to get straight down to business, often at the expense of details that either the writer or the reader would have otherwise like to have been privy. Maintaining the trust of the reader is difficult when you are trying to craft as story only 20 pages long. It doesn't take much to disappoint a reader in a short span. So voice and pacing become an especially important aspect, one that Rogers handles adeptly. One does not want the same voice in each and every story. A certain amount of homage is an ingenious way to ensure each narrative employs a different tone and voice.

So what, exactly am I rambling about? Is this book any good or not? Should you go out and buy the damned thing or not bother? Well, like most titles in the horror genre, this is not the sort of collection that is going to win over new fans. There is little to no cross-over potential here. If you like romance, you'll find none of the cross pollination one finds in titles such as Twilight. However, if you are constantly on the lookout for new and interesting work in the paranormal genre, this is a can't miss title. Well crafted stories, well crafted characters, no condescension and boat loads of fun to read. In Every House is Haunted, Ian Rogers doesn't play all the right notes.

Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter

Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter

By Tom Franklin

Larry Ott, or Scary Larry as he is known in Chabot, Mississippi, owes a lot to Stephen King. Twenty years after being accused of, but not convicted for, the disappearance of local high school girl Cindy Walker, Ott, bereft of friendship, finds escape and friendship in the pages the horror books he loves so much. When another local girl goes missing, the locals immediately suspect Ott, who lives a cloistered and spartan life in the backwoods, trying (and failing) to forget about his troubled past as best he can.

Silas "32" Jones owes a lot to Larry Ott. Though twenty years have blurred the reasons, recent events have brought his past back into the present. The former high school baseball phenom and current darling of the Chabot police department, Silas makes a series of grisly, Stephen King-esque discoveries that put the history of Chabot and, more specifically, the relationship between him and Ott into the front and center.

It, therefore, seems rather ironic that Ott, the plaintive protagonist of Tom Franklin's 2007 novel Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter fails to see the similarities between himself and Carrie White, the abused loner in King's first novel Carrie. Franklin, who is generously peppers his narrative with references to many of King's other classics but is careful to steer clear of the obvious comparison.

And thank god for that. Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter is a far superior than a series of frank juxtapositions. While Franklin may have modeled Ott after Carrie, it's heartening that he doesn't see fit to pummel the reader over the head with the comparison. Such is the wonder of literary fiction, a genre that has suffered under the weight of popular fiction these past 40 years (ironically, we have Stephen King to partially blame for that). The social pariah (Boo Radley?) paradigm has been explored on numerous occasions, but rarely in such capably literary hands. And what, exactly makes Ott such a sympathetic character? Well, like virtually every single person who will ever read this novel (myself included), Larry Ott is a voracious reader.

In Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter, Franklin is preaching to the bookish choir. While the plight of Larry Ott is the worst-case scenario for any high school outcast, it's the sort of story that will hit home for more than a few readers. What lifelong reader (or any other sort of social misfit) hasn't felt the sting of rejection. In one particularly poignant scene, Larry recalls an incident in which he was universally accepted by his peers for a single day (owing to a realistic monster mask he brings to school one Halloween) only to be universally and cruelly rejected again once the novelty of the mask has worn thin. Franklin's depiction of Ott loitering in the parking lot, mask in hand, walking slowly to his car and hoping to be noticed by his classmates is so agonizing that I had to put the book down for a few hours to collect myself (something I rarely have to do).

I could accuse Franklin of picking low-hanging fruit and consciously pulling at heart-strings if it weren't for the fact that he handles the subject matter as deftly as anyone could. Franklin forges a connection between his readers and Ott that is nearly impossible to sever. Had Franklin conceived on his story in any other manner and I fear it would not have provided the same cathartic emotions. Unlike Stephen King, Tom Franklin knows exactly how to end his story.

And while Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter is not even remotely a horror story, Franklin's style is decidedly an homage to the early novels of King as well as the small town novels of Richard Russo. Franklin, like King and Russo, has a real talent for describing setting and establishing tone. In fact, Franklin's striking portrayal of the deep south reminded me of King's ability to paint rural Maine (or Russo's uncanny capacity to sketch upstate New York) on the printed page. Franklin's Mississippi is so encompassing that it often bear semblance to the kudzu that has engulfed and stifled the local fauna. There is a certain strangulated, smothered flavor that mirrors Ott's tortured life as a social pariah. Wonderful stuff!

The story unfolds in a series of revealed episodes that follow no particular chronological order. Jumping from the present day back to Ott's childhood, the narrative unfolds in beautiful layers, each more riveting than the last. The characters are not always well rendered (some of the secondary characters are nothing more than cardboard cut-outs of southern stereotypes) but those that matter are treated with the care they require and deserve, particularly Ott. I know nothing about Tom Franklin, but one must wonder if Larry Ott is a literary self-portrait owing to the manner in which he is carefully handled.

Though time will eventually tell (and I may be wrong), I get the impression that in twenty years time Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter will be required reading for future students studying early 21st century literature. It is by no means perfect, but it provides a logical progression from the Horror magazines of the 1950s and 60s, through the works of Stephen King into a new generation of literary fiction writers.

On a personal note I can say with absolute certainty that this is by far the best novel I have read in 2012. If you are a lover of literary fiction, you owe it to yourself to pick this novel up. Books like this are becoming a rarity.

Gathering Darkness

Gathering Darkness

By Chris Allinotte

(Full disclosure: I was given a copy of this book by the author who also happens to be an old university buddy).

It seems to me that Chris Allinotte is writing in the wrong era.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that Mr. Allinotte will be unsuccessful in our own age, but his stories, collected in anthology form, are reminiscent of the sort that populated the golden age of science fiction and horror magazines. One can picture a wide eyed little boy reading these tales under the covers of his bed with a flashlight circa 1948. In fact most, if not all of Allinotte's stories would look right at home in magazines such as Amazing Stories! or Weird Tales. While I'm certain that comparable magazine exist today in the form of e-zines (I'm positive in fact, since a lot of Allinotte's work has been published in such places)

In fact, it's not too difficult to trace the inspiration for Allinotte's anthology of 28 spooky, gory and, often hilarious tales back to the sort of campfire stories we used to tell each other around the campfire when we were kids. Many of the tales in this book reminded me so much of those found a little book I have loved and lost more time than I can count: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. So much so, that I kept turning the page, hoping to see one of Stephen Gammell's highly disturbing illustrations (I didn't, but it would have been cool).

From there I can only guess that, like me, Allinotte grew up on a solid diet of campy 70s and 80s horror and slasher films. Anything from Sleepaway Camp, Evil Dead II and Return of the Living Dead (or any other combination of low-budget horror goodness). While my tastes tended to gravitate toward the work of George Romero and Lucio Fulci, Allinotte seems to have taken a wider approach to horror. Inspiration ranging from Stephen King to Sam Raimi is evidenced in his work which has made for a more eclectic and diversified collection. Within this collection there are aliens, monsters, giant insects, ghosts, zombies, Satan, and any number of other demonic concoctions. It's a veritable cornucopia of horror traditions.

As with any collection of short horror stories (and like the horror magazines of the 1950s and 60s), Gathering Darkness is hit and miss. Given the length of some the stories, it doesn't much matter because if a mutant killer built by the military isn't your thing, the next story isn't far away. Some of the highlights for me included "Postage Due, Pandora", a story about a mysterious box that houses all sorts of madness and "The Cabin Sleeps", a traditional-style urban legend that would be perfect for a recitation around a campfire.

What I liked most about this collection is Allinotte's playful style. What a lot of horror writers of the Creepshow variety tend to forget is that horror in this style doesn't work well without comedy. Gathering Darkness exudes a playful cheekiness that dares the readers to simultaneously gasp in disgust and squeal in delight. The sort of of campiness that has been lost on the current generation of horror writers (though, admittedly, I don't read as much horror as I used to, so I might be entirely wrong with that assumption).

Throughout the collection the characters and setting remain of the two-dimensional variety that all horror junkies understand. There's no sense in broad characterization and setting. It's a waste of time. Why bother when it's a good bet that character will be eaten by a puss oozing blob of goo in three pages. Keep to the essentials and keep the pace lively. The readers can for the blood and Allinotte delivers quickly and efficiently.

I also liked the short interludes between stories. The collection has several centerpiece stories peppered with short shots that are often tongue-in-cheek shots at the horror genre as a whole. I thought these brief interludes added to the collection by breaking it up and jolting the reader away from traditional pacing.

While I enjoyed the collection as a whole I did have a few reservations. Some of the stories do fall off the rails a bit. One in particular, "Devil's Night", tries to throw every possible horror convention at the reader in the span of a few dozen pages and left me a little perplexed as to what had happened. But that, I suppose, is the plight of the horror writer. Throw your ideas at the wall and see what sticks.

Another thing that I felt was missing (and perhaps this is my own problem rather than the author's) was the absence of that one scare that keeps me awake at night. One story, "Kittens for Sale" came very close (and I will probably carry that particular story around for a while) and "Tempting Morsels" did remind me of the very real scare I suffered the first time I read Stephen King's short story "The Jaunt." But the scare never did occur, but I was ever hopeful throughout my reading.

Overall, however, Gathering Darkness is a strong collection of short horror and worthy of a look. If you are a fan of horror fiction, especially of the camp variety, keep an eye out for Chris Allinotte. His brand of horror may be reminiscent of a bygone era of magazines but horror is timeless and we all need a good, rollicking scare from time to time. I'm looking forward to reading his next work.

The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games

By Suzanne Collins

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the very last blog post about the Hunger Games on the Internet! After over 100,000,000 reviews and blog posts since its publication in 2008, The Hunger Games has finally reached the most distant corner of the earth (where I am) and cyberspace (um... where I am). Message to Suzanne Collins: This is the end of the line, sister! It's all downhill from here. Once I've got my grubby hands on something you can be damned sure that you have reached saturation point.

I feel sort of funny about this blog post given that I am not going to cover any new ground concerning this epic dystopian best-seller and I'm not going to waste time summarizing the plot. If you are reading this I can infer that either A) you have read it and want to read what I have to say or B) have not read it, have no intention of reading it and stumbled upon this blog by some strange configuration of keywords involving zombies. Sorry Mr. B, there will be no zombies in this blog post.

I am also not going to spend a lot of time talking about how Collins has liberally collected her inspiration from other sources: most obviously Stephen King's short story The Running Man, the Greek myth of Theseus and insipid reality television. This is common enough knowledge and hardly ground-breaking territory. And while I'm not going to attempt to compare The Hunger Games to a Greek myth, Suzanne Collins did an admirable job of updating and improving King's premise for a younger audience. Nice work, Ms. Collins!

Long story short: I liked The Hunger Games. I didn't love it, but it was really good (I stayed up really late twice to finish it). I didn't much enjoy the love story. I would have preferred a more ruthless Katniss winning the games on her own but this is YA fiction and there really must be some remnants of humanity. I thought the love story really hampered the book, slowed it down to a crawl in a few places and compromised the ending enough that I'm not at all excited about reading the second book, but I digress. I'm not here to talk about The Hunger Games. We're all sick of that.

So let's stir up a little controversy, shall we?

I thought that this would be a perfect opportunity to weigh in about Joel Stein's controversial editorial entitled "Adults Should Read Adult Books," that appeared in the New York Times a few months ago where he railed against adults who read Young Adult (YA) fiction. In his now infamous editorial, Stein writes that "the only thing more embarrassing than catching a guy on the plane looking at pornography on his computer is seeing a guy on the plane reading The Hunger Games.” and goes on to note that he’ll "read The Hunger Games when {he} finishes the previous 3,000 years of fiction written for adults."

First, I like Joel Stein. I make a point of reading his column in Time. I like his sense of humor and his Jesse Ventura-esque attitude of calling 'em like he sees 'em. It's that attitude that has won him a lot of fans (like myself) and quite a few detractors, most notably after a column about immigration in which he lamented the influx of Indians into his hometown. Certainly Joel Stein is no stranger to controversy, but one has to admire his willingness to say things other might not have the gumption to say. Few writers in this day in age will do that, and that's a shame. A little controversy never hurt anyone.

Second, I must admit that I rarely read Young Adult fiction. I simply don't enjoy it. I remember when I was a young adult (back in the late 80s and early 90s), I made the jump from children's books to adult novels pretty quickly. I found that YA novels (at the time, possibly) were insulting to my intelligence and tended to gloss over issues I was interested in reading such as pain, loss, misery and other jovial subjects that 13 year old boys love to read about. I have always hated the happy ending (my mother calls me morbidly masochistic and I'm inclined to agree with her). It's hard to find a Beverly Cleary book where everyone dies at the end. I don't like YA fiction.

Still, I have read my share of it. I've read all the Harry Potter novels, the first Twilight (though you'd have to administer the Ludovico Technique to get me to read any more of that drivel), a bunch of Louis Sachar and a few others I can't recall at the moment and don't have the energy to go find. I've enjoyed a few of them as well. But they are what they are. Short books intended for a less-mature audience that tend to have formulaic narratives. If I read two or three of these in a row, I'd go bonkers. But I don't like romance novels or Tolkien-style fantasy either, so it's just a personal preference and not a declaration of war. Relax.

All that hat being said, Stein's editorial really enflamed the ire of readers, especially readers of YA fiction and especially the adult readers of YA fiction. There was a tempest in a teacup for a few days concerning Stein's comments and I simply couldn't understand why.

This is how I felt about Stein's editorial: I laughed. I laughed in the same way one laughs when someone says something funny about their nationality ("Canadians are the new Americans") or job ("those who can't do, teach"). I laughed in the same way when my sister calls me a nerd and tells me the only reason I have a blog is because I miss writing book reports in high school. I'm a grown man who likes zombie movies, cheesy 80s metal and stupid computer games, all of which, I must admit, are easy targets. In other words, lighten up people! It's only Joel Stein! The last time I looked, Joel Stein wields no more or less power over the media than anyone else, bloggers included. His opinion matters as much as mine or yours. No need to get the feathers ruffled. He's making fun of you, and you deserve it! Like Trekkies, Comicon attendees, evangelical Christians, and English teachers in Asia everyone is susceptible to a little ribbing. It's healthy. Because if we can't make fun of ourselves, what else is there?

For the record, I disagree with Stein on his point. I remember when I worked in publishing a few years back, the statistic that got bandied about was that 30% of the population (in Canada) buy 95% of all books. I'm bastardizing that statistic something fierce, but the point remains: Not enough people read. With television, Internet, video games and any number of other distractions competing for our leisure attention, books, which are a longer and more intellectually demanding form of recreation, are a huge investment over the instantaneous gratification that comes from other forms of entertainment. Books are a hard sell.

So I'm of the opinion that anything, ANYTHING that gets people to pick up a book and read is an improvement over no book at all. If that means the 43-year old father of three has his nose in Twilight on the subway rides to and from the office (while moving his mouth while he reads), so be it. He's reading! That's great! If a 60-year old librarian from Poughkeepie, New York is neck deep in the Percy Jackson series, am I going to laugh at her? No. I'm not like that. Is it OK for Joel Stein to laugh at her? Sure. Why not? I mean the man wrote for Martha Stewart for Pete's sake! There's no living that down.

But that's not the point. The point is, we all need to lighten up. Unless you are involved in The Hunger Games in which case, keep your head on and for the love of God, don't light a fire!

On Writing

On Writing

By Stephen King

I owe a lot to Stephen King. 

I'm not sure if I have ever told this story on this blog before (and I'm far too lazy to go back and check). Fact: I developed my love for reading from my mother and, by extension, Stephen King. It is not a sordid tale that had my mother traveling to Maine ever fortnight. It's rather more simple than that. Allow me to explain.

For as far back as I can remember, my mother was a reader. When I was very young there was never a time when there wasn't a book sitting next to her purse on the kitchen counter (next to the dishwasher) when she got home from work at night. At the time, she was partial to those immense paperbacks of the supermarket variety. I'm not sure but I would hazard a guess that a lot were written by James Clavell, James Mitchner and Arthur Haley. I couldn't read at the time, but they were books of that size, dimension and paper quality. I was awed by the fact that my mom could read so many pages without any pictures.

Ironically, it was the lack of pictures that drew me in. Since I couldn't read, I used to obsess over the covers of the novels my mom brought home. Especially the horror books. They always seemed to be a bloodshot eye or a scary looking cat or an ominous looking building on a hill with a tree and maybe, maybe a.... ghost! I both dreaded and yearned for covers that had ghosts on them. Those where the ones that fascinated me and to this day I still enjoy perusing mass market paperback shelves in supermarkets and airports looking at the covers. They are always so jazzy.

This was during the late 70s and early 80s. At the time, novelty cut-out covers were all the rage. You still see them now and again, but at the time it seemed that every other book had an odd cut or that little window on the cover that opened to a bigger, scarier picture on the inside (or did they open to something more disappointing inside? I can't remember clearly. Probably a page of blurbs). To me, those covers represented the Lambourghini Countash of novels. Value added for illiterate 5-year olds (back in the days when it was normal for 5-year olds to be illiterate). I concocted whole stories from those pictures. Some of them were probably better than the novels themselves. I don't know. Never will.

For whatever reason, I was always obsessed with what my mom was reading and how far her bookmark had traveled through a book on any given day. I was always asking her how much longer it would take her to finish this particular novel. Two days? Three days? Do you already have a new one? Where is it? Can I see it? Where do you get your new books? There's a store for books? (I don't recall even knowing what a bookstore was until my town got it's first shopping mall and I discovered the Choose Your Own Adventure series, circa 1983).

Later, once I started to read, one of the first names I recall seeing on those covers was Stephen King. I recall Firestarter and Salem's Lot and Pet Semetary all passing through our house and spending time on the counter next to the dishwasher. When I asked about them, I was told that Stephen King wrote scary books and I wasn't old enough to read him yet.

...

Oh really?

Challenge accepted.

It took me a few years and a few false starts with The Shining (you'd think I'd pick a less daunting book) but I managed to make my way through Cujo at the age of 10 and by the end of high school I had added Carrie, Skeleton Crew and (finally) The Shining to my list of Stephen King books read. He never became my all-time favorite novelist, but I was always happy to immerse myself into his world when I had a chance. And some of his stuff still keeps me up at night, specifically The Jaunt.

But of course, like so many children who defy and rebel against their elders, I went through a long period where I scoffed at the very notion of Stephen King. He was simply a mass market paperback hack. He wrote for the money. He wrote for the movie contracts. He was the literature version of a pop star. Shiny and cool on the outside but devoid of any meaningful artistic merit. Pfft. As you can well imagine, I went through this stage during university and my "idealistic" 20s. I think I even sported a soul patch for a good portion of that time to complete the pretentious dick persona... Yeah, i was that guy, probably pretending to read Ulysses.

But I (think) I have demurred with age and have come full circle on Stephen King. Okay, sure he's a wildly inconsistent writer, but who am I to judge, right? While I wouldn't consider myself the worst writer on the planet, I've not written so much as a short story since high school. I just like to read books and talk about them. Besides, for every Tommyknockers and Gerald's Game there is The Stand, Night Shift and The Shining. He's written some absolutely outstanding novels and short stories. Anyone who thinks that Stephen King hasn't left a lasting impression on the world of literature is kidding themselves. He exemplifies an era, like it or not.

King has redefined horror writing and, for the past thirty years, has single-handedly kept the short story genre from sliding into a literary black hole. His legacy is positively assured. Stephen King has absolutely nothing to prove to himself, the literary world or anyone. Wipe your hands, turn the lights out on your way out, there is no more need for discussion. 

So it was more than a shock to discover that he went ahead and wrote what is, in my opinion, best book I have ever read on the subject of writing: On Writing. Furthermore, it might just be the best thing he has ever written. I have not read extensively on the subject of writing, but I've read more than enough to know that, by and large, books on the subject of writing are dull, dreary and chock full of nonsense. Listening to a writer go on for 300-400 pages about the process of writing only to tell you that, no, he/she doesn't know why some people can write well and others can't, but if you keep at it even the worst writers can become Charles Dickens.

King cuts through that bullshit right quick. Bad writers will always be bad writers (d'you hear that, Cathy Lamb?). great writers will always be great. But with a lot of hard work and careful honing of your craft, good writers can become marginally better. Might as well take you down a few notches before doling out the good stuff. I like that brand of realism. King himself is not a great writer. But he is a very good one who has over the years, made himself just that much better and he's perfectly willing to tell you how he's done it. 

On Writing can be divided into three equally fascinating books. The first part discusses his childhood and how he developed his love of reading and writing. It chronicles his family life along with his early struggles to get published, first in short story (and pornographic) magazines and then novel form as well as his struggles with substance abuse. The second part of the book is nifty little toolbox of advice for would-be writers. From the mechanics (vocabulary, grammar and Strunk & White) to the {insert number here} habits of highly effective writers. I am humbled that King has the same opinion on adverbs as I do. The third section of the book is a clinical account King's accident (he was hit by a van while taking a walk) and recovery while writing On Writing. 

While all three parts intertwine into a nice little package it was the second part that interested me the most. Perhaps it's because the book is called On Writing and it was in the second part that I got what I paid for, advice on writing. It's short, to the point, filled with anecdotes about himself and other little factoids about idiosyncratic writers. More importantly, it strips out all the crap about what you should do and what you shouldn't do, rules and plotting and character studies and all such nonsense. King outlines how he approaches writing, discusses how others approach their writing and they offers habits that will serve to help. In the end it really boils down to: Always read. Always write.

Of course there's more to writing than that and I encourage anyone with an interest in writing to read this book (of course, if you have an interest in writing you have probably read this book before. Probably more than once). Beyond the "how to" section there is invaluable information on how to get your work published, what sorts of roadblocks and troubles you might expect along the way, how to get an agent, how to present a manuscript etc... All this information is an invaluable resource for would be authors looking to get their work published.

Stephen King has gotten a lot of unnecessary criticism from both the literary community and myself over the years, most of it undeserved. The truth is, Stephen King has done a lot for the world of books and literature and me. It's time he get the recognition he deserves for all hie has achieved. 

But if I may be so bold: On Writing is his greatest addition. There is so much in this book that I will use (and have already started to use) in my writing. I learned more about writing in five days than in all the years I have spent out of school. On Writing is a book that I will keep on-hand for a long time to come. I'm really excited to put his suggestions to task.

Thanks again, Mr. King.

A Game of Thrones: Book One of A Song of Ice and Fire

A Game of Thrones: Book One of A Song of Fire and Ice

By George R.R. Martin

(Some spoilers. Nothing major)

This is the first book I read on my new Kindle (or any sort of e-reader, for that matter). Got it for my birthday a few weeks back and I have not been disappointed. There was an adjustment period, but by the middle of the book I hardly noticed the difference from a real book. I guess this ushers in a whole new era of reading for me and given my proximity to English books, I can honestly say I'm stoked about the prospect of reading whatever. I. want.

Now, onto George R.R. Martin's genre-arching, mega-selling, multi-billion dollar ultra-hit fantasy series A Game of Thrones.

I have to admit I was more than a little hesitant to pick this book up as I have had terrible luck with the fantasy genre over my reading career. Actually, that's a really nice way of saying that I flat-out detest fantasy as a genre. I think Id rather read Harlequin romances before fantasy if that gives you an indication of my loathing for the genre.

And don't tell me I haven't tried. Fantasy freaks are always telling me I haven't read this yet, or that yet. Save it. Your favorite genre sucks. I tried Tolkien. Lord of the Rings is one of the only books I have ever started and not finished (I got about 250 pages in before Tom Bombadil made me throw this bloviated heap of trash out the window). I have tried on a couple of occasions to plow my way through one of the Shannara books by Terry Brooks (I think it was The Elfstones of Shannara or the Firepits of Shannara or the Teacups of Shannara. I forget). I have (grudgingly) read the first three books in the Narnia series by C.S. Lewis, two books by Neil Gaiman, all the Harry Potters and one of the Dark Tower books by Stephen King, so don't tell me I haven't sampled a cross-section. The only thing I learned in all that reading is that I did not enjoy a single page of any of the books mentioned above (except Harry Potter, I admit).

I always find fantasy novels get bogged down in contrived verbal nonsense. Long-winded introductions where titles and land-holdings and prior achievements are bandied about. Honor, courtesy and gallantry slow the plot down to a snail's pace. If there is one thing I can't stand it's entertainment that doesn't get on with the plot (this is why I hate musicals). It's always an Elvish Lord pledging his unyielding allegiance to the Dwarfish Baron over six and a half pages with talk of dragons and enchantments and defending the Keep.

Ugh.

Give me science fiction any day of the week.

I think my dislike for the fantasy genre stems from my passion for real medieval history. Fantasy is a weird, bastardized version of a very misunderstood and completely fascinating period in Western history and I find that the genre does much harm in most people's understanding of Europe and the Middle East during the era of knights and castles and chivalry.

Which gets me to George R.R. Martin.

By no stretch of the imagination am I suggesting that Martin remains loyal to medieval history. He has, after all, created his own world a la Middle Earth (or Shannara) populated by feuding families and the hint of mystical creatures. But his focus (at least in book one) on the political wrangling of the Seven Kingdoms and the eventual disintegration of the alliance in the wake of King Robert's death ring true to the brutal game of succession that existed in medieval Europe. I was reminded on more that one occasion of the centuries-long battle between the Carolingians and Merovingians in early Medieval France and many of the events in the book mirror real events in the early history of England when it was still divided into the kingdoms of Essex, Wessex and the like (Winterfell is quite obviously Scotland) as well as China and the Asian Steppe. That's cool.

While there were moments in the book where Martin lapsed into the tired cliches of a fantasy writer, he mostly maintains the plot and delivers literally dozens of compelling characters (none of which his is shy about killing off) and enough political intrigue to make Julian Assange blush. While he hints at the notion of dragons and giants, it would seem that the world of the Seven Kingdoms is rooted in reality (mostly) and there, mercifully, exists no magic in this world.

And that's how Martin was able to sucker this fantasy-hating reader in. By resisting the urge to fill the pages with wizards and warlocks and ballrogs and trolls, Martin was forced to conceive of a story based on the strength of his characters rather than the cleverness of his creatures. While I have not fallen for the series like others readers seem to have, I am looking forward to reading the second book in the series, although not right away. Think I'll start in on the HBO series tonight.

Oh, and there seem to be zombies in this book, which scores major points with this guy.

Other reviews from A Song of Ice and Fire:

A Clash of Kings
A Storm of Swords
A Feast for Crows

Thinner

Thinner

By Stephen King (aka Richard Bachman)

After a critical reading of Thinner, the last book ever written by Richard Bachman (Stephen King) I only have two questions:

1. Why does a thirty-something year-old man who is a partner at his law firm, has a wife and daughter and is a pillar of the community, allow people in his town to continue to refer to him as "Billy?"

The only adult males who are allowed to get away with the name "Billy" play professional sports.

And...

2. What is it with Stephen King and hand jobs?

Seriously. The hand job doled out by Heidi, the wife of Billy Halek plays a more central part in this Kafka-esque metamorphosis tale than most of the other human characters. King, erm... Bachman, spends more time examining, dissecting and re-evaluating said hand job than he does developing characters such as Taduz Lemke, the mysterious Gypsy who curses Halek after Halek hits and kills his daughter in an automobile accident while the aforementioned hand job was taking place.

Got that? Good.

We learn that this was the first time Halek had ever received a hand job from his wife while operating a motor vehicle ("Why, Heidi? why did you pick that day to give me my first hand job!" whined Billy). We learn that when his car grill made impact with Taduz Lemke's daughter he climaxed, but his wife's kung fu grip retained his ejaculation, thereby causing Billy a moment of both extreme pleasure and extreme pain (this is actually mentioned twice in the novel!). We learn that Billy Halek is capable of harboring a hell of a lot of hate based on a single act of manual stimulation but we never learn a damned thing about who Taduz Lemke is or what he's been up to the past 105 of his 106 years on this planet. Priorities, Mr. King. We have a story to tell and there's a hell of a lot more going on than simply a hand job.

If this were the first instance of Stephen King glorifying the pitiful sex lives of Vanilla America I would excuse it, but King has made a career out of writing badly about sex. Gratuitous breaking-and-entering-turned-masturbation sessions in Cujo, group orgies in It and don't even get me started with Gerald's Game. I know that sex and violence are two of the pillars of the horror genre but I find that sex fits into a Stephen King story the way a Slayer song fits into a romantic mixed tape.

Billy Halek could have been doing literally anything else when he hit that woman. Anything would have made more sense. He could have been eating a Super-Sized McDonald's Valu-Pack or a bucket of KFC chicken when he hit her. Certainly that would have fit the narrative a little more. After all, The old Gypsy curse causes him to get thinner, not receive continuous hand jobs until his penis falls off, which would have made a lot more sense considering Taduz Lemke knew exactly what Billy's wife was doing at the time the car struck his daughter.

Too ironic, you say? OK. He could have been arguing with his wife about their daughter or discussing shady business with Richard Ginelli or pretending he was in the lead at the Indianapolis 500 like I do. Hell, he could have been checking out Taduz Lemke's great-granddaughter's ass in a pair of Jordache Jeans for all the sense the hand job made.

I like Stephen King, but it's high time someone called him out on this. For all his wonderfully freaky storylines he concocts he throws in uncomfortable fornication in virtually everything he writes. He must think that everyone in White Middle America is a potential sexual deviant. It's possible he does this as a way to upset his readers further, but I don't think King's readers go back to the fount again and again thinking: "Geez... he had a bunch of 12 year-olds gang rape their best friend at the end of his last book, let's see what kind of kink he's thrown into Tommyknockers." It's the very definition of the word gratuitous.

Wait a minute.

I'm no right-wing Christian prude nor am I a left-wing cop for political correctness. I'm not implying that these scenes shock me or bother me or, god forbid, offend me. They don't. I've read far raunchier material from better (and worse) writers and enjoyed the hell out of it for what it was worth. Most probably because the debauched acts in those stories furthered the storyline rather than sat alongside it like a red-headed step-child. As a reader I question their existence in the story because I like my stories to be closed circuits where everything happens for a reason and furthers the storyline created. If there's no need for a hand job, why include it? If the narrative begs for a hand job, well sir, write it in, proudly.

Perhaps Stephen King should stick to writing horror and leave the sex in abler hands. I know he has mentioned in interviews that he has trouble writing about sex, which begs the question: Why bother? King is good at so much else, why continue to beat the proverbial dead horse? Perhaps Stephen King is a masochist.

Of course, you didn't need to read this blog to know that.

Blue World

Blue World

by Robert McCammon

The short story is the red-headed stepchild of literature. Science Fiction is the geeky teenage tenant than lives in the basement. Together, they amount to vitually zero.

In the introduction to Stephen King's collection of short stories Everything's Eventual, he laments the slow demise of the short story, especially within the genres of horror and science fiction (well, of course he would... I doubt Stephen King would lament the demise of romance novels). I couldn't agree more. Oh sure, you can find all sorts of short fiction in things like Atlantic Monthly and Harper's, but that a whole different ballgame and usually concerns some writer recalling some isolated moment from their childhood in an oh so whimsical fashion. There's not a single alien or swamp creature to be found in THOSE pages. Gone are the glory days of short story magazines such as The Twilight Zone and Terror Tales. Not that I was a subscriber to these publications as a kid. I would have, though, if I wasn't so busy collecting baseball cards.

But I do have a special relationship with the short story (and Stephen King for that matter). Allow me to flashback...

My first exposure to short stories and Stephen King was Skeleton Crew. For whatever reason, the hardcover edition of this monster was sitting around my house for a dog's age around the time I turned 13. I'm going to assume that my mother, who is an avowed Stephen King fanatic had just finished reading it, or was about to read it. I say assume because I have never known my mother to buy or even be in possession of a hardcover before or since, so it was a very slight mystery.

I remember that the dust-jacket was a picture one of those mechanical monkeys with the hat and cymbals and it coincided with a third rate horror movie release called Monkey Shines. (Is there anything written by Stephen King that wasn't made into a movie?) By 13 I was already a card-carrying fan of horror movies. Sure they still gave me nightmares, but it was like a rite of passage to sit through them. Every one more of them you watched was a feather in your cap. I still hadn't discovered taste, however, and didn't see the difference between Night of the Living Dead and Sleepaway Camp III.

At 13 I wasn't the reader I am today. I was often scared off by the volume of books because I was 13 and I wanted instant gratification. If I couldn't finish it in a sitting, I wasn't interested. And 500 page books were not nearly as interesting as the TV. But, when it occured to me that this massive tome with the creepy cover sitting on the bookshelf was a book of short stories (and possibly scary at that) I slipped it in my backpack the day before I went on a camping trip with my best friend where there would be no TV.

Without even referring to Wikipedia I can still recall some of those stories: "The Mist," "Gramma" and (of course) "The Monkey."

But the one that always torments me in my weaker moments was a little science fiction number called "The Jaunt." It's essentially a retelling of the history of matter transference as told by a father to his curious son. The majority of the story is interesting enough, but not in the least bit scary, but the payoff (while I will not recap) left me sleepless in a tent for nights on that camping trip and is one of the books (stories) that I credit when anyone cares to ask how I developed my love for reading.

Blue World by Robert McCammon had some really interesting moments, some of which reminded me of that camping trip (I read this while lounging on the beach on Bohol Island in the Philippines). More science fiction (yay!) and less horror (aww...) but, because they are short stories, the plots move nice and quick for those in need of instant gratification (I'm still 13 on the inside).

So here's to red-headed step-children and geeks in the basement. And here's to sleepless nights while on vacation.