This is not a book review Pt. 2

I thought it was funny that I abbreviated part 1 as Pt. 1. I saved myself two keystrokes that way when my writing style clearly indicates that I do not care about saving keystrokes.

Anyway, if you didn't read that one first, you should.

Also, you should probably read this one, too.

OK, we good? Everybody's here? NICE.

Here was my vision when I started Howie's Book Club, The Blog: I wanted to have motivation to read books, and I wanted to keep using the popular blogging platform for oversharing, and maybe a tiny part of me thought it could be a community where people discussed books.

In my last book post, I wrote a negative review, which was something I never set out to do, and it's actually something I take very seriously. I hate reading negative reviews of books. Just hate it. I hate the idea of armchair novelists savaging something that someone not only slaved over, but had the guts to find a literary agent to pitch it, got it published, and willfully endured the slavering, nonsense vomit that rank and file book "fans" spewed about it on Goodreads when it hits the presses. And I looked in the mirror and it was me.

Honestly, when I sat down to write that post, I wanted to say good things. I've always wanted to be as fair as I can, and if I don't like a book, just not write about it. For every book that makes the blog, there's often one I didn't make it past 30 pages. Last week I quit a book after three paragraphs. It's not my job to read bad books. I'm not trying to be a critic. Instead I'd like to be the weird guy in the library who points out a book you'd never heard of that ends up changing your life. "He talked a lot about when he was a kid," you say to the librarian, "but the book he mentioned was good. He smells like basil, sort of. Could you maybe have him arrested?"

I like books, and I'm in awe of authors. I wrote a book once. It was hard. It's not very good. I am not the one to judge aside from my reaction.

See, I wrote a story that is the length of a good-sized novel. Not as long as Fellowship of the Ring, but about as long as Return of the King, if that helps. Almost 300 pages worth. It was a good experience, writing it. I finished it several years ago, and rereading it now I just don't think there's anything to do with it. It's post-apocalyptic, which is super played out. Also, I feel like I've changed a lot since I wrote it. Also also, I just read a book that had a lot of the same ideas in it, and became aware of another series of books from like 2010 that has a LOT of the same ideas in it.

It's been sitting around for a long time, and I've entertained the thought of going through and editing it for grammar and improving it, but at this point I think I'd be spending my time better if I started a whole new book, which I have. There's a possibility that I put it in an ebook format that can be downloaded (depending on demand), but for now, you get a PDF.

I'm going to share it, though, as a curiosity, mostly, but also so that if you read my blog and say to yourself "what has this guy written to make him such an expert" my answer can be "this thing."

The link will live on the right-hand column on the blog page. Also, if you "like" Howie's Book Club on Facebook on that right-hand column, you'll get updates for new posts on the popular social media website Facebook.

This is not a book review Pt. 1

I get pretty self-conscious about having a blog. I don't tell a lot of people about it in real life, and when someone else brings it up it makes me uncomfortable. There's something in society that tells us that we shouldn't put ourselves out there unless our output is on par with the very best that exist, and if we don't live up to that standard, why are we trying? Every day someone writes a new article about how pathetic it is that people use the internet to post selfies, or pictures of their dinner, or tell their story. Don't they know that nobody is listening?

Well, I love selfies. I love pictures of babies. And cats. And your hike, or your recipe. I like seeing happy couples who I don't know getting married, especially the ones who have been waiting for years to have that privilege. I like seeing the crazy nonsense that bleeds through onto my Facebook feed of your weird cousin or high school friend who thinks that Coca Cola is shepherding in a new era of Socialism. I like thinking that to someone else I'm the weird cousin. Please. Don't stop. If social media is an I.V. drip of the minutia of human life I say load me up.

Yesterday at the art museum they were hosting something called an "art buffet." It was a table of art supplies and a bunch of mirrors. Make a self-portrait, they said. My kids immediately sat down and began creating. My youngest made a collage, the next oldest created a figurine out of popsicle sticks and fabric, and my oldest drew himself. Bored, I sat down and looked in the mirror and idly sketched my humble visage. I was reminded how much I love to draw. When I finished, I looked at the result, which was terrible, and laughed, and threw it in the garbage. The pleasure I got from the drawing process has stuck with me, though.

When we're kids, we're given crayons and clay and colored pencils and just reams of blank paper full of possibilities. Everything we do is interesting, at least to our parents and teachers, because they're looking at this little kid growing up and just analyzing everything they do. We watch our kids grow through their drawings and handwriting and creations. At some point, though, we stop. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an artist because I liked to draw. By high school it became apparent that whatever it was that an artist had in them, I didn't have. I watched art teachers get bored with me, quickly moving on to their star students. The ones who got it. Did I change career choices, but continue to do something that had up to that point brought me joy and catharsis? No. I just quit drawing.

Now. Have I stopped growing? Has my mind stopped developing and making new connections? No. Why is it that at a certain age we push out someone's creative spirit because what they create isn't world class? Isn't it still interesting to track someone's personal growth through the art they create? Maybe. I don't know. Who cares, sometimes.

Lately in church my kids have been asking me to draw Pokemons for them to color. Church is boring, so drawing has become a very pleasant way to pass the time. One of my kids presses against me and watches intensely as I sketch out some atrocious pocket monster. And I remember, again, that hey, I love to draw. I quit because I wasn't good enough for my teachers, but my kids are more important critics than they will ever be (I tell myself).

Listen. I get pleasure from writing a blog. When I read old entries I know that every one isn't great. I don't write think-pieces that will ever go viral. I'll never make any money. You will not find whatever the next dadbod-level new big thing on here. But as mediocre as the output, as banal the subject matter, you can hopefully see one thing: I am having fun. When a new post goes up, don't think of it as my addition to the mass of creations known collectively as art. Think of it as the equivalent of a picture of me wakeboarding or snowboarding or riding a unicycle. This is not creation on a professional level. This is just a guy fiddling around on the internet just like we're all doing.

If you read it, I appreciate that. A whole lot. I keep pretty close track of how many hits I get on the blog and how long people stick around. I love to see that old posts keep getting more views, like people read one entry and go back and read a bunch of the old ones. I like getting comments. But most of all I just like writing them.

She smiled at him

“She smiled at him like they were about to rob a bank together.” 
― Rachel Kushner, The Flamethrowers

A Series of Traumatic Events

I've been thinking about this post for a while. It might be one of the reasons why I took a break (aside from not reading any books for a while) and here's why: of all the books I've talked about, many of which are decidedly not for kids, this one is the not for kidsiest. That being said, it might be the fastest I've ever read 480 pages. With this blog I think I made one disclaimer about content and then realized that it wasn't something I wanted to do. I'm not some content guard. I won't count swear words or assign a movie rating. What offends you might delight me, and vice-versa. I don't get to dismiss anything as objectively immoral or distasteful. I can only speak for me.

I'm in a pretty nice spot for this kind of opinion because I don't run a mall or grocery store or TV studio. I don't have to decide what my audience can or can't handle. Because I don't decide what images Victoria's Secret puts in its windows or what magazines a store puts on its rack, I make my decision on how to negotiate and let everyone else run their lives or businesses how they feel is best.

I just have a blog, which I keep family friendly, but maybe by now you've already decided you can't take my book recommendations because the books I read and recommend often have adult situations. Again. Up to you. I know lots of very smart folks who stick with the robust options found within the young adult fiction section because they don't want to get into the gross stuff. And guess what? You can happily read books your whole life and never read that whole section of the bookstore. Pretty cool world we live in, books-wise.

Anyway, the book is May We Be Forgiven, by A. M. Homes, and there was a point when I was reading it where I thought, Oh, is this one of those books? 

An Aside About What I Mean by "those books"

Here's a controversial opinion: I've read enough Stephen King books to know that I just hate them. Same with Chuck Palahniuk. I don't think they're good writers, and I think they never got over the thrill of shocking their junior high English teacher. The storytelling is good and the writing is bad and they're making up the difference by being controversial. Am I the last word on that? No. Read that first paragraph again.

So, when I say "those books" I mean those books. The ones that are (to me) gross to be gross. Is May We Be Forgiven one of those? I dunno. It didn't feel like it. There's a very strong beating heart of humanity in this book. There are characters who are just so good. It was often sweet enough to move me to tears and walk out of my house motivated to be a better person.

Wait a second, you say, I've read Stephen King books like that!

Response: get your own blog.

Here's Where the Aside Ends and I Describe the Book

It starts out with Harold Silver, a pretty unsympathetic character whose decisions destroy his marriage and lead to a series of traumatic events. These eventually result in him taking legal custody of his niece and nephew as they cope with tragedy. It's super crazy, the way this book starts out. The guy is kind of a mess and the kids are pretty amazing. We're not supposed to like him at the beginning, I think, but his progression is fantastic. He's an expert on Richard Nixon, which is fitting, because both the fictional Harold and the real-life Tricky Dick himself are hard to love (at least at the beginning), but fascinating characters.

Lillian comes out of the kitchen carrying an artifact, the blue metal tin marked Danish Butter Cookies that if I didn't know better I would swear had been in the family for generations - when the Jews left Egypt, they took with them the tins of Danish Butter Cookies. And tins, which as best as I could tell never included Danish Butter Cookies, traveled from house to house, but always, always found their way back to Lillian.”

What follows is a pretty heavy discussion about what it means to be a good person. Also, why are some people bad? Can we forgive evil actions perpetrated by the mentally ill, or even the mentally quote unquote sane when their motivations seem noble? How far should loyalty go? If we get out of our comfort zones, could we really kind of save the world?

Heavy stuff. Heavy topics and an unflinching look at how to live in an often unsavory world and still maintain optimism and empathy and some sort of purpose. I don't know, you guys. Can you get these discussions in other books without the descriptions of diarrhea? Maybe. I'm just shrugging over here. I'm glad I read it and that's all I can really say.

“A guy rubbed against me,” I say. “But I think he was just trying to get by. He rubbed me, then said sorry. It was the ‘sorry’ that made me uncomfortable. The rub was kind of interesting, but when he apologized I felt like a creep because I actually liked it.”