The basic plot is that there’s this genius/madman mathematician named Nicolas Banacharski, who may or may not have started trying to find the mathematical proofs for an “engine” that would make the highly improbable/impossible, possible. Naturally, what exactly has happened to him is shrouded in mystery, but various agencies (and their agents) suspect that the product of his efforts is on the move, being carried across America by a British grad student named Alex Smart. The agents follow him, while Alex unknowingly leads them on a wild goose chase/road novel filled with highly improbable happenings.

I… really liked some parts of it a lot. Other parts I liked a little less. There isn’t really anything in the novel that I hated or that even truly annoyed me. The writing is good. And nothing in it is bad. The worst thing about the novel is that it feels ambivalent—sort of half here, half there. But come on, we’ve all read so much worse. I read Twilight once (I didn’t finish that series. I don’t hate myself that much). I’ve been forced to read Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience multiple times for various classes. Ambivalence is like a petty misdemeanor that should probably be decriminalized.

But despite knowing all that, the novel as a whole left me feeling cold, but somehow also dazed and melancholy.

I think that’s probably the root of my confusion.

My head didn’t really like the novel that much—the writing’s fine, the characters are largely fine, there’s an interesting take on the narrative voice, the premise is great but Leith could/should have taken it further—but at the same time, it moved me in a weird (but undeniable) way.

Some of the ideas in the novel—a few of the passages, the interactions of two of the characters—struck a chord with me. They felt really personal and important. I would say intimate, or raw, or genuine, but none of those feel quite like what I mean. If you’ve read or seen the play Red, or The Coast of Utopia, or a Pinter play (pick a Pinter, any Pinter) it sort of feels like that: where there’s something happening—ideas and desires that squirm around in ill-fitting words—that’s hard to put a name to, but you know that, whatever it is, it’s vitally important and it makes your heart do this weird ache thing to watch the character fumble around, trying to make do with these words that just aren’t quite enough.

At least, that feeling happens to me. Kind of a lot. I think one of my writing teachers made me see Flaubert issues everywhere, and now I can’t unsee them. So that might just be a me thing.

That was tangential. Anyway, the thing with The Coincidence Engine that drives me sort of crazy is that I don’t think the words are so slippery. I think we have the important idea. But Leith doesn’t do as much with it as I wish he would. There are a couple of lines, images, and ideas that I know I’m going to carry around with me, but despite the fact that we essentially have the language for them, they sort of fail to infect the plot and the rest of the book the way that they might have. So now I’m going to be personally attached to, and haunted by, these beautiful ideas that don’t really go anywhere, and don’t really provide any arc or catharsis for the characters (Banacharski in particular).

And for me that’s weird—to find a novel that’s overwhelmingly fine, sort of otherwise un-special, but that has these un-veneered, unpretentious shining moments of beautiful, honest poignancy that aren’t attached to anything. Sorry, that’s not quite true, the bare mathematical bones of the ideas make it into the rest of the book, but the emotional journeys, arcs, realizations, etc, that they could produce just never appear. It makes my head hurt, trying to rationalize the rest of the book, see it as more in the same league as those moments. But it’s not.

There are a couple of moments that grab me, but the rest is just the rest.

And I know that I’m a tough critic, and it’s unfair to hold a novel (and the novelist) to the standard of my imagination on what the novel could have been, and my taste about what it should have been. They’re both pretty niche things that he has no way of knowing about. And, to be fair, also no real reason to care about, particularly. I’m one tiny person on a fairly large planet. Hopefully he wrote the book he wanted to write. It wasn’t my favorite, but maybe what I take for discombobulating ambivalence, someone else will appreciate as subtlety.

And I do hope he keeps writing, because while this one was a weird almost-but-not-quite thing for me, he’s grappling with some fascinating concepts, and he’s a solid writer. There are characters that I love in there (BANACHARSKI BANACHARSKI BANACHARSKI! And Isla’s great too), and some images that are going to stay dear to me. And clearly, I’ve thought a lot about the book, and it moved me (even if some of that movement was to confusion), and really, isn’t that what good books are supposed to do?

Here’s hoping’ that next time around it’ll click for me.

Anyway, about two months after my move to Los Angeles, I just gave in. I started running. I learned how to cook. I dropped Taco Bell entirely from my diet.  It’s been a struggle. But I avoided taking drastic steps. Then I read Drop Dead Healthy and realized that despite diet, exercise, and constant reading about the dangers of both sugar and sitting, I was still missing a whole bunch of crap in my diet.

So I picked up Green for Life, one of those books written by a raw diet enthusiast who claims that eating raw food can cure everything from gray hair to cancer. There’s a lot of dubious claims in the book, as with most nutrition books, mainly because nutrition is a field entirely in its infancy and with a lot of people desperately trying to make money off of it.  There’s science that backs the theory that carbohydrates=death. There’s also science that says we need carbohydrates to function.

But just because there is confusion doesn’t mean there isn’t any good advice out there. The best part of Green for Life comes in Victoria Boutenko’s first chapter, where she explains that no amount of scientific evidence or testimonials should cancel out what your own body is telling you. Her whole book may be an argument for why green smoothies are an awesome addition to the Standard American Diet, but she seems confident in her argument that this is only a motivation to check them out and see if they make you feel better. If they do, great. Buy a really good blender. If they don’t, well you still probably shouldn’t subsist on French fries and hamburgers alone.

So what exactly is a green smoothie? It’s basically a bunch of stuff you never thought you’d drink, like kale and spinach, blended together with water and other vegetables and fruit. Boutenko’s whole point is that our current diet undervalues greens (like spinach, kale, chard, romaine lettuce, dandelion greens) by simply lumping them together with “vegetables” (which can also include corn, which is really a starch, or cucumbers, which Boutenko calls a non-sweet fruit). On top of that, our daily recommended allotment of vegetables is dangerously low. She also makes a compelling argument for paying attention to the PH balance inside our own bodies, which she says can result in gas, heartburn, and even cancer. She ends the book with some interesting recipes, sorted by taste, that the reader is supposed to try out.

As I said, I’m not 100% sold on the science of Green for Life (although I do think that nearly any nutritionist in the world would argue that increasing the amount of greens in our diets is a good thing), but I liked Boutenko’s outlook. Far from arguing that the only way to health is through a strictly raw and vegan diet, she argues that you can improve your health and outlook just by adding in the green smoothie. That’s good news to the lazy among us, who would love to be able to add things to their diet rather than taking the things they love away, but Boutenko also makes the case for total body health and how drinking a smoothie a day can help inspire you to want to improve the rest of your health.

Overall, Green for Life was an interesting, straight-forward look at a specific subset of the raw food movement, and the smoothies are pretty good (if you can get past the slightly bitter taste that blended up greens leave in the mouth). I liked her matter-of-fact style, and the fact that she tried to enumerate the science between her extreme dietary recommendations, and I’ll be following her advice to try out green smoothies and see how they make me feel. It’s a good starting point for people looking to increase the amount of healthy stuff in their diet, even if they’re not ready to make the full plunge into AJ Jacobs-like “healthiest man alive” obsessing.

The Rook

The Rook is O’Malley’s debut effort and, as I may have subtly hinted at before, it’s AWESOME. The novel starts with Myfawny Thomas (apparently, rhymes with Tiffany) waking up in the rain with no memory, surrounded by dead people wearing latex gloves, and discovering mysterious letters to herself in her jacket pockets. This is literally the first couple of pages. It only gets better from there. The letters present Myfawny with some basic explanation (clearly, people are after you, and will probably continue to be after you. You should probably do something about that) and a choice: assume a new identity and run far, far away, OR fully assume the identity of Myfawny Thomas, and figure out what the heck is going on.

I give you one guess about which option she chooses.

Okay, so I don’t want to summarize too much, but basically, the novel spins out from that choice with Myfawny scrambling to understand the world she’s immersed in (apparently her former self was a powered, but primarily administrative Rook in a supernatural MI5/MI6 equivalent. But with chess titles/imagery), a series of intricate plots (there are traitors! And Belgians!), and some stunningly weird characters (supernatural secret agency has supernatural secret agents. Duh).  Thankfully, she receives some help in the form of painstakingly organized instructions, dossiers, and letters from her former self. The plotting of this book is superb, and interestingly/engagingly organized as well, cutting back and forth between present action and Myfawny’s letters to herself.

But rest assured, this book is not just a Dan Brown plot machine with no discernible character depth or growth (BURN! No, but really it’s not just a Dan Brown thing, it’s an issue that’s generally endemic to the thriller/suspense genres. There’s often so much complicated plot that it doesn’t leave room for intricate characters. But I have noticed that Dan Brown does have this problem rather consistently, and yes, it bugs me). Anyway, the point is that this book is not like that. Myfawny is a thoroughly well constructed character, and despite the sci-fi suspense/thriller aspects of her story, she’s incredibly smart, brave, grounded, funny, specifically opinionated, and genuine. For example, when she accidentally bumps into a coworker on the one night she’s given herself off since waking up, her first reaction is, “Oh, come on!” (pg. 316. Yes, I looked it up. You know you love a good citation).

Bottom line: I would really like for her to be my best friend and/or if I could elect to be her when I grow up, that would be excellent.

And here’s the thing–while I love Myfawny, BOTH Myfawnys are great, and wonderfully written. I know: you’re all like, wait, what? Well, there’s current Myfawny (woke up in the rain), and the FormerSelfMyfawny (wrote all of the letters). And O’Malley does a fantastic job of differentiating them as characters, and giving them wonderfully rich moments of reaction to each other. Myfawny has a lot of great reactions to her Former Self while reading the various letters, gauging people’s reactions to her in the office and whatnot, and her Former Self gets to muse in her letters about the emotional ramifications of preparing your body and your life for someone else to take over. It’s tough to explain, but it’s really really really well done, and I hold both Myfawnys near and dear to my heart.

And there are rumors of a sequel THANK GOD/WHATEVER DIETY/UNIVERSAL FORCE/YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!!! This news fills me with YAY because that means that I’d probably get more time with Myfawny(s)! Which is great, because the only bad part of this book for me was when it was over, and I knew that I’d miss our awesome, funny heroine.

And this is going to sound odd, because this review is already… lengthy, but I keep feeling like I’m selling this book short. Because I’ve told you about how I love the Myfawnys, but I haven’t mentioned Ingrid, or Alrich, or Gestalt, or Anthony, or Lisa, or Alan Summerhill, or Graaf, or any of the other myriad of terrifying, hilarious, awesome, and endearing minor characters in the book. Just trust me—they are all GREAT (Ingrid and Graaf are probably my favs. Although GUBBINS!!!). And really, this book is, yes, a thrill ride, and a sci-fi novel with great world building, but it’s also REALLY FUNNY, moving in a subtle, non-pretentious way, and unselfconsciously itself, regardless of typical genre restraints.

I could rant about just how much I love this book (a lot a lot a lot) for a very long time. None of us need that. JUST READ THIS BOOK. I promise, you will be happy that you did. And then when you’re done, we can talk about how we can’t wait for the sequel.

And so I introduce you to the wonderfully inventive world of Daughter of Smoke and Bone. The premise, as gleaned from the blurb on the back, sounds absurd and soppy: Karou, a mysterious young art student in Prague, lives in between two worlds, one a fantastical world of magical wishes and chimaera, the other a still-pretty-fantastic world of international art schools and charismatic ex boyfriends. Karou doesn’t know the secrets of her own past, or of the mysterious tattoos that cover her body. When she meets “beautiful, haunted” Akiva, her whole universe comes crashing down, and she learns the awful, intense truth behind her constant longing for more.

I won’t get into the plot too much. Suffice it to say, the world created by Laini Taylor is one of the more inventive and well realized within this genre. Karou, also, is a well crafted female protagonist, subject to the occasional teenage girl flight of fancy but with a cool back story and solid moral compass. Akiva, far from the typical brooding bad boy, is actually more of a sensitive, if haunted soldier. Actually, written out like that, Daughter of Smoke and Bone is more like a  Nicholas Spark novel than Twilight, but the awesome mythology surrounding it helps to elevate it above such a reduction.

Overall, the biggest flaw of the novel is how short it is. Daughter of Smoke and Bone is part of a proposed series (with the next installment coming out December 2012), and the thrust of what the series is going to be about doesn’t start to come to light until the very end. But the thrust of what the series is going to be about is awesome. I was kind of lukewarm on the book until about halfway through, but by the end I was actively excited to see what else Taylor has in mind for her strange universe of creatures.

Daughter of Smoke and Bone is not astonishing or particularly challenging, at least not in its first installment. Instead, it is a well done and well realized version of that classic young adult romance set up.

Arcadia is Lauren Groff’s second novel and it’s wonderful. I read Groff’s first novel, The Monster’s of Templeton, years ago, and I liked it quite a bit. But I love Arcadia more.

The book’s about Bit—the first-born child of a hippie commune called Arcadia—and his life (in Arcadia and Outside, as a child and an adult, struggling through love and all the other life/emotion junk).

Arcadia is beautiful. It’s fragmented like a box of old photos and stuffed with the details of memories and the warm, sweetly sad feeling of nostalgia. And the book can get a bit soppy and sweepingly Romantic (there’s a little bit of the smoochies romance stuff, but I mostly mean the literary concept with emotionally dramatic landscapes and the ultimate valuing of the soul and FEELINGS above all else and all that jazz), but more than anything, what the book really is, is unabashedly poetic—just like Bit and the idea of Arcadia itself.

Also, when I say that this book is emotional, I’m serious. But perhaps what I really should have said was “moving.” This book alternately gave me warm fuzzies, made me feel that reaching feeling where you want to cradle a fictional character through the pages and give them soup so that they know that they’re not alone (just me? Okay then. Whoops. #overshare), carved out sacred hollows for little pieces of souls (mine and the characters’), and made me cry (don’t be alarmed. It’s actually pretty easy to make me cry. Show me a pair of star/time/dimension crossed lovers and/or noble Romans and/or RUE and I’m sobbing. Not that this book has any of those, but you know what I mean. I cry. Often).

And admittedly, I have a fondness for hippies, and dreamers, and poets, and all that nonsense (Joss Stone. I love her. And I was a vegetarian for 11 years, blah blah blah). So maybe I like this book better than the average bear because I can just roll with the idea of a book set in a hippie commune and not feel uber alienated—but I think that Groff does a great job with writing real, interesting characters, and the tensions that arise out of their interactions. Even in their attempts at a utopian commune. Read: This is not a propaganda piece about why hippie communes are the best (although, noodle dancing is pretty great). And Groff is for real paying homage to the idea of death even in Arcadia. The novel is an individual’s examination of his memories about the place where he grew up, and how his sense of home and safety dissolved, reasserted itself, faded, and ultimately metamorphosed.

While I get that some people will look at the blurb and see the hippie and the commune and think, “this book is not for me,” (and I utterly respect that. Know yourself) I think that having actually started reading the book, only people with an utter phobia of hippies would put it down just on the basis of the commune thing.

If you think prosety (poetic prose) is pretentious and high-falutin’, then you might put the book down for that, but that’s a different issue.

I know that usually I’m quite long-winded (and that this isn’t exactly the shortest review that e’er was writ), but today I’ll just leave it at this: this book is a swift, wonderful, moving, sensory experience and you should really read it.

I loved all of his previous books, and really enjoy his conversational and intelligent writing style. So I was really excited to pick up his new book, Drop Dead Healthy: One Man’s Humble Quest for Bodily Perfection. In it, he follows the typical Jacobs pattern of tackling an issue by going to all the possible extremes and learning as much as possible. Here, he would explore the murky waters of modern nutrition and fitness over a two year period in which he tackled each major part of his body one by one.

In contrast to his previous books, which were cute and semi-ironic, distancing themselves from the extreme lifestyles they were exploring, the issue of health requires Jacobs to drop his detachment and give himself over to the sinking middle-age realization that he is getting older and needs to work on his body if he wants to continue to live the kind of life he has. It’s a much more sincere desire than, say, wanting to be the smartest man in the room or wanting to grow a beard and wear Jesus robes in public. It comes from a place of legitimate fear, too, of ageing and of screwing yourself out of years of your own life.

The book has to operate under the confusion that clouds a lot of modern health writing. The problem is we really don’t know that much about the way that our bodies operate. Conversely, the problem is we know WAY TOO MUCH about the way our bodies operate. In other words, for every person who switches to being vegan as a healthier lifestyle, there’s someone else going on the Paleo diet and completely avoiding fruits and most vegetables. Most experts, however, agree on a few simple ideas: we need to eat less and move more, and our sedentary lifestyles do not mesh with the way our bodies operate.

As AJ explores his body part by part, he’s astonished by how many things are wrong with him and all the conflicting advice he gets from experts. There are just so many things that one needs to do in order to be, as AJ keeps saying, “optimally healthy.” Avoid toxins. Eat leafy greens. Exercise your fingers. Exercise your brain. Hold hands with your family. Run. Don’t Run. Stretch. Don’t stretch too much. Avoid germs. Avoid anti-bacterial handsoaps. Eat fish. Don’t eat fish. One of the real strengths of the book is the way AJ refuses to get bogged down by all this conflicting information. He’s very straight forward about his own biases (he’s been a “flexitarian” for most of his life, avoiding red meat and poultry), and lays out the information and the conclusions he chose to draw from them.

The strongest parts of the book, though, come from the personal anecdotes that float around the information. The story of his 90+ year old Grandfather and how he made it into a semi-healthy senescence. His well meaning, hippie aunt who avoids all toxins. Aj’s own personal struggles to figure out a diet and exercise routine that doesn’t take over his whole life. Fitness and nutrition are serious problems that it is essential to take seriously, but they’re also really goofy. Through his human stories, AJ combines useful information with a sense of the absurdity of it all.

And it is absurd. In the end of the book, AJ experiences the death by cancer of someone who did everything right, who spent her whole life trying to live as cleanly as possible. It brings him back to a question the previous version of AJ (the one who ate Cheetos and avoided gyms) always snidely used to combat the fitness trend: what’s the point? If nearly everything around us is trying to give us cancer, and even the most careful and sustained of efforts can’t hold off the tide of the inevitable, then why waste our time in gyms and measuring out portions? Why not eat six Taco Bell burritos and then wash them down with a half gallon of soda?

Jacobs does a good job of explaining the tangible ways that fitness and nutrition improved his life, counteracting this idea that somehow they are the punishment we must go through in order to live a longer life. He also makes a good argument for moderation in most things, even with our obsession with health, by exploring the new phenomenon known as “orthorexia” (or an unhealthy obsession with being healthy). In his trademark style, Jacobs provides a good beginners course for people trying to make positive changes in their lives without ever feeling preachy. Plus, the book is just plain fun. In other words, although he wouldn’t approve of this metaphor because it encourages us to think of sugar as a reward even though it’s slowly killing us, AJ Jacobs has made a book that serves as the spoonful of sugar to help our nutrition and fitness medicine go down.

If the answer to most/all of these questions is “yes,” then this book is gonna be your jam.

If any/most of these things really annoy/bother you (maybe you’re deathly allergic to illustrations or something. I don’t know your life. I weep for your childhood, btw), don’t read this book, you probably won’t like it.

Joe Golem and The Drowning City is an illustrated novel co-authored by Mike Mignola (creator/artist behind the Hellboy series, among others) and Christopher Golden, and it’s got golems (you might have guessed), the occult (see previous), detectives, crazy people, fighting, and Cthulu (they don’t call it that… but that’s what it is).

And it’s pretty great. It’s not the best book I’ve read recently, but it’s quick, fun, engaging, and when it was over, I wanted a sequel (hallmark of success, yo).

In the book, the Downtown area of New York City suffered some earthquakes, subsequent tidal waves, and has been more than partially submerged for decades. That area’s now called the Drowning City. The story centers around a tough, scrappy, DrowningCity-born-and-bred 14-year-old girl named Molly McHugh and her friend/mentor/guardian, Felix Orlov. Felix is a retired magician, and sometimes medium, but one day a séance goes horribly awry (don’t they always?) and Felix is taken away by things in gas masks and yellow bio suits. While trying to figure out what these gas-men are/running for her life, Molly encounters Joe—the craggy-faced, heavy-hitting half of a detective duo—and starts trying to piece together how to save Felix (also, The World. But that comes later).

Joe Golem and The Drowning City is a fast, easy read. I started the book, and before I knew it, it was over. Like the action in the story, everything happens quickly—events are all, Bam!, Ka-Pow! Whoosh! (don’t worry, the book doesn’t actually use that kind of thing. Man, if only)—and it carries you along for the ride beautifully. The book draws on modern comic book sensibilities as well as hefty doses of neo-noir and horror. And the Drowning City feels appropriately decrepit and dangerous, moody and murky like a good ink wash—Golden does a great job of pairing his words with the tone of Mignola’s art (and it’s their second collaboration. Anyone else smell a dream team?).

Here is my chief complaint: The story’s not over. When I got to the end of the book, I expected (was hoping for) one of those sections that says, “A Preview for Molly McHugh and The Drowned City, the next book in the Joe Golem series” or something (I don’t know what they’d call the second book, but you get what I mean). But no. Just blank pages.

And that’s not to say that the story cuts off unexpectedly, or is unsatisfying, or something, but I just feel like there’s more there to explore that we haven’t really gotten to yet (and that I’d like to). Maybe the best way to think about my unfinished-feelings-issue is that this book felt like a great episode—but there’s still a whole season/mini-series worth of arcs and development and story left that didn’t fit into this one! Can I have that stuff too, please?

(And I mean, frankly, I’m glad that the authors didn’t try to fit all that stuff in this book—it might have smothered it—but I do want access to it.)

Hey! Mike and Chris, listen up:

Thing 1) Mike, I kowtow to your awesome art/innovation/storytelling prowess. You got style (and I hope you don’t mind me addressing you as Mike).

Thing 2) You both have me clamoring for more. Well done.

…Thing 3) You can start writing the second book now, kthnxbai.

Project Gutenberg is the first producer of free ebooks and it’s AWESOME. No, really, it’s one of the things that most restores my faith in humanity/fights my misanthropic tendencies (everyone who knows me is very grateful).

There are other free ebook sites out there, but a lot of them offer self-publishing of ebooks (which is cool, but can also make for a … Wild Spectrum of Quality), whereas Project Gutenberg seems to cover the classics better and all its books are from official publishers aaaaaand… it was calling my name.

And here’s the thing: I’m not usually huge on ebooks/ereaders—I’m cool with them in theory, but I’m one of those people who really likes the heft of books (also I don’t have an ereader—so I guess really what I’m saying is that I just don’t feel compelled to buy one). I like the smell of books, and I like to have real paper in books to write/draw on. I know, dearest darlingest reader, you’re incredulous: “You write/draw in your books?!?!” Yeah, yeah I do. Don’t worry, not in like the fancy, leather bound ones, or books that are never going to be reprinted, or are old—but in books that I have lots of Thoughts and Feelings about, I like the freedom to keep notes to myself in the margins. I love books, but I don’t view them as sacred. They’re just the corpses of literature—but… less gross-sounding/Neil Gaiman-y than that came out. Let’s try that again. I’m fond of books, but the physical books themselves are just paper, ink, and glue. The text is the important part. So whether that’s in a digital format or not is really more like nitpicking for me.

Anyway. Back on track. Basically, Project Gutenberg takes books in the public domain, digitizes them, and posts them online for free as ebooks, html documents, and sometimes audio files—so you can read them directly on the computer, download them to an ereader, if that’s your jam, or listen to them on whatever newfangled gadgets you whippersnappers use now (MY PANTS ARE HIKED UP TO MY EARS, NOW GET OFF MY LAWN!!!).  And Project Gutenberg has over 38,000 free books. And not just in English, either. They have French, German, Italian, Spanish, Japanese, Tagalog, Catalan, Latin, Greek, Polish, Czech, Korean, Middle English, Hebrew, Mayan, and way too many others to list.

Some Of Their Most Popular Titles:

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Princess of Mars, The Kama Sutra, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Pride and Prejudice, Ulysses, and Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

Some Of My Personal Favorites:

The Collected Works of William Shakespeare, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, The Complete Notebooks of Leonardo Da Vinci, The Iliad, and GBS’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession.

Some Other Cool Stuff:

Anne of Green Gables, The Complete Plays of Gilbert and Sullivan, Encyclopedia of Needlework, Ovid’s Metamorphosis, On The Origin of Species, and The Tale of Tom Kitten by Beatrix Potter. To name a few.

Yeah. COOLEST THING EVER.

Although, just as a heads up, if you’re looking for specific editions—Norton, Riverside, Arden (because I guess you really like footnotes. All respect. I love footnotes), etc.—you’re not going to find them on Project Gutenberg. And if you want contemporary books, a different ebook site is going to be a better bet. But come on, an astonishing wealth of literature is available FOR FREE. I’m cool with getting my fancy editions/new bestsellers elsewhere.

But footnotes-issues aside, Project Gutenberg is amazing (I have some more nits to pick on the topic of their web design—it’s functional, but it could be so much prettier. But again, nitpicking). The wonderful thing about Project Gutenberg (and really, all free ebook sites) that makes my heart do a little hope-for-humanity dance is that it’s basically continuing the work of Gutenberg’s original printing press. It’s putting the text directly into the hands of the people to interpret and explore however they like. And yeah, I mean, there’s always the library for physical books—but the more ways we can make books accessible to everyone, the better, I say

And yes, you need the internet to get to Project Gutenberg, and most people with the internet or ereaders can afford to buy physical books or ebooks, or whatever (but hey, I’m sure they like free things just as much as I do. And why not?). But just go with me on this for a second and imagine if we could get more people (people who don’t have access to physical libraries, for example, or reliable/well-funded education) online—and then to Project Gutenberg. People could read classic works in scads of different languages for free. Educators could supplement reading lists for free. Project Gutenberg could blow their minds.

I realize that sometimes I get carried away by hopefulness and lofty ambitions (and probably too many you-can-do-anything-if-you-set-your-mind-to-it Disney movies and comic books. Sometimes I want to be a superhero and Save The World. So sue me). And I don’t think that Project Gutenberg itself is aiming to start a world-wide literacy revolution or anything, but I think that what they’re doing is great (and revolutionary in it’s own, gentle, quiet way). Because what they’re doing is giving people free books.

Awesome.

Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children is a sweeping epic of an “autobiography” in the process of being written by Saleem Sinai, one of the midnight children (children born during the midnight hour of India’s official independence, and blessed/cursed with different magical gifts). Saleem believes that the hour of his birth destined him to share in—and be inexplicably tied to—India’s fate, and his “autobiography” is stuffed with events of all shapes, sizes, and impacts—the intimately personal, the national, and the epic international. Don’t be deceived by my use of the word “magic.” This is not a science-fiction novel, and it’s not a sword and sorcery fantasy book—it’s a book of poetic, character-driven magical realism, and it’s a wonderful journey.

The language is beautiful, crowded, and colorful (and sometimes discards/disregards punctuation as stifling or too divisive). Every page is densely populated with descriptions of all kinds—smells, tastes, sights, sounds—and musings, and all the words are always jostling, bumping, running together, bustling on the page like a huge crowd (like the 1001 original midnight children, or the population of India, or the host of characters in this book). And it’s easy to get pulled in by language like that—it’s fun and vivacious and hurtling—it just carries you along like a powerful current. Rushdie and Saleem work wonders with parallels, recurring themes, and the tiny, detailed motifs that make up a person’s worldview—these fragments and patterns become as important and psychologically charged as the memories of events themselves.

That’s not to say that the style of the language is what carries the story or makes the book readable—not at all. Rushdie does a magical and wonderful thing by matching his superb style with an equally well-crafted plot. Something is always happening in this book (more often than not, lots of somethings). And without giving too much away—there are crimes committed (war-related and garden-variety), there are love interests (of the acceptable sort, and of the illicit kind), there are family trees so odd they’d look like a Dalí painting, there are crises of identity, burned shoes, prominent noses and knees, and, of course, magical midnight children. The story loops back in on itself in ways that I perhaps should have been able to predict, but which I utterly failed to because I was so caught up in the rush (and it’s such a huge story). It’s hard to fit all the important details of a full, eventful life into a book, but Rushdie does it beautifully, and character-specifically through Saleem. And better than that, he makes it all incredibly readable, personal, and engaging.

I don’t have all the words necessary to talk about this book (especially without spoiling it). And quite frankly, even if I did, by the end we’d both just be exhausted and you would have no energy to start reading the book—which you should do, because I really really really enjoyed it. I enjoyed the characters, I was continually (and pleasantly) surprised by the plot, and the language challenged and thrilled me. You should pick up a copy of Midnight’s Children and savor it.

Now, don’t go gettin’ too excited. This isn’t a terribly sophisticated list. It’s a list of books that I personally want to read before I shuffle off this mortal coil (hopefully a long long time from now), not a list of books that are Objectively The Best Books In Literature. And as it turns out, Best Books Lists get contested all the time, and have nothing to do with being objective, so… whatever. My reading list, my rules. I mean, some of those Important Books are on here, but some of these are just books that I want to read. Be forewarned: this list is going to be dork-tacular. Here be dragons (for real-ish*, sometimes).

*in so far as there really are dragons mentioned in some of the fictional books listed. My own personal theory is that dragons weren’t ever actually real, but that people thought they were because they needed to find a way to explain dinosaur bones that they found in ancient/medieval times and stuff. Yeah, I want dragon myths to be an early form of paleontology. You can already tell that this list will be a Serious Discourse on Literature, what-what (that bit with the capitalization should be in a really bad, overblown, stuffy British accent. I don’t know why. Don’t question. *sigh.* Re-read it if you must).

The List Itself:

1) Read Dune (I know, I know. You’ll never trust me to review a Sci-Fi novel again until I’ve read this. Gentle reader, bear with me. I’m gonna get there).

2) Finish all of Shakespeare’s Plays (Just finished Pericles. Which was… weird. If I were ever going to make a vaudeville-esque adaptation of it, I would call it Pericles: Pirates & Prostitutes. And yeah… both those things actually do feature heavily in that play. Anyway, now that I’m done with Pericles, I only have two more left!!!! Whooooo!!! But don’t worry Billy, I’ll never really be done with you. I’m a re-reader).

3) Finish Faulkner’s oeuvre

4) Read Moby Dick (And I’m not just talking listen-to-it-on-tape read it. That’s cheating. I mean actually read the beast. It’s my white whale, you might say.)

5) MORE EE CUMMINGS (for lo—v.e   i   him (hispoetryimean—    )**.

**yes, I’m an uber dork.

6) All Kafka

7) Finish the Song of Ice and Fire series (I’ve finished Dance With Dragons. So this is more of a going-forward-for-the-rest-of-GRRM’s/my-lifetime kind of goal. This is going to be a long, emotional roller-coaster ride of a reading experience. Sometimes this series makes me want to command GRRM to therapy/throw things. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO THEON?! I LOVE HIM!!!—and now some readers are giving me the side-eye. I know. “Theon?,” you’re thinking to yourself, “THEON?! What’s wrong with you?” Gentle reader, I can’t fully explain myself. My love for various fictional characters is as ineffable as any love—except, you know, weirder, because it’s for fictional characters.*** Gosh darn it, GRRM!).

***Although, clearly also not THAT weird. As we’ve mentioned previously, there are all those ridiculous Darcy books, after all.

8) Read something by Chuck Palanick (before it’s made into a movie)

9) Read all of Nobokov (Well everything in English, anyway. I’m not counting his translation work.)

10) Anna Karenina (And you were an English major? Yes, yes I was. Don’t judge. It’s on the list isn’t it? I’m trying to correct any classical deficiencies that I have… in my own, lop-sided sort of way)

11) Read the August Wilson Century Cycle (I’ve read Gem of The Ocean so far. Now to conquer the others).

12) Ulysses (I don’t have to understand it, I just want to see if I can get through it).

13) The Wasteland (see above).

14) Read everything on the AP English Literature list (no, seriously, except for the Dickens. Dickens, ugh. I dunno, I’ve wanted to ever since I was in AP Lit in high school. One day… one day.)

15) Everything by Angela Carter (she’s crazy, but I love her so).

16) Every work of fiction based around Joan of Arc (I’m not really interested in history. Just people’s interpretations of what the story could be. Also, my girl Joan was a female soldier in pre-GI Jane/Alana-y times -yeah, I went there. The girls who read stuff in middle school know what I’m talking about- AND I find zealots fascinating).

17) Other Jean Rhys work (I’ve already read Wide Sargasso Sea)

18) Read Shakespeare’s long poems (if I’m feeling sassy. I’ve read parts of The Rape of Lucrece, but not even all of that. Weirdly, I’m sort of … meh on the idea of reading all of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I feel like I’ve read all the important/best ones in various re-mixes for different English classes. I’ve read the one about My mistress’s eyes about a hundred times. Maybe one day, if I’m bored, I’ll read all of the sonnets, but…. I’d have to be pretty bored.)

19) Never read another William Blake poem ever ever ever (I can’t even. No. No. No. No. No. Nope. Nopers. Never. Perhaps the best way to explain my feelings about Blake is THIS. More specifically, 1:25)

20) Read all 10 books of Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (this is one of the tasks on the list that’s actually more a test of will than anything else. Bring it, Britomart!)

21) Read all comics drawn by Jim Lee (because he’s the best. I’m not usually an X-Men fan- pipe down, Tom- but forJim, anything).

22) All the comics drawn by Jae Lee (because he also draws beautiful things).

23) All of the Nightwing comics (because Mr. Grayson—the original Robin Hood? Yeah, that Mr. Grayson—is my favorite superhero. I know, you didn’t want to know that, because now you’re judging me for being a DC girl, but not a Batman girl. I dunno what to tell you, Grayson’s got all the emotional complexity of a non-super superhero, an orphan with surrogate daddy issues- especially when that surro-dad is Bruce Wayne, and you know, famously NOT warm-and-fuzzy- and PTShD *Post Traumatic Shorts Disorder*. And there’s a self-actualizing-ish side-kick thing that I can’t help but love. So there).

24) Read The First Books (I’ve read The Bible, Beowulf, The Iliad, The Odyssey, and The Aeneid, so I’m thinking like The Tale of Genji, The Ramayana, Njal’s Saga- it’s a real thing, I promise. It’s the first Icelandic epic, or at least, the earliest one we have- and Gilgamesh).

25) Read Michelangelo’s poetry (Yeah. Dude could paint, sculpt, AND word-smith. I’ve started reading some of his stuff, they are surprisingly funny and sometimes surprisingly heartbreaking)

26) Read PG Wodehouse (Authors I like recommend him highly, and I haven’t read any of his stuff yet. And by “Authors” I mean Jasper Fforde, Terry Pratchet, and Douglas Adams. Also Stephen Fry. Apparently- aka, according to Wikipedia. He’s also a playwright and lyricist. Well… la-di-da, just a bunch of Renaissance people up in here).

27) Memorize the beginning of Hitchhiker’s Guide To the Galaxy (I just love that part about the little green pieces of paper, and how not even digital watches can keep people truly happy, and how one lady figured it all out and no one *cough*Jesus*cough* would even have to be nailed to a tree this time, but how… this book isn’t about that lady. Technically not a reading thing, but it’s definitely book-related. You will deal)

28) Read all the Terry Pratchett books (this is A LOT of books, boys and girls. This man does not take a break. He seems to be one of those authors that just actually loves to write. He writes an average of TWO BOOKS A YEAR. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Specializing in a mix of humor, sci-fi/fantasy, and anythingandeverythingelseyoucanthinkof, he tends to set his books in Discworld—a flat world supported by four elephants on the back of a giant turtle swimming through space—although he writes out of world sometimes too. Also, he’s a hysterical, insightful writer. He’s also one of those authors that I feel like is an awesome person—I’d like to adopt him as my Grandpa/Wise Mentor. Please be my Wise Mentor, Terry. Additionally, he’s been knighted, So… Please be my Wise Mentor, SIR Terry! And he MADE HIS OWN SWORD, and in 2007 publicly announced that he’s been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, which he calls an “embuggerance.” He’s still writing. He’s the best. If you haven’t read anything of his, GET ON IT! and hope that his awesome-person-ness will rub off on you).

29) More Nathaniel West (I’ve read Day of the Locusts and Miss Lonelyhearts, and I want to read everything else he’s got).

30) Read more of Richard Matheson (he’s the guy who wrote I Am Legend. If you’ve only seen the movie, let me just say that it was like… a Disneyfied version of the actual story Matheson wrote. My love of Will Smith is great, and pretty much unconditional at this point, but that movie was so much less than it could have been—than the book is. Matheson’s version is more visceral, more frightening, more complex, and just…. better. I’m not usually big on the scary books, but I want more where that came from).

31) Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep (okay, um… first of all, it spawned Blade Runner, so… I really have to read it. And also, I’m woefully under-read when it comes to Philip K. Dick, and despite the Dune-deficiency, I actually do like sci-fi, so clearly, I need to school myself with one of the masters. I figure this is as good a place to start as any).

32) The Star Wars novels. All of them. (yeah, you read that right. I hear it’s a spectrum of quality, and I’ve read a couple of them, so… yeah, they’re not always… capital L Literature or anything, and it’s also true that there are like a billion of them. But everybody needs some pure fun reading/sick-in-bed-and-not-actually-sick-enough-to-just-pass-out,-but-too-sick-to-do-anything-real-and-I’m-NOT-WATCHING-MAURY,-YOU-CAN’T-MAKE-ME reading. Some people fill that quota with bodice-rippers, or Chick Lit, or books of Sudoku puzzles. I’ve got Star Wars novels****).

****although I’m gonna go ahead and reserve the right to give up if ever I feel my brain turning to mush/leaking out of my ears.

33) Murakami (this one is actually a big deal/important. I’m working on 1Q84, which is really… long, so far—when I’m done I’ll post a review. But don’t hold your breath: it’s also a big honker of a book, and I’m clearly going to have to set aside designated time just for it. But even after I’m done with 1Q84, there are a whole lot more to read. I may not get through them all, but I want to at least do a responsible sampling)

34) Yusef Komunyakaa (he’s a contemporary poet. I read his book, Warhorses—not about horse puppets—and fell in love. So, I’m gonna just go ahead and read as much of his stuff as I can).

35) Louise Glück (She’s cool. You can tell by the umlaut. She’s another poet, also contemporary, and also awesome).

36) Jamaica Kincaid (Because, Girl)

37) Vonnegut (…because I haven’t read any. How did I survive the teenage years/get gallowshumorjaded without it? I dunno, but I’m here. Also, I did still read the obligatory teen-empathy lit, like Catcher in the Rye, so the phony-phobia still happened, no worries. But now when I have/make time, I plan on correcting my deficiency.)

38) All the Fables comics (I started, but there were so many, and I had so many other books to read, and now I’m behind. But I will catch up, because they are funny, smart, and wonderful. You mark my words).

39) Everything Edward Albee’s ever written (I’ve read Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, The Zoo Story, The Goat: or Who Is Sylvia?, and Tiny Alice. I want more)

40) Read some of Shelley’s poetry (I’ve read the work of Mary W. Shelly, his unhappy wife, but I haven’t actually read any of his stuff. I’m not much for the Romantics, usually, but I think his stuff’s at least worth investigating, even if he didn’t think much of his wife’s work and demeaned it in his original introduction. Smooth move, Percy).

41) Read Superman: Red Son (Yes. It’s a Superman comic. It’s a what-if-Kal-El-had-landed-in-Soviet-Russia-instead-of-the-US? comic. And you’re saying to yourself, dearest reader, “But Borah, you’re a comic book nerd girl—and even a self-professed DC girl—how can it be you haven’t read Red Son?” And I say to you: I have no frickin’ idea. But clearly, my life is incomplete without it, and I’m planning to fix that).

42) The real question should NOT have been  ”Life, The Universe, and Everything” or, “What do you get if you multiply six by nine?”, or, “How many roads must a man walk down?”, but rather “What will be the most over-used nerd in-joke?” Doesn’t mean we don’t still all appreciate it. I mean, I just used it. Had to. Forgive me? Marvin doesn’t, but we knew that was coming a lightyear away.

43) Read all the Anouilh I can get my grubby mitts on (I’ve read The Lark and his Antigone, but I know there’s more, and I think he’s fascinating, and he’s got a hang up about complacency-as-appeasement that I can’t help but be drawn into/FIERCE CHARACTERS. He’s also interesting for history reasons—Nazi times in France and whatnot).

44) Read more Primo Levi (I’ve read The Monkey Wrench, and loved it. I should probably read If This Is a Man—his account of his time as a prisoner in Auschwitz—but I might just read his fiction work first while I steel myself/grab some tissues).

45) Read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte (Because I’ve read her sisters’ stuff—but I tend to forget Anne’s name. That would suck. To be the least-remembered of a band of writer sisters. And not just moderately famous sisters—Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights/can’t-get-through-both-high-school-and-college-without-being-forced-to-read-at-least-one-of-them-if-not-both famous sisters. Man, my sister and I used to have problems with much smaller stuff that that. Can’t even imagine).

46) Everything about Cleopatra (she’s another historical lady that I just think is a fascinating charismatic enigma. I like seeing different interpretations of her and her story. Who knows—I might even get crazy and read some biographies and stuff).

47) Read House of Leaves (For the structure of the beast more than anything. I love me some ee cummings. I imagine this would be sort of like reading an ee cummings novel).

48) Read Bradbury’s oeuvre (I started reading a bunch of his short stories in high school, and I quite loved them, but I haven’t read much more since. Time to go back to old favorites).

49) Read at least one big Steinbeck (because I have a confession. I’ve only ever read his short stories. And I love them dearly, I do, but I’ve just always been daunted by his huge books and chickened out. No more)

50) Do NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). At least once. Here’s the link. Basically, you write a whole novel in the month of November, with various prompts, pep talks, and support features. I think it’s a great idea. And it mostly just sounds like a lot of fun. And I love to read, but obviously, I like to write, too—and I dunno. For me reading and writing is all part of a literary conversation. Reading is like listening or any other processing/ingesting of information. And writing is like speaking or any other form of expression—it’s giving your ideas in response. And I’m not setting out to write the great American novel. Or the great 21^st century novel. Or any great (insert category here) novel. I just think it’s a cool, low-pressure, fun way to be part of an exuberantly literary community. And if nothing else, I’m going to read all of the pep talks—they’re great.

And, When I’m Done With The Bucket List (Yes, There’s More):

A) Find a place to put all these books (It should be enormous, absolutely stuffed with books, have ladders and all that, high ceilings, and sweeping staircases… yeah, I’m describing Belle’s library)

B) Read the 10 most boring classics in the English language (so I guess I’ll have to go back on my word about Mr. Blake’s poetry. And maybe Dickens. …. Ugh. I will only do this when I’m tired of life and can no longer stand to wear blue gingham.*****)

*****If you don’t get this joke then you should go and read the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde right now!******

******I realize that I used a lot of starred comments in this thing. I like parenthetical comments (you may have noticed), but there were already too many of them (a plethora of parentheticals, you might say. Oh God, someone stop me). I would have gone all Terry Pratchett and done footnotes, but that seemed like irresponsible web formatting. Happy reading!

Obviously, any book that’s going to try and cram the history of the world into 350(ish) pages is going to have to gloss over a couple things, but this book at least tries to give each big era its due—we get a little beginner’s biological anthropology at the start for the rise of the Homo sapiens, cover all the uber-influential Ancient civilizations, move right along into those strapping Empires, get the Medieval/Reincarnating-the-Empires/Hostile-takeover-by-other-Empires stages of all the continents (except Antarctica, which was not invited. Because this was a Homo sapiens-centric history, and didn’t spend any time at all on the great Penguin civilizations of yore. Alas), get the rise Modernity, get Industrialized, get in all the World Wars (I counted), and then we get pretty well caught up to recent history (like, real recent. Events from 2011 are in here). And there’s a lot more stuff in there. Don’t judge the book by my mangled summary. Again, this all gets crammed into 350someodd pages, so… Lots of Glossing Happens, but Mr. Hall really does do a fair job trying to wrangle the biggest/most influential bits of World History in there.

Like any piece of work, it’s got its biases, and (contrary to popular opinion), history can get mighty subjective (“This dot caused this effect,” “No, my dear fellow, THIS dot caused that effect,” etc.), so this book will not please all people. Mr. Hall and the book try to be balanced, but also admit that, you know, Europe was a big, imperial, global dominator for a while there—so it can get a little/lot Euro-centric, is what I’m saying (and it’s also pretty clear that the Complete Idiot for whom this book is written is American—not, thank God, A’muhrr’can—but still. It just assumes that even if you go into this book knowing only one thing about World History, it’s probably that George Washington was involved somewhere in there). So yes, for a serious scholar of history*, it’s got biases, and it’s not totally even… but, I mean, you try composing a 350ish page guide to ALL OF WORLD HISTORY. It’s a rough job.

*Also, if you’re a serious scholar of history, this book will bore you. It’s meant for the rest of us.

If you don’t like History (in which case, why are you even reading this review, never mind the book?), then this book isn’t really going to change anything for you. You will not experience a magical conversion. But if you like History to start with, but you’re like me (you’re interested, just… you… have trouble reading non-fiction books because they’re long… and sometimes boring), this book does a pretty good job of sprinkling in fun/interesting/weird anecdotes and quotes among the drier facts.

Example: Did you know that, as a young man, Stalin got thrown out of school for stabbing a fellow student? Probably not (although, knowing Stalin, you’re probably also not particularly gobsmacked or anything. Oh, Joseph). BUT apparently, he later became—wait for it—an elementary school teacher. GOBSMACKED (unless you had a traumatic experience, in which case, I’m sure it all makes sense now).

Silliness aside, the book’s well done. I think the only real change I would petition the editor for is the inclusion of a graphic time line. Generally speaking, this book could stand to include more pictures (oh, it’s got a couple of maps, but you know me and maps; I could always stand some more). But yeah, I really wanted a time line. And in the waaaaaay back of the book, buried deep between Appendices and Indexes, is a written chronological list of events, but I can’t tell you how helpful it would have been to have a global time line included at the end of each chapter. The book tackles World History by partitioning it into generous eras/stages of history, and then dividing that by continent/region. So sometimes you go from “Chapter 12: Those Terrible Middle Ages” (which covers Europe from 500-1500 C.E.), to “Chapter 13: America on the Eve of Invasion” (which covers the indigenous populations of North and South America, and jumps you back to 500 B.C.E.). So your sense of chronology can get a little wonky if you’re not being careful. And I mean, I don’t know that I can really think of a much better way to organize this type of book, but I would have liked a little time line to help me feel like I had a better sense of what was happening where, in relation to what was happening simultaneously in the rest of the world.

So I wanted a time line, but other than that, I liked the book—it’s informative, it’s clear, and it’s got cool history in it. This book is clearly a primer; so it’s not for the history buff, and it’s not for the disinterested, but for the casually curious, it’s a great place to start learning up on some World History.

I Love You, Beth Cooper

The book is funny, it’s got a hell of a lot of plot (a witty, smart subverting/parodying of every modern teenage coming-of-age trope packed into the events of one night), and fun/funny characters that are awesomely detailed, and manage to lull you into thinking of them as stereotypes and then surprising you with lighthearted, self-aware depth (sneaky bastards). Also (and maybe this is a comfort only to me, but) Denis Cooverman is genuine US certified geek/nerd. He collects comic books (issue #s are mentioned—attaboy), he thinks in medical terms all the time, he compulsively corrects other people, and he tries too hard to be mature most of the time.

*Tiny Tangent: I say that this is a comfort to me because, as a self-identifying geek/nerd, I am tired of characters who are classified as nerds or geeks because they can manage an easy Star Wars reference—I just think that if that’s the only proof we have that the character’s a nerd/geek, then it’s actually just lazy writing. And that annoys me.*

But fear not, my hypercritical friends—Denis Cooverman is the real deal.  And Larry Doyle is awesomely, accurately cynical about the teenage/highschool/puberty thing (on pretty much all fronts, not just the uncool-kids’ experience). Most of the stuff in the book has seeds of stuff that happened to you in highschool, or could have happened, or feels weirdly reminiscent of that conversation in geometry class that made you feel like you wanted to melt into the floor, or that time in art class when you felt like the coolest BAMF alive (except in the book it’s all much, much, much better written, and everyone has better dialogue). Larry Doyle and Denis Cooverman know shame (ack! Patty Keck alert!—She’s Denis’s secret shame. His not-so-secret shame: the fact that his name is one letter away from the word “penis,” leading to stunningly unimaginative nicknames), elation, phobias, neuroses, arrogance, and most importantly, the honest (hilarious) truth of teenage/human nature (some people will argue that these are totally different categories—I think it’s more of a larval stage/adult stage issue, so we’ll keep them together).

I Love You, Beth Cooper, is also a movie. I haven’t seen the movie, but (even though Larry Doyle wrote the screenplay to that too) I feel like I would like the movie less than I like the novel (I’ll give you a further report once I have actually seen the movie). And I really like this novel—like, likelike. It’s hilarious and witty, and full of fun and detailed character insights (which I think the movie would lose out on, unless they did weird voice-over stuff). For example, Denis’s best friend, Rich (who everybody thinks is gay, but who swears he is not) thinks of his life as a movie—depending on what’s happening, the genre changes. Without some very creative directing, that might not come across in the movie. And I would be really sad to lose all the best parts of Rich, Denis, and The Trinity.

Ultimately, I really really like this book—it’s funny, it’s smart, well plotted, self-aware, and chock full of characters I really like/can envision as real people (plus there are illustrations of the state of Denis’s face—mostly bruised, once he’s encountered Kevin—and fun quotes at the beginning of each chapter. Doyle, you had me at “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw”*). It’s a good book. I don’t love it as much as I love Go, Mutants!, but there are very, very few things in this world that I love as much as Go, Mutants!.

I Love You, Beth Cooper is a pretty great close second. Go read it.

Anyway, I started to read this graphic novel with only the vaguest of ideas of what it was about. As it turns out, the book’s inspired by native Abenaki legend and storytelling tradition. Dawn Land is about man-eating Giants and the development of a legendary weapon. There’s also possession, mystical/spiritual visitations, and, of course, a young hero fated to fight the forces of evil and save his people in aboriginal America. It’s a good, simple hero story—but the plot itself isn’t … uber gripping. Personally, I kept reading Dawn Land because of the art.

Davis (the illustrator) does a beautiful job. The art is Gorgeous. It’s black and white on the inside (which is kind of sad, just because I wanted to see more of what Davis would do with color), but the ink-wash-esque illustrations, with their elegant, flowing lines tell the story lyrically, and make it hard to put down the book. Every line has the feeling of smooth, dance-like motion in it. And there isn’t a lot of dialogue in this book—for the most part the story’s told by the art. You can “read” the art so quickly that once you’ve started Dawn Land, it’s hard to put it down (well because the next bit looks like it’s going to be interesting, and this part has already been going so fast, etc, etc, etc…. when did it turn into 3:30am?)

Obviously, the art was a huge part of my reading experience with this book (and, frankly, if the art wasn’t so beautiful, or was knottier to interpret or something, I probably wouldn’t have kept reading). Which is why, I’m not gonna lie, I was a little confused when I realized that Dawn Land (the graphic novel) was based on … Dawn Land (the novel novel by Joe Bruchac).  It’s hard for me to imagine all of that art being replaced by words—I wondered if it would feel the same (probably it wouldn’t). Also, in Dawn Land The Novel Novel there’s apparently a whole bunch of other through-lines (like pseudo-telepathic man-canine interactions, probably more about Our Young Hero’s love entanglements—of course there are love entanglements, he’s a Young Chosen Hero, it’s how they roll. Look, at least he doesn’t mistakenly kiss his sister. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Luke) that weren’t in the graphic novel. And quite frankly, the graphic novel’s plot is so streamlined (we’re talking just absolutely whittled down the to barest essentials of plot) that there’d have to be. Now, I haven’t read Dawn Land The Novel Novel, so this is all just speculation—maybe I’d love it. I dunno. But it sure as hell would have to be radically different from the graphic novel to sustain the word count of a Novel novel, and I just have trouble imagining it.

In the end, Dawn Land’s a fine graphic novel. It’s not spectacular—it doesn’t have the complexity and nuance that you see in the very best graphic novels—but it’s got a classic plot, and casually beautiful artwork, and at the very least, it won’t take you much time to get through it (so even if you finish it and you’re not the biggest fan, no real time lost). I wouldn’t run out searching for it, but if you stumble across it, give it a thumb through and see if it looks like your deal.

For my part, I’m going to be keeping my eyes peeled for other projects by Will Davis.

The Story Within: New Insights and Inspiration for Writers

This book isn’t a gripping thrill-ride. It’s a for-real guidebook that gets into the mundane, nitty-gritty of writing. It plods slowly, methodically, and carefully through every step of the writing process, giving hints, anecdotes, inspiration, and advice along the way. The book covers pretty much all aspects—why people write, why people who want to write don’t, the issue of plotting, finding your individual voice, finding your genre, editing (grossgrossgross), dealing with reader-friends, and even publishing. Oliver’s got a sweet voice—she’s motherly and caring, and you feel like she really does believe that YOU, Oh Reader, wherever you are, can be a real Writer, maintain your mental health and a social life (say what? I don’t have to be an alcoholic, chain-smoking, misogynist hermit-beast to be a writer?! Apparently not) while you do it, and that writing can be taught.

Like I said, that’s very very sweet of her. And she’s very consistent and giving in her message—you can write, everyone has a story to tell, etc. And the book really does include implementable, step-by-step guidelines for increasing the amount that you write, the frequency with which you write, and the frequency with which you submit your writing (either for publication, to groups/seminars, or to reader-friends). But it’s all comes down to the reader/potentialwriter, doesn’t it? The information is there—what are you going to do with it?

If you’re a critical person/writer, like me, sometimes it’s hard to believe that everyone who wants to can write, that writing can be taught (especially by a guide book that can’t read your writing or give you an evaluation), and that you have something unique to say (or an interesting enough way to say it). Anxiety/Self-Deprecation/Horrible Spiral Time!!! And if you’re already one of those people that’s shown your writing to other people only to come away with that sick/frustrated/slimy feeling that they didn’t get it, or that they missed something, or that the things they didn’t like were The Point, or that they’re just yessing you because they’re a friend and believe that the best thing to do is hollowly support you, this book can feel like that.

If, however, you’re not a crazy cocktail of perfectionist and judge-machine (bravo, look at you being a rational, well-adjusted, and functioning human), you want to write, and you’re looking for practical advice on where to start, as well as support for your ambition—read this book. Take notes in it (or post-it pages, if you’re a wuss about writing in books), dog-ear pages (or use bookmarks. FINE), and keep it where you write/on your person always.

On a less Borah-should-be-in-a-mental-facility/dramatic note: If you’ve already taken a lot of creative writing classes with supportive teachers, this book can also feel like a simple rehashing of familiar turf (except for the publishing part. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had a creative writing class that addressed the issue of publishing). If you’ve only taken creative writing classes with teachers/peers who seemed to hate you, read this as a means of therapy.

I think what it comes down to is this (Time for a quiz! I hope you’ve been paying attention):

Q: Do you want to write/be a writer?

a. If No, then what the fuu….? This book is not for you, my friend. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, just put this book back on the shelf and get something else that you’re actually interested in.

b. If Yes, then the question becomes:

Q2: Can you read this book without getting cranky, immediately discarding the information as either trite/unrealistically optimistic, or muttering to yourself “yeah, right” as you read?

a. If Yes—Good. Grab this book, read it, and be on your merry, mentally stable way, ya freak.

b. If No—Fair. This book is not for you (but you probably already know that). And hopefully you already have your next move all lined up (at least, writing-career-wise). Good luck, and Godspeed. At the very least, know that you’re not alone (Major Issues, reporting for duty, SIR!)*.

*AND, that if you ever do turn sentimental/decide that maybe a little unconditional support wouldn’t actually be so bad, The Story Within will still be on the shelf, waiting for you.