The Evolution of an Insatiable Bookslut: Tony’s Tale

Posted by tonbird — May 6, 2013

Unlike many booksluts, I was not a natural born reader. I have no stories about teaching myself to read or learning to read before I started school. But I had a lot of people in my life who read to me at a young age. My mom read Little Golden Books to me all the time, and so did my Aunt Jill and Aunt Stephanie. I could recite my favorite books from memory, even if I couldn’t understand the letters and words.

One of my childhood favorites

Once I started school, it wasn’t until near the end of kindergarten that I learned to read very simple words, and throughout first and second grade, I struggled with reading and usually got placed in the slower reading groups.

But my love for information and a good story overcame my difficulties. Despite my challenges with school-related readings, I started reading books on my own. I always loved library day, and I would check out books from the A New True Book series to learn about different kinds of animals and dinosaurs and whatever else I was interested in at the moment. They fed my information addiction like a 1980s children’s version of Wikipedia. At night I read stories by my nightlight when my parents though thought I was asleep. I had a variety of storybooks and an illustrated book of surprisingly graphic Bible stories that my dad used to read from. This one quickly became my favorite, and when Dad’s job got too busy for him to keep up with family readings, I started reading it on my own.

All I see now is a bunch of white people posing as Hebrews.

Before long, I was moving on to bigger and better books, and my school librarian guided me to the mythology section. I read everything in it. Then I spent a while devouring Choose Your Own Adventure books.

For summer vacations, I would ride my bike down to the park, and then to the pool, and then I’d go to the public library in damp swim trunks with the moisture soaking through the bottom of my T-shirt. I checked out how-to books, and I read about all kinds of different crafts and artwork, drawing, origami, and making neat toys out of junk. I also read even more about animals and some of my favorite books were the ones about where to catch critters and how to keep them alive in homemade habitats.

I apologize to all the creatures who suffered this fate at my hands. Animals once considered me a super villain.

Those first years of reading were great, and I enjoyed them very much, but as I got older I moved on to different kinds of books. At the age of twelve, I spent a day at my Aunt Tina’s house and I told her how I planned to read The Hobbit and then The Lord of the Rings because one of my friends had suggested it. She put the conversation on hold as she ran into a different room to dig in her closet, and she came back with a bare green hardback copy of The Silmarillion. I’ll never know what the dust jacket looked like. “This is what came before The Hobbit,” she told me. She let me borrow it, and I read the whole thing before I read any of the other books. How, as a twelve-year-old, I had the patience for dry reading like The Silmarillion, I can only attribute to my previous readings of mythology and the Bible. I quickly moved on to Tolkien’s other works, and finished off the entire Tolkien section of my middle school’s library, including Farmer Giles of Ham and his translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Following Tolkien, I made a deal with one of my friends that if he read The Hobbit, I would read Mossflower by Brian Jacques. I loved it for the anthropomorphic rodent heroes, and I read every other book that was available from the Redwall series. Even better was Watership Down. After that, I became an indiscriminate sci-fi/fantasy junkie, which continued throughout my high school years.

Strangely enough, I very seldom enjoyed the “literature” I was assigned to read for school. I won’t hate on A Separate Peace or The Great Gatsby too much, but I never got myself interested in them enough to match the enthusiasm that my English teachers had. I was never assigned to read Hemingway, so naturally, he became my favorite literary author. Of all the things I was assigned to read in high school, the only two I really appreciated were Grendel and To Kill a Mockingbird. I obsessed over the dragon’s lecture to Grendel, trying to puzzle out all the big words and make sense of what my teacher had summed up as “a bunch of gobbledegook”.

Like Susie, I joined in academic competition and got to read and analyze a few literary works. The one I remember best was Antigone. I don’t know if it was the work itself or just that particular translation, but I found it moving. Other than these few exceptions, though, I spent most of my time in high school reading pulp sci-fi and fantasy novels. If I could have unread all the Terry Brooks books and been given the time back to socialize, perhaps the Virginity Fairy would have relieved me of my V-card much sooner.

The Virginity Fairy visited me a little later than she did most people I know.

Near the end of my high school days, my friend Eric introduced me to Stephen King by getting me The Shining as a Christmas gift. I got a few chapters into it before my dad confiscated it for religious reasons. Undaunted, I read ‘Salem’s Lot, keeping it discreetly hidden.

Given my unwillingness to read most assigned books, I really wonder what possessed me to major in English when I started college. Nevertheless, I did. During my years at Indiana State, I hardly had time to read anything that wasn’t part of the curriculum. It turned out that this was my time to finally gain an appreciation for some of the classics. I tore up Things Fall Apart by recently departed Chinua Achebe. I also loved me some Nathaniel Hawthorne, Bram Stoker, and Mark Twain. Over the summer between my freshman and sophomore years, I decided to embrace my heritage and read the Bible from cover to cover. I liked Ecclesiastes the most. At that time in my life, it was comforting to know that everything is meaningless.

I kept reading and working my way toward a degree in English literature. I was required to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for a pop culture class. I followed the morbid misadventures of Bigger Thomas in Native Son, and I finally got a lesson in Chaucer where the professor assigned the Miller’s Tale.

Not all of my reading was in English. For my classical studies courses, I translated Ovid, Vergil, and Catullus into English. I especially liked Catullus. His love affair with Lesbia mirrored my own heartbreaking college romance, so I really related to the euphoric poems at first, and the miserable ones later.

I graduated and took a break from reading literature for a while. Instead I read self-help books about business as I tried to find my way in the world. Thinking journalism to be a viable option for making a living, I started reading magazines and newspapers more than books.

In the decade since college, my appreciation for books has continued to develop. For whatever reason, I did Cliff’s Notes on A Tale of Two Cities. (I had blown it off to read Fight Club and Choke.) I remembered that the lecture made it sound interesting, so I went back and read it years after I graduated. I read the remainder of the Harry Potter series after the last book finally came out. I also discovered Gregory McGuire, Christopher Moore, and George R.R. Martin. Finally, my best friend Eric–the same one who got me The Shining–talked me into reading The Gunslinger. I shirked a lot of my personal responsibilities as I got sucked into that world. Not long after, I began my love affair with audiobooks. I usually listen to books I’ve already read, but occasionally I listen to something completely new, especially if it’s non-fiction. I’ve done On Becoming a Leader, How to Win Friends and Influence People, and Pimsleur courses for Cantonese and Japanese.

My most recent discovery is Haruki Murakami. I just finished Norwegian Wood, and I have The Wind-up Bird Chronicle in my to-read queue.

So there it is: Tony’s dirty, dirty past as a bookslut. What about you, fellow booksluttians? Did we read any of the same books? How did you come to be a bookslut?

The Evolution of an Insatiable Bookslut: sj

Posted by sj — April 15, 2013

young_sj

I don’t remember learning how to read. I know that I was reading before my fourth birthday – and have vague memories of being impatient with “age appropriate” books when I was in pre-school – but don’t remember if it was my dad who taught me how or if it was just something I was determined to pick up on my own.

It wasn’t just the books I was impatient with, but with pre-school in general. I wanted more time to read, but was instead encouraged to (ugh) spend time OUTSIDE. And INTERACTING. I have never had the greatest social skills. This was particularly evident the time I smacked a girl in the face because she’d stolen my jacket that had the book I was reading in the pocket…only to later find out that we just had the same jacket.

In kindergarten, I was so proud when Mrs Heck (yes, really) asked me daily to read aloud to my class at naptime. I later found out that when I was reading a chapter of Chocolate Fever to my classmates, Mrs Heck was outside having a smoke break. I could be upset about this, but I can totally understand.

Heh, Chocolate Fever. Did you all read that, too?

In the first grade I was tested for the GATE program, and was told that my reading and comprehension were already at a college level. In addition to having to switch classrooms to go with the other GATE kids (it was 3 grades in one class because there weren’t enough smart kids in the school to have individual classes for each grade), I had to visit the 6th grade GATE class during Reading and Language classes every day. Luckily, I was always tall for my age, so I wasn’t this tiny little kid being sent to hang out with the 11 year olds for half the morning, but when you’re six, even when you’re in a class with the other “smart kids” this can kind of do a number on you.

I had a difficult time making friends, and (again) had no interest in playing Thundercats during recess, so I spent most of my days hiding in the library, or just sitting next to my classroom door with whatever book I was reading at the time.

In early elementary school, I was in love with the work of Edward Eager and I tore through Nancy Drews like nobody’s business. These were easy reads, and I had no problem burning through two or three in a day (especially during vacations when I could just READ AND READ FOREVER!). In the 4th grade, my uncle gave me my first two Stephen King novels (I talked about that a little here), and for a while, I read as much of Unky Steve’s work as I could get my hands on.

I added Tolkien and Diane Duane to my list of favourites and discovered that fantasy was my first true love, as it provided me with the biggest escape. I didn’t like reading about things that too closely resembled my own reality, so I stuck with things I knew weren’t really real.

Late elementary school/junior high also rekindled my love for faerie tales. By the time I was 13, I’d collected nearly all of Lang’s Colour Faerie books and was moving on to re-tellings/re-imaginings. I found a copy of Tanith Lee’s Red as Blood, or Tales from the Sisters Grimmer at a yard sale, I read and re-read those stories (but when I tried to re-read it last year, I lost my patience with them and gave up after only reading two or three).

THEN! Towards the end of junior high, I was given the opportunity to volunteer at my teeny tiny two room local library in the summers. I jumped at the chance because I got to spend 3 days a week sitting behind the actual desk and reading the whole day away. The librarian (who was also a volunteer, tiny town, no money for a real library) would leave me there alone and go pick up the ILLs or…I don’t know, I’m pretty sure she frequently went to hang out at the General Store (go ahead and laugh) to have ice cream or whatever, since someone else was holding the fort.

I didn’t care what she was doing, it was just the best being able to be surrounded by books and pick whatever I wanted off the shelves to lose myself in.

What_mad_universe That was when I discovered sf, and when I found a lot of the books and authors that are still my favourites today. PKD, Fredric Brown, Douglas Adams (actually, I have a different story about my introduction to The Guide, which you can read here if you’re interested) – my science fiction roots may have been planted in Star Wars soil, but the pulpy greats of the 50s and 60s were (and still are) some of the best Imagination MiracleGro I’ve ever encountered.

I still primarily read fantasy and sf. I occasionally branch out into other genres, but I’m not an adventurous sort at all when it comes to the books I choose.

I still read to escape, and because I slip into books to get away from the things that are making me mad/sad/angry/frustrated, I know I am not as well-read as many of my contemporaries. Heh. Yeah, I read a lot, but I’m not well-read. That’s my new catch phrase.

Reading Rage: You can’t hide a self-published work under a vanity press name. Just don’t.

Posted by greengeekgirl — April 12, 2013

I will just say that my book was published by Fancy Unicorn Pants Press and people will never know I published it myself.

Our review policy has undergone (is that a word? did I conjugate that correctly?) some changes in the recent past. I decided to stop accepting pitches from self-published authors because it was eating up an enormous amount of my time for very little return on my time investment. I changed the policy at that time to say that we would only accept books published by small and/or independent presses, because that’s kind of our bag when it comes to reviewing books.

An interesting thing happened when I changed the policy, which led directly to our new new policy (we just don’t accept books anymore). We started getting a lot of books that were “published” by small presses that I’d never, ever heard of before. Not that I’ve heard of every small press, but I’ve gotten fairly well-versed in small presses; when I see one I haven’t heard of, I like to look them up. Just for my own education–and, okay yeah, because some of these “small presses” were a tad suspicious. When I followed the Google trail for these presses, I found some interesting things:

Many of the small presses were vanity presses, where the author paid to have their book published. This? is not the same as being published by a small press.
Other authors actually made up small presses, which had only published their book, or maybe two or three selections (probably from their friends). The pages for these presses are usually nothing more than a makeshift, generically-branded shop where you can purchase the author’s book. It’s pretty obvious that it’s a fake press.
Still other authors didn’t even bother making any kind of online presence for their fake press. They would slap an appropriate-sounding press name on their book, but when I searched for any inkling of the press existing, I found nothing.

headdesk

Look, authors who have tried or are considering trying this–it’s really obvious when a small press is not a real press. It’s really obvious when someone starts a press (even if they’re legitimately trying to start a real press, which is only true about half a percent of the time in these cases) just to self-publish without being “self-published.” I’ve never run across this situation where I have had to carefully ponder whether the press was real or not. The evidence is immediately damning. The only way to be slick enough to pull this off is actually to fully launch a legitimate small press where you have editors and designers and you publish books for real… and then you’re not being sneaky anyway, you’re being industrious.

Pretending to have been published by a small press when you haven’t been is really annoying. For one thing, it’s totally lying, which I hate on its own. Only smarmy people and grifters lie about things that they’re representing or selling. If you published your own book, you shouldn’t hide that behind a fake press name–in my eyes, that’s tantamount to fraud. The difference between being published and publishing one’s own book is quite significant in terms of process; to indicate that you were published when you did the process yourself is to misrepresent your book. If you want to put a vanity name on your book, then you need to make it clear that it’s a self-published book under the name of your vanity press. I shouldn’t have to go hunt through Google to try to figure out whether you published your book yourself.

(And if you’re reading this thinking “What’s the big deal?”–if it weren’t a big deal, it wouldn’t be happening in the first place; nobody would be trying to bury the self-published stigma under a fake press name.)

It was also annoying because it was disrespectful to us. Our policy clearly stated no self-published books. Even if your book has a press name slapped on it, if you self-published it, you self-published it. The fake press names were included specifically to circumvent our policy, which had 0% to do with whether a book had a press name on it and 100% to do with the differences in process between small-press publishing and self-publishing. Those authors were attempting to cheat their way into getting a review, and apparently didn’t think I would be smart enough to figure out their tactics. Because, you know, that’s exactly the kind of person you want writing a review of your book. Derp.

Dear respectable self-published authors: all of these shady jerkwads are ruining it for the rest of you. I’m so sorry you have to deal with stigma because a bunch of people don’t know how to be courteous and professional.

Here’s the deal, shady authors: bloggers such as myself put a lot of work into our blogs. We will do our homework if we specify certain policies. And we talk to each other–try to put one over on one of us, and word is going to get around to many of the rest of us. Information travels at high speed these days, and we don’t like to be tricked or lied to, so that’s information we will definitely pass along whenever the opportunity arises. So, you need to stop trying to loophole yourself out of being self-published. If you did the work yourself, own it! Don’t bury it under a fake press name. It’s rude and perilously close to fraud.

Have you experienced this tactic as a blogger or a reader? Have you bought books thinking that they were traditionally-published, only to find out later that they were self-published? What’s your favorite TV show? Leave your comments below!

The Evolution of an Insatiable Bookslut: Susie

Posted by greengeekgirl — April 8, 2013

Not me, but a reasonable facsimile.

This is a new series we’re doing, talking about how we got into reading, how we got into reading what we read, and so forth.

I don’t know if I would be a reader if it weren’t for my mother. Mom has been a reader as far back as I can remember (and probably further back than that, although I’ve never asked her about her reading history); when I was little-little, she read to me every day. Some of my favorites: Ernie’s Big Mess, The Care Bears and the Terrible Twos (I totally had Care Bear sheets; I loved the shit out of some Care Bears, y’all), The Monster at the End of this Book, The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham. Also that Dr. Seuss alphabet book.

Between her reading to me and watching as much Sesame Street as I could find on television, I learned to read when I was about three. I know, Mom thought I was just memorizing the books, too–until we were at the grocery store one day, and while we were checking out, I pointed at something and said “Look, Mom! Buy one, get one free!” The surprise face that my mom makes when she tells that story is priceless. She loves telling that story, I think, because she’s the one who taught me how to read and write.

Thanks, Mama. Owe you one.

Mom is also the one who got me into my first big-girl chapter books. My parents got divorced when I was, mm, eight I think. My birthday was a few months later, and my mom sent me a box of gifts that included a Baby-Sitters Club book, Mary Anne Saves the Day. I downed that book in about an hour. What was this magic that was The Baby-Sitters Club? For years, I used my five-dollar-a-week allowance to collect the books. The best time of the week was getting to go to the bookstore and pick out a new, un-read book. My dad moved our single bookcase into my room (Dad was never much of a reader, although I did turn him onto Kurt Vonnegut when I was a teen–there’s a writer for everyone, I think) to hold my collection, which I took great pride in keeping very organized–unlike the rest of my room, which could have been declared a federal disaster area.

4,_Mary_Anne_Saves_the_Day

When I had all of the BSC books that the store had–and somehow, I never bought a duplicate; I could just remember which ones I had because I’d read them all five or six or fifteen times–I branched out into other books. At some point, I picked up my very first science-fiction(eqsue?) book, A Wrinkle in Time. Which I promptly read to pieces. I bet I read that book at least fifty times, maybe more. Maybe quite a lot more. The seed that it planted bloomed later when I discovered adult science fiction; I read Ray Bradbury in middle school, Asimov and Douglas Adams in high school, and went from there. I may not write about it much here, but I have a deep love of sci-fi and speculative fiction. And, okay, I admit it–I also love Star Trek and I read a crapload of Star Trek novels.

In school, I was a rather . . . troubled student, up until about eighth grade. Low grades, detentions, and I took my fair turn being hauled into the principal’s office. I definitely got detention for giving a cafeteria worker the finger behind her back, and someone ratted me out (dirty snitch . . . in my defense, that cafeteria worker was a first-class twat). I almost had to drop out of accelerated English in 7th grade, because I was actually failing. Yes, I was failing English. Me. I got my ass in gear around that time, and I’m pretty sure everyone was completely shocked when, after summer break, I came back busting out A’s on every report card. It was like I had been replaced with a cyborg who did homework.

To go along with my new super-student status, I also joined the Academic Team. You know, that team where you memorize stuff and regurgitate it while taking tests or doing quiz bowl? My focus, being the reader that I was, ended up being Literature, and that changed my reading life considerably. Academic Team exposed me to books I’d never heard about before then, poetry and classics, and tons of literary terms that I had to memorize. I started getting curious about the books I was memorizing facts about; I started reading them in my spare time, in-between trashy horror novels.

Academic Team was like this, but less funny.

In related news: I was a giant nerd. That whole “geek girl” moniker is completely legit.

Two things happened when I was a senior that cemented my reading habits pretty firmly–at least, as firmly as they ever get cemented, since they’re always evolving somewhat. The Richards family had finally gotten the internet not too long before (seriously, it took us forever to get the damn internet) and I found myself frequenting a bookish chatroom. You know, back when you chatted with IRC? That’s where I met Rob way back in the day. (Fun fact? Also met my husband through people in this room. INTERNET ROMANCE.) Nearly everyone who visited this room was older and read quality stuff. I became a literature snob for a long time (thankfully, I grew out of that).

During this time, I also got a job at a bookstore, which gave me 1) disposable income with almost no bills save gasoline, and 2) a discount on books. I bought ALL THE BOOKS. I bought Kerouac and Burroughs, Salinger and Orwell, Márquez, Ellison, Vonnegut (which my father swiped from me). I didn’t even get around to reading all of these books yet, but I loved collecting them. The stories they held felt like magic. I was sad when I sold my collection off several years ago–I had carted them from place to place for years, much to everyone’s dismay who ever helped me move.

I didn’t grow up in an environment that exactly fostered reading; with my mom not being around, and being in a town that isn’t known for its great readers (for years, the only bookstore I knew of was a small Waldenbooks in the mall), reading was actually kind of discouraged. I can’t count the number of times my dad yelled at me to get my nose out of a book and go outside. I needed reading, though. I needed it badly–as an escape, primarily, but also as an education. Books taught me things that my family and teachers neglected; I learned compassion and critical thinking, rationality. And I learned about love and humanity. Reading saved my life.

Thanks, reading. Thanks, books, for always being there.

Don’t worry books; I will never do this to you.

I do not like the thing that you like, and that is okay.

Posted by greengeekgirl — March 29, 2013

Also books, television, films, and clothing.

If you’ve been poking around IB for awhile, you know that I have pretty distinct tastes in books. While I’m not a total book snob (see also, my husband, who will re-read War and Peace fifty times before he will ever finish On the Road. And those are both literature), I do tend to hug the border of book snobbery fairly closely. I’m not one to take recommendations from people because it puts me in an obligatory position–and more often than not, I end up having to pretend I really liked something when I really did not. I know I could just be honest and say it very kindly, but people still tend to get a puppy-dog look when you tell them that the book they asked you to read really was not your cuppa. The look, it wounds me.

So, I get literary elitism, to a point. I do. And yeah, I am firmly in the “some books are better than others” camp–not just that I like some books better than others, but that some books actually have more overall literary quality than others. I do believe that there are certain marks of “good” writing (although I’m probably a lot less rigid on those marks than some, admittedly). Yeah, the criteria were made up by people, and yeah, they are subjective–but they have been fine-tuned by hundreds, nay, thousands of writers, editors, and scholars through the years, so I think they’re legitimate standards of quality.

So I get it. I do.

Here’s where the whole subject of literary elitism–any kind of elitism, really–breaks down for me: when people start not only judging the work, but judging the people who like the work. Looking down your nose at someone because they enjoy something? Not cool. Not cool at all. Like, it’s fine to say you think Dan Brown is a talentless hack . . . but, you know, when your friend just told you how much they really loved the new Dan Brown novel, that might not be the best timing.

Cue the eye-rolling here, of course. Die-hard snobs–the ones who have this problem in the first place–feel that it’s perfectly acceptable to judge others for what they enjoy. Why should they worry about another person’s feelings? They’re the ones who have to live with their shitty taste. Etc, etc. The fault in this logic, though, is that it assumes taste is built solely on the perceived quality of the work and the ability of the person to appreciate works of quality. Taste isn’t just limited to how good the work is, though. You have other factors coming into play–emotional connection, nostalgia, memory, personality, life experiences, setting, mood. Taste can be as individual as fingerprints.

Even though this is a bookish blog, I’m going to use music as an example. Music is an area where I constantly feel insecure. I actually thought about writing this post when I realized that I almost never share music on my social media. I’m friends with a lot of people who have very strong opinions about music, and a few who have made it clear that they have no qualms telling people when they have shitty taste. I’m not going to subject myself to that kind of treatment for something that I like, even if what I like isn’t considered “cool;” I have my reasons for liking what I like, and I don’t have to apologize for it. But I keep quiet about it all the same, just to avoid grief.

I never want to make a person feel that way about what they like–especially because most of us slum it in some ways. I see literary writers on Twitter live-tweeting The Bachelorette; I see those same music snob friends going crazy on Facebook over candy-pop tween book series. These kinds of things are mindless entertainment, and why shouldn’t we be able to have that without people looking down their noses at us? I have admitted freely that I watch The Jersey Shore. Yes, it’s trashy, and that’s what I love about it. I love that I can get embroiled in someone else’s dramz for an hour or so and not have to think about things. It’s kind of awesome.

I guess the overall point that I’m trying to make is that, yes, you certainly can judge things to be good or bad–but for pity’s sake, shut the hell up about it if you’re in danger of hurting someone’s feelings over it, because you can’t judge a person by their mindless entertainment. You can, however, judge someone for being an elitist asshole. I have to beg to differ with Rob Fleming/Gordon, here: it’s not what you like, it’s what you are like that matters. And if you’re the kind of person who kills the joy that someone else finds in entertainment because it’s not up to your standards, you’re a fucking jerk.

Read a Classic: Naked Lunch

Posted by thetwors — March 20, 2013

Book: Naked Lunch

Author: William S. Burroughs

Published: July 1959 by Olympia Press in Paris; banned from the US for obscenity until 1962, when it was published by Grove Press in NYC

First Line: “I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons, crooning over my spoon and dropper I throw away at Washington Square Station, vault a turnstile and two flights down the iron stairs, catch an uptown A train…Young, good looking, crew cut, Ivy League, advertising exec type fruit holds the door back for me.”

Genre/Rating: Postmodern literary fiction, 4.25/5 packets of bug powder

Sometimes when I read stream of consciousness writing, I find myself thinking, “I might understand this better if I were drunk.” When reading Naked Lunch, though, I remember thinking “If I were drunk or high right now I’d probably start freaking out, lock all the doors, unplug the TV, and go hide in my bathtub.”

The bare bones plot of Naked Lunch is what happens to junkie exterminator William Lee as he embarks on a series of drug trips that lead him through the US, Mexico, Tangiers, and the nebulous Interzone. As vague as this sounds, it has to be one of the most direct descriptions of the plot, because the beauty in this work is not the storyline, but the ingenuity of structure and style Burroughs employs. In my mind, this work is the hallmark of postmodernism with its non-linear narrative structure; the vignettes, or “routines” as Burroughs called them, were designed to be read in any order. Think about that for a second – any order. You could read this book a million (or something, I don’t know math) ways! Time and space are irrelevant and flexible, and letting go of those constructs makes for a freewheeling reading experience.

All that said, Naked Lunch could be a difficult read. Who am I kidding – it IS a difficult read. The work is confusing, blistering, unreal. The best way to approach this text, I believe, is to just jump in and start reading. Don’t expect to have a clear understanding of anything; nothing is constant, and you will forever be questioning if this is reality, a drug trip, a dream, or something completely different. Also, be prepared for some seriously gross imagery and profanity. I don’t believe these things detract from the work – they are purposeful and integral to what Burroughs is telling us – but I do want to give a head’s up for you future readers.

In 1991, David Cronenberg made a film adaptation of what was considered to be an unfilmable novel. In a similar vein, watching the film is like watching a hallucination. Simultaneously revolting and compelling in its exploration of human baseness, Cronenberg’s journey is not as important to film as Burrough’s work is to literature, but one has to admire his efforts to translate such a fragmented work into film

Reading Naked Lunch is as mind-bending as the insanity that Lee goes through when high. You, as the reader, get all the benefits of many drug trips without damaging any brain cells!

DEATH MATCH: Fight Song vs. Damascus

Posted by lucysfootball — February 15, 2013

Has it really been a year since I did a death match? Sorry. A DEATH MATCH? Forgive me, my most beloveds, life got in the way of life. Or at least of reading. It wasn’t you, it was me. And when I say that, I’m not even using it as a cop out like your last bad boy- or girlfriend did. It totally was me. No, seriously, who would ever blame YOU? You’re as lovely as a spring daisy, you are.

Two books enter. One book leaves.

Today, our contenders: two novels by a very talented writer, Mr. Joshua Mohr. Who will prevail? Will it be, IN THIS CORNER, a book about a group of lost souls just looking to belong and connect to someone, anyone, in a seedy, down-on-its-luck bar? Or, IN THIS CORNER, a book about a man pushed to the very limit, who is also looking for something – or maybe a whole lot of somethings? This is an epic battle of battered barflies versus a man on the edge! Who will prevail, WHO WILL PREVAIL?

Book: Fight Song

Author: Joshua Mohr

Published: February 2013 by Soft Skull Press; 252 pages

Read: January 2013

First Line: “‘Way out in the puzzling universe known as the suburbs, Bob Coffen rides his bike to work.’”

Genre: Literary fiction

Bob Coffen is your average Joe: a wife, two kids, a none-too-challenging job for a man he disdains at a computer company. Even his last name is indicative of where he’s headed, possibly sooner than the rest of us. Until one day, his neighbor, the ebullient and possibly slightly touched-in-the-head Schumann, runs him off the road with his SUV. Something inside Coffen snaps. Landing in the oleanders is his wakeup call that things need to change.

I am a fan of books where the lead character is pushed to the edge and that’s when you see his or her true colors. I like to watch what happens to someone at their breaking point; what they’ll do to keep it together, whether they’ll change or do anything they can to have things stay the same. I liked Bob Coffen. I liked the characters he came across when he left his safe and staid beaten path. I liked seeing how he created his own road-less-traveled-by, and the people he chose along the way to help him carry his load. I said when I read Mohr’s first book back in March that I was looking forward to reading more of his work; I’m glad I was right that he would just continue getting better.

Book: Damascus

Author: Joshua Mohr

Published: October 2011 by Two Dollar Radio, 224 pages

Date Read: March 2012

First Line: ”Let’s start this one when a cancer patient named No Eyebrows creeps into Damascus, a Mission District dive bar.”

You can read my full review for Damascus here, which I wrote earlier in the year. It was my first Mohr book (and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.) Mohr has a deft hand with characterization; his characters are real, and you know this because they often screw up. Colossally. And say and do stupid things. But you know what? *I* often say and do stupid things. And I like reading about characters that also do, because they’re real. And they’re relatable. And, to me, it shows a writer has been paying attention to life. Because, SURPRISE, in real life? People don’t walk around in white or black hats and have either the purest or the most dastardly intentions. They, mostly, are just trying to get by. Just trying to do their best. And I like reading about people like this, because when they succeed, it gives me hope for myself, and when they fail, I understand, because I’ve been there.

Now. Are you ready? It’s time for…DEATH MATCH.

The rules of DEATH MATCH are simple. THERE ARE NO RULES. No, sorry, that’s not true, there are totally rules. The rules are: I will score the books on an arbitrary system and, at the end, ONE BOOK WINS. What does the book win? YOU SHALL SEE.

Today’s DEATH MATCH shall be scored with: crazy bamboo uncomfortable-looking barstools, as there are bars in both books.

Fight Song:

Characters as real as anyone you might run into on the street (well, if you lived in a really kooky town): 2 barstools
A magician who can’t stop crying: 1 barstool
A very funny video game about…um…well, I won’t tell you, but just keep your pets inside, ok?: 1 barstool
A scene at an aquarium (I’m an easy sell, as I love marine life): 1 barstool
A love story that was realistic and sweet and down-to-earth and an organic part of the story: 2 barstools
Schumann messing with poor Tilda’s heart a little: -1 barstool
A scene near the end that made me cry, and oh, do I love to cry when I’m reading: 2 barstools
A number of sentences that were so beautifully written that I actually laughed out loud (or sometimes “ooh”ed): 2 barstools

Rating: 4.5/5 plaques that are also a clock (hereafter known as “plocks”) that don’t really tell the time, and are always stuck at midnight

Damascus

The characters, which Mohr is so good with that I kind of want him to script my life: 2 barstools
Shambles the prostitute who works at the bar, who is so broken she breaks your heart: 1 barstool
No Eyebrows’ backstory, which, when revealed, breaks your heart again: 1 barstool
The knowledge that Mohr understands that, when it all boils down to it, all we want is to connect with someone else, really connect, just once, before we die: 2 barstools
Owen, the bartender, who wears a Santa suit so people won’t make fun of him for other things he has going on: 1 barstool
Fish murder: -1 barstool
The ending, which didn’t seem fully thought-out: -3 barstools

Rating: 4/5 live catfish nailed to paintings of dead American soldiers in a work of performance art

I’m going to tally the votes. While I’m doing that, here’s something to think about: once, I was driving home and it was very dark and snowy and I thought I hit a cat? So I pulled off the side of the road and was all “cat? CAT?” and I was crying and crying and couldn’t find it and then I called BFF when I got home and he was all “calm down, it was probably not a cat, plus what if a car hit you, it’s like 11pm in the night.” And the next day there was a piece of wood there so probably I hit that in the dark and it wasn’t a cat, or the dead cat turned into a piece of wood, and that is the story. THE END.

AND! THE WINNER IS! With a total of 10 barstools to 4 barstools:

FIGHT SONG!

Hooray hooray for you, Fight Song! Please collect your prize! Today’s DEATH MATCH prize is:

A DVD of Falling Down with Michael Douglas, which I think Robert Coffen might enjoy because Michael DOUGLAS was ALSO pushed to the edge! However, he didn’t handle his crisis in such a panache-filled fashion, oh no no he did not.

Thank you for playing, and come back again for our next round of DEATH MATCH, where we will pit two more equally worthy adversaries against one another until the BITTER, BITTER END!

Death Match: Battle of the Street Urchins, Oliver Twist vs. Gavroche from Les Miserables

Posted by GuestBookslut — February 13, 2013

Today’s guest post is brought to you by Katie from Words for Worms: An Irreverent Book Blog for the Masses.

Welcome to the DEATH MATCH (insert terrifying announcer voice here). This is my first Death Match post, and I’m going to start out by breaking the rules. Instead of placing two books head to head, I’m throwing two characters into the cage. Dun dun dun!

Two enter. One leaves.

Today’s contenders are two of literature’s favorite street urchins. Who will prevail? IN THIS CORNER, Oliver Twist from the Dickens novel of the same name. A wretched orphan, Oliver possesses a goodness of heart that cannot misery cannot quench. IN THIS CORNER, we have Gavroche, a minor but beloved character in Hugo’s Les Misérables. Gavroche is thrown into the streets by uncaring parents to become the pluckiest pickpocket in Paris. Let’s get ready to rumble!

Character/Book: Oliver/Oliver Twist

Author: Charles Dickens

Published: 1838 by Richard Bentley

First Line: “Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.”

Oliver Twist is orphaned as an infant and left in the care of the local workhouse. He is subjected to unbearable cruelty at the hands of the state, and as punishment for asking for another helping of gruel, he is apprenticed out to a cruel undertaker. Oliver eventually flees to seek shelter of the streets of London, and immediately falls in with a gang of ne’er-do-wells who make their living picking pockets. Despite Oliver’s upbringing in horrifying circumstances, he possesses an infallible moral compass and a gentle heart no maltreatment can harden.

I went into Oliver Twist without having any background on the story other than having seen a production of the musical as a child. The only conclusion I’d come away with was that I would have been a better choice to play Oliver than the little boy who did. (I was unaware at this juncture in my life that I cannot, in fact, carry a tune.) I found Oliver’s tale to be heart wrenching–I was appalled at the cruelty of society and the poverty of the downtrodden. In spite of all his hardships, Oliver’s good heart is unshakable. Rather than participate willingly in activities he knows to be wrong (even if they might fill his concave belly), Oliver resists temptation and does everything in his power to remain on the up and up.

The Character/Book: Gavroche/Les Misérables

Author: Victor Hugo

Published: 1862 by Charles E. Wilbour

First Line: “An hour before sunset, on the evening of a day in the beginning of October, 1815, a man travelling afoot entered the little town of D—.”

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo is a behemoth of literature. It may seem unfair to put Gavroche’s story head to head with that of Oliver Twist, considering that Oliver got a whole book whereas Gavroche is a fairly minor character in the epic that is Les Misérables. However, given that Hugo is (perhaps unnecessarily) verbose, our competitors have comparable page counts. Gavroche is the unwanted son of the novel’s villainous Thernadiers. Because they are poverty-stricken and care only for their daughters, the Thernardiers turn Gavroche out into the streets. Undaunted by his predicament, Gavroche sets up house inside the statue of an elephant and scrounges through somewhat morally-questionable means to keep himself alive. Despite having to hustle for his own well being, Gavroche occasionally takes in other abandoned children to show them the ropes of being a successful street urchin. He also moonlights as an informant for politically motivated protest groups.

Les Misérables is a long book, but I went into it having the musical’s soundtrack ringing through my brain, and I quite enjoyed the journey. I found Gavroche to be positively delightful. His zeal for taking down “the man” is infectious, and his desire to help his fellow “gamin” endearing. He’s impulsive to the point of folly, but it’s tough to resist an underdog as jolly as little Gavroche.

deathmatch2

Now that the groundwork has been laid, it’s time for the DEATH MATCH. The rules of this DEATH MATCH are completely arbitrary and assigned by moi. Today’s DEATH MATCH will be scored with: Chimney Sweeps! What better occupation for a street urchin?!

johnny_automatic_chimney_sweep_silhoutte

Oliver:

Has his story made into a successful Broadway musical: 1 Chimney Sweep
Has the good grace to be extremely grateful to the few kind souls who help him along the way: 2 Chimney Sweeps
Beats the crap out of the annoying kid who bullies him at the undertaker’s: 2 Chimney Sweeps
Remembers his sickly orphan friend Dick once he finds a better life: 1 Chimney Sweeps
Keeps a firm grasp on his morals despite difficult situations: 2 Chimney Sweeps
Overall is a whiny, mewling wretch of a boy: -2 Chimney Sweeps

Rating: 3/5 Artfully Dodged Wallets

Gavroche:

Has his story made into a much better musical than Oliver!: 2 Chimney Sweeps
Creates a mesh within the elephant statue to keep himself from being devoured by rats in the night: 1 Chimney Sweep
Cares for a pair of abandoned children (without even knowing they’re his biological brothers): 2 Chimney Sweeps
Outs Javert as a spy to the marauding students at the barricade: 2 Chimney Sweeps
Eternal optimism and moxie: 2 Chimney Sweeps
Gets himself shot while brazenly scavenging for bullets: -1 Chimney Sweep

Rating: 4/5 tattered French flags

I’m going to tally the votes. A little musical aside while I tally. “The Chimbley Sweep” by the Decemberists is the perfect song to have playing while you read this post. I probably should have mentioned that earlier. Sorry.

AND! THE WINNER IS! With a total of 8 Chimney Sweeps to 6 Chimney Sweeps:

Gavroche! Do you hear the people sing?!

Today’s DEATH MATCH PRIZE is…

annie

The original cast recording of Annie. The sun will come out ”Tomorrow,” boys. Seriously, y’all. I couldn’t have a literary Broadway-off without inviting Annie. “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” people!

Come back again for our next round of DEATH MATCH, where we will pit two more equally worthy adversaries against one another until the BITTER, BITTER END!

Katie Kelly is a voracious reader whose day job has nothing to do with literature and everything to do with charts and graphs. Frustrated with the limitations of professionally pithy emails, she started Words for Worms: An Irreverent Book Blog for the Masses. When Katie isn’t working, reading, or blogging, she is hanging out with her husband as they exchange horrendous puns based on obscure pop culture references. She also enjoys penguins, windup toys, and writing about herself in the third person.

Neal Draws Comics: Literature or Love . . . Literature or Love

Posted by nealcall — January 22, 2013

Of course, it’s not like I really have to choose between the people I love and my books, not completely. But you know those times when you’re right in the middle of the good part — when someone’s about to die, or they’re about to find out who’s behind the curtain, or maybe there’s just a really freaking great description of a cocktail party and all the lost souls who attend such things? In moments like these, when someone says, “Did you hear me? Take. Out. The. Trash,” and gives me a look that says, “Right now, or I will cut you,” I sometimes teeter ambivalently on the precipice of getting stabbed, if only to read a few more words.

When I was a kid, I’d carry a book around with me everywhere I went. You know, just in case I scored three minutes in which nothing else was happening: at the bus stop; during the commercials in between Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Denver, The Last Dinosaur; while walking from my fourth-grade classroom to recess (anyone else ever smash their head on the bar between two doors that open outwards? Those things were killer).

Having a toddler around means that I have lots of three-minute opportunities to crack open a book. Unfortunately, I just can’t seem to reach total immersion at the drop of a hat the way I used to; most of the time three minutes just doesn’t feel worth the effort. But every once in a while, I’ll come across a book that just begs to be read, that stays in my head all day long, such that I can almost remember the sentence I left off with. And then I get mocked for wandering around the house with it under my arm, for bringing it to the bathroom with me, for holding it open with one hand while stirring pasta, for throwing it into the diaper bag as I run with Addison to the store. You know, just in case the traffic lights are really long.

And, I gotta be honest, books like these don’t always make me a better husband or father. When I’m in the middle of one, it can be damned hard to even get up to relieve myself, much less perform a task necessary for the smooth operation of our household. Washing diapers, at a time like this, are not on the top of my priority list. And, of course, the best way to get un-interrupted reading time is to call up Dora for a little babysitting. Is it possible, I wonder to myself as I find my page, that my daughter might learn to love books because they indirectly reward her with TV? Probably, I decide. Yeah, more than likely.

“Daddy, do you want to go read? You can put Dora on for me if you want.”

So, in terms of the comic, I suppose you might say that I’m trying to have my cake and eat it, too. At least every once in a while. Since I’m still married and my two-year-old can spell her name (A-D-D-I-S-O-N!), I suppose there might be room for multiple loves in my life. Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m now such a snob with books; if I liked everything I read, I’d probably be divorced and living in a box under a bridge, reading to my heart’s content.

Hopefully nobody is currently living under a bridge with their library of books, but when you’re in the middle of a good book, what ends up going out the window to make room for it? Has your ability to immerse changed over the years? By inclination or by necessity?

DIY Blog Design: To self-host or not?

Posted by greengeekgirl — January 9, 2013

So, I started this series a little bit ago, and then I became a bit blogging-reclusive. Sorry, gang. I was having some not-so-fun times, and then I went on vacation, and then … I dunno, I just haven’t felt like writing. I’m making myself get back in the swing of things.

In the last post of this series (also the first post of this series), I talked about my general plans for both this blog and the series. One of the first steps to building a blog, or re-designing a blog, is to decide what platform you want to use, and whether or not you want to host it yourself or let another site host it for you. If you’re new to the wonderful world of web hosting and blogging, let me break down those terms for you a bit. The platform for your blog is the software/website that you use to create the blog–basically, it’s the place where you log in, write your posts, approve comments, et cetera. Different platforms have different features that appeal–or don’t appeal, in some cases–to users. Blogging platforms are sometimes called content management systems because they allow you to manage your content (posts, pages, and whatnot) without having to code it directly into the pages yourself. You open up a “new post”, type in your content, click publish, and presto, it shows up on your page, no coding required.

Hosting is all about where your website is stored in cyberspace, and from where users can access your site. You can have WordPress host your blog at WordPress.com for free, for example; Blogger, Google’s blogging service, will also host your blog free, and I’m sure there are other blogging services that will do the same. The alternative is to self-host, which means that you pay a third party to host your site at a web address that you have purchased (like InsatiableBooksluts.com). Monthly fees for hosting can be as low as $3 or $4 a month, or be over $20, depending on what kind of hosting you need. I pay about $9 per month, and that works well for this site.

I decided to make the move to being self-hosted because I wanted more control over my blog. When using WordPress free, you get very little control over your blog; you have to pay for upgrades to give you some control, but to get full control, you have to self-host. (Blogger, I know, gives you a bit more control over your blog, but still not as much as you get with self-hosting.) I also wanted to be able to have full control over my content. As far as I know, you own your content using a free blog host as far as copyrighting, but they also are able to take down posts and even whole blogs if they choose. It’s their site and they ultimately control your blog. I’ve never really heard of this being an issue, but it’s still something I wanted to have control over.

Another advantage to self-hosting is that I have a lot more storage space (not that I probably would have gotten anywhere near the allotted 3 GB storage with just text and images), and I can use that space any way I want. I could also branch out my website if I wanted, including adding pages that aren’t run through WordPress, because I have that space. Hosted at a free blog service, every page I created would have to go through that platform. I have more freedom with my own space to create the site that I want (although, not necessarily the skill . . . heh). I also really love being able to add custom plugins that developers offer; my blog’s functionality has increased significantly.

I gave up a lot of things when I switched over, though. One of the big things I gave up was the WordPress community. Those “likes”, the WordPress.com blog subscribers, the ability to be Freshly Pressed–all of that poofed when I became self-hosted. If I had been self-hosted from the beginning, I’d probably only have about five readers because I never would have been Freshly Pressed. Getting readers if you start out self-hosting requires you to hustle twice as hard because you’re on your own. Another thing I gave up was the quality of hosting and tech support that I would get from WordPress. If something breaks on my blog, I am on my own to fix it; if my blog gets overloaded with too many views (heh, because that is likely… in my dreams), my hosting company may or may not be able to handle it. I know for a fact that WordPress.com hosting can handle over two hundred thousand views in a single weekend without any issues; I have no idea if that would interrupt service to this blog. I doubt I’ll have to worry about it–ever–but it is a difference between using WordPress’s hosting and buying my own.

When you’re looking for hosting, you need to make sure that your host plays nicely with WordPress or whatever blogging platform you choose. (They all should, in theory, but some don’t–especially if you go with a less expensive package.) I didn’t like GoDaddy’s hosting for WordPress at all; I found it slow to load. I use HostGator now, and I’m pretty happy with it. I’ve heard Liquid Web is awesome, but it’s a little more than I want to pay for hosting for this site. Ask around and see who your friends use, and if they’re happy with them. Tip: I would definitely look for a host that will install WordPress for you. Otherwise, it’s kind of a pain. Most bigger hosting companies should offer this.

Whether or not you self-host really just depends on how much control you demand over your online space and whether or not you want to pay to get that control. I figure I pay about $130 per year renewing my domain and paying for hosting. I’m comfortable with that. If you don’t plan to do a lot of blog customization, and you’re okay with having restrictions on what you can control, you may want to opt to have WordPress or Blogger, or your platform of choice, host your blog. If you want a custom URL, you can always upgrade to one without moving all the way over to self-hosting; it might run you $20 or so a year, but that’s much less expensive than paying for decent hosting.

As far as which platform to use, if you’re going to self-host, I highly recommend WordPress. It’s powerful, open-source, and free. I find it intuitive and easy to use. If you’re not going to self-host, I recommend checking out different services and talking to other bloggers to see what they think of the services they use. Weigh the ease of use versus the features offered. I use WordPress for my free blogs because I like the platform; even though I know I could get more customization at Blogger, I find it unwieldy enough that I don’t like to use it. Choose the one that fits you best.

I’d love to hear about your experiences with blogging. Do you have a platform you prefer? Have you changed over from free hosting to self-hosting–or vice-versa? Or changed platforms? Tell me about your blogging experiences in the comments!