Before I discuss a controversial or emotionally charged topic, I like to imagine something peaceful. It usually works until somebody starts yelling at me. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A lot of book ideas are really bad. The book with no letter “E” was a bad idea. Anytime a celebrity wants to write a children’s book, it’s a bad idea. And a book about the George Zimmerman trial written by a juror is a really bad idea. It’s so bad, that now it might not even happen. You know a book idea is bad when it gets pulled within a few days after it’s announced.
In one way, I sympathize with a juror who wants to write a book. Being a juror stinks. They don’t get paid (much, if at all). They have to spend a bunch of time away from their families (depending on the family, that might not be so bad) and listen to a bunch of boring details all day. Then no matter what verdict they reach, a bunch of loud people who don’t know what they’re talking about are going to criticize them. If I were a juror in a highly publicized trial, I might want to make some money too.
But one potential problem is numbers. There were six jurors. What if each juror wanted to write a book? That would dilute the potential book sales for each book and then it wouldn’t be worth the time and the criticism. All six jurors could write a book together, but then they’d have to share (ugh… I can’t stand the word “share”) the profits, and dividing profits with five other authors takes the fun out of writing. Maybe I wouldn’t mind splitting money with James Patterson or Tom Clancy, but splitting money with five other jurors would be unacceptable.
From a juror’s point of view, maybe splitting the earnings six ways isn’t so bad. A lot of juries have twelve or more people. Dividing that up would stink even more. Add all the lawyers, witnesses, family members, and reporters that may decide to write books, and it’s probably not even worth the effort.
I’m not sure how insightful a juror’s book would be anyway. The trial was televised. Transcripts are a click away (they’re too long to read, but they’re out there). If anything, the juror probably needs to read more about the case to find out all the stuff that the jury wasn’t allowed to see. Sometimes the juries have the least amount of information of everyone involved.
A juror writing a book about George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin is a bad idea because almost everybody shouts when they talk about it. They shout, and they interrupt, and I don’t like getting shouted at, and I really hate getting interrupted. The people yelling, interrupting, and pounding their fists don’t know any more than I do, but their opinions are more set than mine.
I mean, I have an opinion, but I also recognize that my opinion is worthless because there’s so much about this case that we don’t know. The more books that are written about this case, the more people will shout and interrupt, and I don’t think bad behavior like shouting and interrupting should be encouraged, especially when it’s about an emotional issue. I haven’t learned a thing from all the shouting and interrupting, and I probably wouldn’t learn anything from the books.
There’s a lot that I don’t know about the Zimmerman-Martin incident. I don’t know who started what with whom that day, and we’ll probably never know. There might be a lot of people who pretend that they know (and they pretend very loudly), but they don’t know, and I don’t know either. But I do know that a juror writing a book about the Zimmerman trial is a really bad idea.
Am I really J.K. Rowling, or am I only j/k? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This would have been a great weekend for Robert Galbraith if he really existed. One day he was an author of an obscure novel (called The Cuckoo’s Calling) that nobody had bought, and the next day J.K. Rowling (author of the Harry Potter books) said that she was Robert Galbraith.
In other words, Robert Galbraith is really J.K. Rowling’s new pseudonym.
Robert Galbraith’s book sales are really going to skyrocket now! Every struggling writer wishes J.K. Rowling would say that she is him (or he) or her (or she). I wish J.K. Rowling would use me as her next pseudonym. That would be a better gig than co-authoring a book with James Patterson or Janet Evanovich.
J.K. Rowling already has taken one male pen name, so she might not want mine, but I’m an American (I’m guessing Robert Galbraith is not American). Having an American pseudonym opens her up to the vast market that is the United States. Except we Americans don’t read that much. And she’s already huge in the United States. Still, it would be a nice gesture to the United States.
It’s not unusual for great authors to have pen names. Mark Twain had Samuel Clemens (or the other way around). Stephen King had Richard Bachman (or the other way around). And now J.K. Rowling has Robert Galbraith (or the other way around). If she takes my name as her next pseudonym, she would have three identities as an author, and that’s almost unprecedented. Readers would never stop talking about her.
J.K. Rowling being me would also help my media presence. Nobody knows what I look like, and there’s a reason for that. I have a face for radio, but unfortunately I didn’t get the voice for radio, so I write instead (but not for radio). Almost everybody knows what J.K. Rowling looks like. Even I know what she looks like, and I only know what three fiction authors look like: Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, and James Patterson, and I only know what James Patterson looks like because of those creepy commercials where he’s pitching his books to reluctant readers. He should have asked J.K. Rowling to do that for him.
J.K. Rowling is attractive and well-spoken and could do my interviews for me while saying she is me (or saying she is I… I guess I’d better figure that out before she takes my name as her next pseudonym). I’d kind of like to do all the interviews, but I’m not photogenic and I get nervous so I might dry heave on camera. Nothing kills a literary career like dry heaving on camera. It might momentarily boost book sales, but in the long term, it’s a literary killer.
I know that there is little chance of J.K. Rowling discovering me, so I’m going to take some liberties and announce that I am J.K. Rowling without her permission. But I think that’s okay because there is a little bit of J.K. Rowling in all of us. J.K. Rowling has made that struggle from unknown to icon. Most of us writers struggle through that process, and almost none of us will succeed. J.K. Rowling represents what we want to become, so I shall proclaim (metaphorically) from the rooftops:
I am J.K. Rowling!
You are J.K. Rowling!
We are all J.K. Rowling!
And most importantly… I hope J.K. Rowling’s lawyers don’t come after me for saying that I’m J.K. Rowling!
Related articles
- J.K. Rowling Revealed as Secret Author of New Book (clixto7.com)
She had never read Jane Austen. I had never finished anything by Dostoyevsky. We were either the perfect fit or a disastrous mismatch.
I wasn’t sure if Danielle was going to show up for our date. I didn’t have her phone number. I didn’t know where she lived. I didn’t even know if Danielle was her real name or not. She said she worked at Nero’s, a high-end topless club, but I didn’t know if she was even telling the truth about that. Everything about this date was up to her. She could decide to not show up, and I would probably never see her again.
The only reason I believed Danielle might show up for our date was because she had initiated everything. She had asked to share dryers in the laundry room. She had left her underwear with my stuff. She had come up to my apartment (without being invited) when I volunteered to give her garments back. And she had pursued me in the library when I wasn’t sure if I was going to talk to her or not. It was strange, but it seemed like Danielle was stalking me (and not the other way around). But I also knew that people can rationalize anything. Maybe I was being delusional.
I couldn’t figure out why Danielle would be interested in me. Danielle and I were a physical mismatch. I was a little over six feet, skinny, reddish brown hair, and very pale. She was almost a foot shorter, long dark hair, light brown skin, and curves. I had no curves. I could have worked out, lifted weights, taken steroids, and all I would have had to show for it would have been zits and a bad attitude.
We wouldn’t look right together. Danielle got stares just by being Danielle. As soon as people saw us together, we’d get perplexed double-takes. I’d be the doof with the hot chick. I knew I was too self-conscious, but I couldn’t help that. I would feel uncomfortable with people staring at us (even if they were only staring at Danielle).
Physically, I had a couple things going for me. I was tall (which helped) and I had wide shoulders for a skinny guy. When I wore long sleeves or sweaters, or jackets, the sleeves would bulk up my arms and make me appear larger than I really was. Maybe that’s why Danielle had told me to wear my professional clothes.
I was always nervous before a first date, but that afternoon my anxiety was even more intense than normal. There was too much uncertainty with Danielle, and I liked order in my life. I couldn’t concentrate on the Tom Clancy book that I had checked out from the library (looking back, I shouldn’t have cared about that). I wasn’t even paying attention to the college football game on TV (unheard of at the time).
At 6:00 Danielle pounded on my apartment door. It wasn’t a tap-tap-tap that I’d expect from a woman (hopefully that doesn’t sound genderist). It was a pound-pound-pound that the edge of a fist makes. It startled me. I almost expected a SWAT team to crash through my apartment. I should have known that Danielle would be a door pounder, but I was so nervous anyway that I jumped.
When I opened the door, I almost didn’t recognize her (again). Danielle’s hair was pulled back. She wore a light colored blouse that was buttoned up to show just a hint of cleavage. Her jeans were up past her hips but loose so guys wouldn’t check her out too much when she walked. But the glasses were the centerpiece. Big, black, thick rimmed glasses. Danielle was no longer the hot chick in a clingy t-shirt. She was the cute chick with glasses. And I dated cute chicks with glasses.
“Wow!” I said (yes, I really said “Wow!” out loud). “You changed your look again.”
“You like it?” she asked. “I don’t really need the glasses.”
After I invited her in, she glanced at my ragged furniture and said, “We’re not going to stay here long. What kind of food do you like?”
“I should be asking you that,” I said. “Mexican?”
“Not for dinner,” she said. “Maybe Italian. I know a nice place that doesn’t take too long.”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I work tonight.”
“You’re still at…”
“Yeah, I still dance at Nero’s,” she said. “Saturday’s my big night, but most of money comes in after 10:00, so we still have lots of time.”
I had a tough time grasping this. “You’re going out with me, and then you’re going to go to… work.”
“Yeah, are you okay with that?” she asked. “Some guys can’t deal with it. It’s okay if you can’t. Just tell me now.”
“And you won’t go to work?”
“No!” she said. “We won’t go out. I have bills.”
“Okay,” I said, shaking my head. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. “I have no problem with where you work. I just can’t picture myself going on a date and then going straight to work. That’s all.”
“You work 8:00 to 5:00. If you worked evenings and nights, you’d change your mind.”
Danielle stepped toward my book shelf and pulled out Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. She inspected the covers. “Is Jane Austen a woman?”
“She was,” I said.
“She’s not some European guy with a name that looks like Jane. It’s not John Austen? Or Jo-Hann Austen?”
“No, it’s Jane.”
“Good,” Danielle said. “Then I’ll read one of these. Which one do you think I’ll like?”
“Um…” I hesitated. “I haven’t read either one of them.”
“You said you’d read all these.” She was right. That’s what I’d told her, that I had read all the books on my shelf, when she had come up to get her panties.
“I hate it when guys lie to me,” she said. “Guys lie to me all the time. Guys tell me they’re lawyers or photographers or gynecologists. You’re the first one to lie to me about books.”
“I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” I said. “Now that we’re dating, I wanted to tell you the truth.”
She tapped her foot. “Alright, but I’m watching you.” She paused. “And we’re not dating. We’re going on a date. I haven’t decided if we’re dating yet.”
“Okay.” Geez, I thought, she puts on a pair of glasses and suddenly she’s precise about word choice.
Danielle looked at both Jane Austen books and then put Pride and Prejudice back on the shelf and kept Sense and Sensibility. “I don’t want people to think I’m prejudiced,” she said.
“You’re taking that on the date?”
“It will make me look smarter,” she said. “I like it when people think I’m smart. They treat me different. And if you start telling me about your boring job, I’ll have something to do.”
“You do look smart,” I said, and I meant it.
Then she pushed her glasses down to the tip of her nose and held the book up to her chest. “I’m not just smart. I’m literary,” she said. “I am… quite… literary.”
Right then, I was pretty sure that no matter what happened, I was always going to remember this date.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: First Date.
And to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
Using a picture of women in bikinis for an article that isn’t about women in bikinis is probably cheating. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There are a lot of ways for writers to cheat. We can plagiarize. We can write a bunch of fake 5-star reviews for our own books. We can set up multiple user names and have long conversations on our blogs to make our blogs seem busier than they really are. We can purchase copies of our own books to improve sales rank. I’ve thought about using all of those tactics (except for plagiarism… I have my pride).
The good thing about cheating at writing is that nobody knows what most writers look like. John Locke (a kind of prolific ebook author) paid people to write 5-star reviews for his books, but if I saw him on the streets I wouldn’t recognize him. Even if I did recognize him, I wouldn’t do anything to him. I’m a writer. I might write a harshly worded blog post about him, but I wouldn’t physically do anything to him. If John Locke had cheated at poker like he cheated at writing, he would have to fear for his safety. Writers usually aren’t violent (though we can write great fight scenes). Poker players are.
If you have to choose between cheating at poker or cheating at writing, cheat at writing.
I write this because I’ve just done something that might be considered cheating (but hopefully nobody will pick a fight with me over this).
A few months ago I wrote a serial narrative (it was a true story with a couple composite characters and a couple composite scenes and a little exaggeration… but not much) called “Long Story.” It was a story about a story I wrote in high school. Writing a story about a story is probably a bad idea. But I’ve had a lot of bad ideas when it comes to Dysfunctional Literacy. I tried a thing called Dysfunctional Grammar, and it… never mind. The point is, I took my serial “Long Story,” made a few changes (deblogified it), and have released it as an ebook called The Writing Prompt.
I don’t know if it’s considered cheating to write a story on a blog, and then self-publish it under a different name as an ebook. If it’s cheating, I’m trying to be honest about it. Maybe I’m plagiarizing myself. Whether it’s cheating or not, I promise not to review my own books (“They’re f***ing awesome!!!”), and I promise not to buy a bunch of them to improve sales rank.
What I’ve done isn’t unheard of. A lot of syndicated writers republish their work in different formats. Malcolm Gladwell published a book called What the Dog Saw that simply reprinted a bunch of his articles (many of which can be found for free online) from The New Yorker. The paperback book cost me $16.99 (which is expensive for a paperback, but it’s high quality paper.) The Writing Prompt is only 99 cents (but it is a lot shorter and maybe not nearly as insightful, and there’s no paper involved).
Even novels used to be published as serials in newspapers back in the old days (way before my time). The Three Musketeers (one of my all-time favorite books) was originally published as a serial in French newspapers, and I don’t think anybody accused Alexander Dumas of cheating. If anybody did, there was probably a good sword fight duel afterward to settle the matter.
I don’t care if people read “Long Story” on my free blog instead of paying 99 cents for The Writing Prompt. I’d rather people read my stuff for free than not read it at all. All of the jokes in my ebook Best Brand New Jokes Ever! are also on this blog, but they’re scattered all over the place and you have to read a lot of bad jokes (as in poorly written and not funny) to get to the ones that actually work (there are a few where I got it right, and those are the jokes I chose for the ebook).
If this is cheating, then I guess I cheat when I write. But I don’t cheat when I play poker.
CHEATING RECAP
- Plagiarism (really bad)
- Paying people to write 5-star reviews (pretty bad)
- Reviewing your own books under different names-sock puppeting (pretty bad)
- Using pictures of women in bikinis for stories that have nothing to do with women in bikinis (bad)
- Buying your own books to improve sales rank (bad)
- Taking your own blog material and releasing it as ebooks with different names (bad?)
What other ways are there to cheat in writing? I could probably use a few more new ideas.
Does Moby Dick suck, or do we just not “get it”? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The local library on Saturday morning was usually noisy with screaming kids running around and a homeless guy talking to himself, but it had quieted down once Danielle started acting up. Danielle was a walking distraction (even when she wasn’t walking). Her red t-shirt was too tight and showed curves that shirts weren’t supposed to show. Her faded cut-off jeans went up too high. When she fake coughed and sneezed and ate chips too loudly, it contradicted her angelic face. I had avoided talking to her (for a lot of bad reasons), but she had just cornered me in the back of the biography shelves.
“So, are you gonna talk to me or what?” she asked, one hand holding a book, the other hand on a hip.
“Hi, Danielle,” I said, flustered again. “I was going to, but I wasn’t sure if that was you or not.”
“Well, now you know.” She took a step closer.
“Your hair is different today,” I said, and it was true. It looked wet and clumped around her face and neck. “You don’t quite look like you.”
She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I just said ‘fuck it’ this morning.” Then a mom and her daughter walked by. “Sorry,” Danielle muttered to them, but the mom just looked the other way.
“I like the look,” I said. “I just wasn’t sure that was you. I’m kind of surprised to see you here.” Geez, I hoped she didn’t take that the wrong way.
“It’s your fault that I’m here,” Danielle said. “I saw all those books in your apartment, and it reminded me that I used to like to read. Until I started to hate it.”
I was going to ask her what made her hate reading, but instead she said, “Whatcha got?”
I showed her the Tom Clancy book (I forget which one it was… this was back in 1992).
“That’s big,” she said.
“It’s just military stuff,” I said. Then Danielle saw the photo of Tom Clancy on the back cover.
“He looks like a dick,” she said.
“Every author looks like a dick when they pose for book covers,” I said. “Even Anne Rice probably looks like a dick.”
“Who?” she asked. Then I pointed to the novel Danielle was holding.
“A friend of mine said I’d like this.” Danielle showed me her copy of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice. “But I think it sucks.”
Danielle slid the novel onto the top of the biography section. I wondered how long it would take for the librarians to find Interview with the Vampire in the G shelf of the biographies. I was going to say something, but when she lifted her arm, her shirt shifted up and exposed her navel. When a hot chick in a tight t-shirt exposes her navel, she can put a library book back wherever she wants.
“I’m done,” Danielle said. “Are you ready to check out? I’ll walk with you.”
“Sure,” I said as we left the nonfiction section. I saw her bag of corn chips on the table. “Did you want to get that?”
“Thanks,” she said. I watched her walk from behind, half expecting a bit of her cheeks to hang from the cut-offs, but they didn’t go that high. When Danielle got to the table, she poured the remaining chip pieces into her mouth. Then she flicked the bag back to its original spot. When she saw me staring at her, her eyes widened and she swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry, did you want some?” she asked.
“I thought you might want to throw that away.” I pointed to the bag she’d left on the table.
“That’s what they’re here for,” Danielle said, eyeing the three librarians sitting and talking to each other at the checkout counter.
“They work hard,” I said, and then it registered that three librarians were just sitting there talking to each other. “I’m sure they work hard most of the time.” We stood and stared at the librarians for a few more seconds while they talked. “I’m sure at some point today they’ll work hard. You still shouldn’t litter.”
“Okay, officer,” she said, and jogged back to throw the bag away. I turned and watched her jog. Most of the library watched her jog. When she returned she asked, “Is my record clean, officer?”
“Yes, but I’ll be watching you.” That was true because I liked watching her (hopefully that didn’t sound creepy).
Danielle brushed her arm against mine and set a slow pace as we continued to the checkout desk.
“So, how much of the vampire book did you read?” I asked.
“Enough to know it sucks.”
“When I was in college, a girlfriend broke up with me because of that book,” I said.
“Why? Did you tell her it sucked?”
“I told her it was a woman’s book.”
“That’s why she broke up with you?”
“There were other issues, but that’s what started the argument that escalated to a breakup.” I knew it was a bad idea to talk about a previous girlfriend to a woman I was really attracted to, so I tried to think of a way to change the subject.
“Did you think the book sucked?” Danielle asked, doing my work for me.
“No. I didn’t like it, but it didn’t suck.”
“That’s what ‘sucks’ means; you don’t like it.”
“No, ‘sucks’ means there’s nothing good about it at all. The book can be good, but I don’t appreciate it. That’s different from sucking.”
“No, if it sucks, you don’t like it. It doesn’t matter what other people think.”
“Yes, it does matter. ‘Sucking’ should be universal. If everybody hates it, then it sucks. If it has artistic merit, then it can’t suck.”
“No,” Danielle said. “If I don’t like something, it sucks. If you don’t like something, it sucks.”
“What if you think it sucks, and I don’t think it sucks?”
“Then we argue about whether or not it sucks.”
“Let’s ask the librarians here,” I said, nodding to the three women behind the counter. I gave the closest one my library card.
Another librarian stamped an index card and slipped it into the Tom Clany book. As she handed me the book, she said, “Young man, I’d think you’d do very well for yourself if you just agreed with this young lady, whatever it is you’re arguing about.”
“See?” Danielle said. “Interview with a Vampire sucks.”
“Wait a minute,” the librarian said. “I didn’t know you were talking about Interview with the Vampire. That’s one of my favorite books.”
“See?” I said. “How can Interview with the Vampire suck if it’s a librarian’s favorite book?”
“The librarian said you’re supposed to agree with me,” Danielle stage whispered, barely moving her lips.
I paused. Danielle had just won the argument. “I’m sorry,” I said to the librarian. “Interview with the Vampire sucks.”
“That’s okay, young man. Tom Clancy sucks even more.”
Danielle shrugged her shoulders. “I wouldn’t know.”
As we walked out, Danielle hogged the sidewalk, taking the middle and brushing her arm against mine again. The polite part of me wanted to yield ground to her and walk on the sidewalk, but I also liked the feel of her arm against mine.
“So… What are you doing today?” she asked.
“Reading this,” I said, “and watching football.”
“That sounds… fun.”
After a pause, I asked, “What are you doing?”
“No plans,” she said.
As soon as we reached the parking lot, she stepped in front of me and held out her hand. “It was good to see you again. I’m glad we agree about what sucks now.” Then she gave me a firm quick handshake.
“It was great talking to you,” I said. I tried to think of something else, but my mind was blank. Our earlier silence might have been awkward, but I didn’t want the conversation to end. I was afraid that Danielle would walk to her car, and I would forever be angry at myself for not being smooth.
But Danielle stood her ground, facing me and not moving. She didn’t really look at me though. She instead shifted her eyes from the parking lot to the library building to the trees. If I were going to get to my car, I’d have to walk around her on the grass. Kirk’s voice was in my head screaming, “She’s gift-wrapped herself for you. What more do you want?”
I spoke slowly. “I was wondering… would you… like to do something tonight… maybe dinner?”
“Yes,” Danielle said. “That sounds like fun. I’ll pick you up at 6:00.”
“Don’t you want my phone number?” I asked.
“I know where you live.”
As she turned to her car, she called out, “And wear something like you did that day you gave me my panties back.” A couple people walking by did double-takes at that. “I like a guy who dresses professional.”
“Okay,” I said, watching her walk away. I probably shouldn’t have just stood there watching her, but I couldn’t help it. I was frozen by the moment, processing what had just happened. I was going to have dinner with the hot chick in a clingy t-shirt.
That is, if she decided to show up.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: Origin Story.
And to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
These probably aren’t on the 10 All-Time Greatest Books list, but, you know, they’re okay.
A prominent entertainment website has a 10 All-Time Greatest Books list, and I’m purposefully not going to read it. A few years ago I would have read this list. I would have nodded thoughtfully at the choices I agreed with and raged at the books that didn’t deserve to be on the list. I might have even tried to read the books on the list that I hadn’t read. Okay, I probably would have just bought the books, put them on my shelf, and then lied to my intellectual friends about reading them.
It’s kind of weird that I don’t want to read this 10 All-Time Greatest Books list. I read books. I read top ten lists. A couple decades ago, I had a book filled with top ten lists (I think it was called The Book of Lists). I’ll read a book of top ten lists, but I won’t read a 10 All-Time Greatest Books list.
It might be because I’m getting older. Whoever put the list together probably knows less about the books than I do. Yeah, they might have read all the books, but I doubt it. The older I get, the more realize that there are too many pretenders in this world (I should know because I’ve been one of them).
It just seems like an entertainment website isn’t the correct place to devise this list. This was designed to get hits, promote the site, get some arguments on the forum, but it probably wasn’t designed to get any insight. The experts who have the knowledge to put together a 10 All-Time Greatest Books list would probably refuse to do it just because of the futility. Measuring the “all-time greatest” of every book is too wide, too subjective, and a serious bibliophile probably wouldn’t try. Besides, who’s really read every single book of all time?
I’m not against all top ten lists when it comes to literature. If the entertainment website had broken the books down by genre, I might have been interested. I might have read a Top Ten Science Fiction Book list or a Top Ten Mystery list, or a Top Ten Books in The Bible list. Those could be interesting. Genres have common traits. Lumping all books together is pointless because all they have in common are words. Books don’t even have pages in common anymore.
The NFL Network has a show devoted to Top Ten lists, and I watch it when the topic is interesting. I watched the Top Ten Super Bowls episode. I watched the Top Ten Coaches show. I didn’t watch the Top Ten Left-handed Quarterbacks episode (I’m not making that category up). That shows that even the NFL Network can push things too far.
When I discuss an article, I usually provide a link, but I’m not providing a link this time because I didn’t read the article. Like I said, I’m not going to read the10 All-Time Greatest Books list. I’m just going to write about it.
*****
A couple days ago a morning news show ran a segment about a 10 All-Time Greatest Movies list, and I changed the channel. Again, genres of movies would help, but I don’t want to see that on a morning news show. The cable channel that usually runs NCIS all day was showing an episode of Burn Notice instead. I’d rather watch Burn Notice than hear about the10 all-time greatest movies. And I’d rather write about how I’m not going to read the 10 All-Time Greatest Books list than read the 10 All-Time Greatest Books list.
Do I have a point, or am I just turning into an old man?
Eating chips in the public library? That’s very bad library behavior! (Fritos) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Even though I lived in a somewhat affluent section of the city, the local public library put up with bad behavior. Kids ran freely like it was an indoor playground, while parents read or talked. A homeless guy wandered around the shelves and mumbled (but he did leave everybody else alone). I overheard loud political discussions that were so obnoxious that I despised everybody who participated, even the person I agreed with. The librarians were polite, but I felt they were irritated at me which didn’t make sense to me because I always behaved myself.
My local library’s best quality was that they kept a bunch of recent hardcover best sellers. I bought a lot of books, but I hated buying new hard covers because they were expensive, and they had no “showing off” value after a couple years. My old hard cover of The Complete William Shakespeare cost me a couple bucks at a used book store, but it was the book that got the most comments when I had visitors. The Complete William Shakespeare had excellent “show off” value.
The new books were in the center of the library, and I had picked out a Tom Clancy novel (this was 1992, and I hadn’t gotten tired of him yet) when I heard a loud hacking cough from the reading section. As I scanned the library for the cougher, I spotted a hot chick that looked like Danielle. Most of the rectangular tables in the reading area were empty (most library-goers preferred the couches and rocking chairs), so she stood out.
Whoever it was had dark hair, but it was matted down that morning, and a book was blocking her face. I really hoped it wasn’t my imagination because I didn’t want to become one of those obsessed guys. To make sure it was (or wasn’t) her, I moved to the nonfiction aisles, lurking behind the biographies to get a better side glance.
If it wasn’t Danielle, it looked a lot like her, the brown skin, dark hair past her shoulders, slightly inappropriate clothes. This time her red t-shirt seemed a size too small, her sleeves tight up to her shoulders. I couldn’t even tell how far her faded cut-off jeans went up while she was sitting down. But her hair threw me off. This hot chick’s hair was wet and clung to her face and neck, and it was tough to get a clear look at her features. It could have been Danielle, or it could have been a woman that looked a lot like her.
After I inched closer, I saw this hot chick was reading a hardcover of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice. As she read, her eyes would dart around the library and then return to the book for a few seconds and then they would roam again. Then her glance went straight in my direction. We made eye contact, and then she looked down instantly. Holy crap! It really was Danielle. At least, now I was pretty sure.
I didn’t know if she’d recognize me or even remember me. I wanted to talk to her, to at least say hello, but I wasn’t sure how to introduce myself again. If she didn’t remember me, what was I supposed to say: “I’m the guy who had your underwear for a month”? I’d already used that line before in the apartment parking lot. I was pretty sure a guy wasn’t supposed to use the same line twice on the same woman. Plus, I’d really feel stupid (or look like a pervert) if this woman turned out not to be Danielle.
I wasn’t even sure Danielle would want to talk to me. She had been friendly enough a couple weeks ago, but she might have thought I was just a creepy single guy who lived alone in a two-bedroom apartment filled with books. If she danced at Nero’s (if she had been telling the truth about that), she was used to creepy guys talking to her (and probably touching her too). She probably didn’t want to talk to another creepy guy who had (inadvertently) kept her underwear for a few weeks.
I moved to the back of the biography aisle where she couldn’t see me, and I stopped pretending to look for books. I knew I should just go talk to her. This was lame. I was being lame. I knew it. There was no excuse for it. I was self-aware enough to know why I was being lame, but that didn’t change the fact that this was inexcusably lame behavior on my part.
Then I heard the loud crinkling of a bag popping open, followed by crunching. There was a rhythm to the crunch. Crunch-one-two-three, crunch-one two-three. This was a deliberately loud crunching of the chips. This was a type of crunch designed to annoy somebody who didn’t like noises, which is usually everybody in the library (except for screaming kids and the homeless guy).
Since I wanted to be sneaky, I slipped my Tom Clancy book into an empty space on the biography shelf (because I drop stuff and dropping a Tom Clancy book was too risky). I slid forward a few steps down the row, and my suspicions were right. Danielle had a small bag of corn chips on the library table. Her eyes seemed completely focused on her book as she used her free hand to steadily place corn chip after corn chip into her mouth.
Crunch-one-two-three, crunch-one-two-three.
Then Danielle put a hand between her chest and collar bone and coughed, really loudly. It was a series of extended horse coughs like the one that had gotten my attention earlier. I’d heard old men clearing out phlegm make less noise than her. I could have sworn that in her coughs I heard the words “talk to me” a couple times as she blew chip particles (I think) into her fist. But adults didn’t do that. I hadn’t heard anybody do the cough-talk in years.
I probably should have rushed to her to see if she was alright, but she was obviously being overdramatic. The librarians looked like they wanted to shush her, but how do you shush somebody who’s just coughing? The homeless guy had stopped talking to himself. Even the screaming kids were silent, watching a hot chick in a tight red t-shirt cough chips into her fist.
Once she was done, she took a deep breath and said, “I’m okay, everybody.” And then she went back to reading her book.
I tip-toed back a couple steps to think things out. Danielle was making a scene, and it’s tough for a quiet guy like me to talk to a loud person in a quiet public place, especially if it’s a hot chick. I was always nervous around Danielle anyway. If I decided to talk to her now, we’d have an audience. But the show wasn’t over.
Next, Danielle sneezed really loudly. It was a long extended “AAAAAACHOOOOOOOOOO!” kind of sneeze that brought the library to another standstill.
“Whew,” Danielle said. “I don’t know where that came from.” She waved at the librarians and picked up her book.
Amazing! Danielle was amazingly cheerful for somebody going through sneezing and coughing fits. After a half-minute or so, I took a few steps forward to get another glimpse of her, but she was gone. The bag of chips was still on the table and her chair hadn’t been pushed back in, but she was gone. Alarmed, I leaned forward to could get a better view of the entire library. Danielle wasn’t at the checkout desk. She wasn’t in the reference section. She wasn’t in the fiction section. I didn’t think there had been enough time for her to exit yet. I hoped she hadn’t left. I started to panic a little. If she’d left, then I’d blown a chance to talk to her, and this had probably been my last chance. What were the odds I’d ever run into her again? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
I turned around to grab my Tom Clancy book off the shelf, and there was Danielle, one hand holding her own book, one hand on her hip, chest out, stomach in, unblinking eyes aimed right at me.
“So,” Danielle said. “Are you gonna talk to me or what?”
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: The Meaning of Sucks.
And if you want to read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
The three basic genres (not in order): fiction, nonfiction, and football
Vacation time (for me) means selecting which books to read while I’m waiting because there’s a lot of waiting during vacations. There’s waiting in the airport, waiting on the airplane (in between naps), and there’s waiting in the hotels, tourist traps and traffic jams. For as long as I can remember (including childhood), I’ve packed two books for these waits, one fiction and one nonfiction. I’ve always known that one part of my brain likes fiction, and when I get tired I can use another part of my brain for nonfiction while the fiction side of my brain rests.
All my life I’ve either had an innate understanding of my brain, or I’ve had a really short attention span.
An article in The Atlantic examines the differences between fiction and nonfiction, but I have to warn you; it’s kind of boring. The article is not something to read in the airport (unless you want to fall asleep on the airplane). At least it’s boring to me, but I have a short attention span. I don’t think these kinds of articles were written for people who have a short attention span. Despite having a short attention span, I understood the point of the article (even if I thought it was boring).
According to the article, fiction is spiritual reading, and nonfiction is carnal reading. Talk about loaded words. Fiction is considered spiritual, and I get that. It’s not the word I’d choose, but I understand what they mean. When you read fiction, you put yourself into another person’s mind. You have empathy for people that aren’t you (and people that probably don’t exist). You think about their problems and how you would handle their situations. You put yourself in another place and time, and if you’re lucky, you see the pictures in your head and can tune out everything around you.
And if you’re really lucky, nobody sneaks up behind you and conks you on the head while you’re reading (and tuned out). I have a thing about being conked on the head while I’m reading. That’s more likely to happen if I’m reading fiction.
I was surprised that nonfiction would get the term carnal applied to it. When I think of carnal, I think of Fifty Shades of Grey (not that I’ve read it). When I think of carnal, I don’t think of Wheat Belly, Lose the Wheat, Lose the Weight , and Find your Path back to Health (15 word title, which isn’t that long for nonfiction).
Supposedly, (according to the article) people who read fiction are more empathetic than people who read more nonfiction (or don’t read fiction at all). I haven’t seen the studies. I don’t always trust these kinds of studies (especially if they’re funded by somebody with an agenda, which is almost everybody, but I don’t know who has an agenda for fiction over nonfiction other than fiction writers). Being able to get into the minds of various characters helps fiction readers see and understand the points of view of others. Readers might not get by just reading nonfiction.
All I know is that if somebody interrupts me while I’m reading fiction, I’m NOT very empathetic because they’ve disrupted my concentration when I’m in somebody else’s entertaining world. That ticks me off. If they interrupt me while I’m reading nonfiction, I usually don’t care because I’m just reading information. If I’m reading fiction and watching football at the same time, do… not… disturb!
Since I have a short attention span, carnal and spiritual don’t seem to be the best words to use to describe the categories of literature. To a guy like me, nonfiction might be practical reading, and fiction would be fun. Again, neither term is completely accurate. Both terms have positive connotations. I’ve replaced two loaded words (carnal and spiritual) with two other loaded words, but at least my two loaded words are loaded in the same direction, and I know what the two loaded words mean.
Loaded. Haha!
*****
Switching from fiction to nonfiction is easy today with so many electronic devices for reading. For example, my phone can store as many fiction and nonfiction selections as I want (keeping me both spiritual and carnal). And with longer airport lines this summer, I don’t think I could carry enough books to keep me occupied. Now all I need is my phone and a small dose of a certain (legal) drug, and I’m ready to travel and stay entertained at the same time.
Just don’t interrupt me while I’m reading fiction because I might not be empathetic.
*****
So what do you think? Does reading fiction make you more empathetic? Are these studies bogus, or do they have merit? Is carnal the right word to describe nonfiction? Which do you prefer: fiction or nonfiction? Should I let my subscription to The Atlantic lapse? If so, what should I replace it with?
That’s probably too many questions, but this is what happens when you’re a guy with a short attention span.
If there’s a time of year when it’s great for a young guy to NOT have a girlfriend, it’s football season. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This is the part of the story that some authors (and readers) might be tempted to skip. Nothing really happens in this part. Danielle (the hot chick in the clingy t-shirt) doesn’t make an appearance in this episode. I think about her a little. I mention her to some friends. But as far as plot goes, nothing happens.
Some authors say that if a scene doesn’t move the plot, skip it. I don’t always agree. Sometimes the author needs to establish a character’s state of being or state of mind. And this segment shows my state of being when I was 25 over 20 years ago. This is the kind of stuff that happened when nothing much was happening in my life.
Plus I need to introduce a couple people that affect the story later on.
*****
I was at a college football game with my friend Kirk and his girlfriend Linda on a Saturday afternoon. We weren’t in college anymore, and the two teams playing weren’t very good, but the tickets were cheap, and it was a cloudy breezy day, so it was a perfect time for a pale guy like me to be outside. The stadium wasn’t crowded, so spectators were spread out all over the place, and it was easy to find three empty spots near the sidelines. Kirk sat between Linda and me, which made sense because I had only met her a couple times.
During the game, I told Kirk about meeting Danielle in the laundry room, how we had shared a dryer, how she had left panties in my laundry, and how she (for some reason) came up to my apartment to retrieve them. I shouldn’t have told him about Danielle. Nothing good comes from an unintentionally celibate guy (like me) telling a charmingly loud guy (like Kirk) about a hot chick in a clingy t-shirt when nothing happened.
“Let me get this straight,” Kirk said. “She left her panties in your laundry. She invited herself to your apartment. And she followed you to your bedroom. And you didn’t sleep with her? ”
“That’s a fairly accurate summary,” I admitted.
“She gift-wrapped herself for you,” Kirk said, putting his finished beer underneath his seat. “What more do you need? Her getting on her knees and…”
“Kirk, stop it,” Linda finally said and then leaned forward to talk to me. “She asked you to share your dryer with her?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s weird,” she said. “And I can’t believe she went up to your apartment. A woman shouldn’t take chances like that. She probably thought you were harmless, but still…”
I sat back and grimaced. Harmless.
“What’s weird about asking him to share a dryer?” Kirk asked his girlfriend. “If you were in a hurry, and that was the only dryer, what would you do?”
“Let the clothes stay wet and come back later.”
“What if you had to wear them right then?”
“She wasn’t wearing a bra in public,” Linda said. “That’s weird too.”
“That only happened once,” I said in Danielle’s defense. “The second time she came down, she was wearing one.”
“But why would she go to Jimmy’s apartment?” Kirk asked Linda.
“I don’t know,” Linda said. “I wouldn’t have put myself in that situation.”
“That’s because you’re sensible,” Kirk said with a hint of sarcasm, and then turned to me. “She still lives with her parents.” That was one reason Linda wouldn’t spend the night with Kirk yet, and he rolled his eyes a little. He really wanted her to spend the night with him. She was blonde, and he couldn’t resist blondes.
Linda whispered something in Kirk’s ear (I have no idea what she said), and he shut up for a minute or two.
“Alright,” Kirk finally said, getting up. “I gotta use the bathroom.” As we both got up so he could get to the aisle, he asked, “You want a soda?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Kirk had many faults, but I knew he’d wash his hands after using the facilities.
“I was asking Linda,” Kirk said, shaking his head as he passed me.
Even with a gap between us, Linda shifted her knees away from me. That was unnecessary. It wasn’t like I was going to proposition her. She was my friend’s girlfriend. A woman that liked Kirk wasn’t going to be interested in me anyway, even if the woman was smart and educated. I knew that. I took her shifting of the knees as an insult, so I didn’t even attempt conversation, which was fine because I wanted to watch the game.
The home team had a 3rd and 1 near midfield, but instead of running the ball, the quarterback faked a handoff, stood in the pocket, and overthrew the tight end who was wide open 30 yards downfield. The crowd booed. The tight end pitched his helmet onto a bench and yelled, probably at the quarterback, who was shaking his head a few yards away.
“Why did we throw the ball like that?” Linda asked.
I pretended not to hear for a second or two before I faced her. “The defense put everybody on the line of scrimmage to stop a running play, so our tight end was able to run out there uncovered. We should have gotten a touchdown out of that.”
Linda smiled at me, but her knees didn’t move, so we sat there and pretended to watch as the home team punted. I actually watched. I think Linda pretended.
When Kirk sat back down and handed each of us a soda, the score was still the same, but the other team had the ball around midfield. I expected Kirk to ask what had happened.
“Nurse your drink,” Kirk said. “This place has communals.”
I grunted as I sipped my soft drink instead of gulping it. If the stadium had communals, I probably wouldn’t use any facilities until we left the game.
“What did you say?” Linda asked.
Kirk turned to me. “You wanna tell her what a communal is? If she gets grossed out, I want her blame you, not me.”
I leaned forward. “It’s a long metal tub where guys stand shoulder to shoulder and relieve themselves.”
“What’s so bad about that?” Linda asked.
“Stage fright,” Kirk said. “Him, not me.”
“I’m not explaining stage fright to her,” I said to Kirk.
But Linda wasn’t interested. She gripped her soda cup and stared at the game.
Kirk leaned in my direction and talked quietly. “Hey, next time some braless chick comes to your apartment, ask her if she wants a drink.”
I was still thinking about how to explain stage fright (if I ever needed to), so it took a moment to realize what Kirk was talking about. Linda didn’t seem to be paying attention anymore.
“You need some good wine,” Kirk continued in a hushed voice. “Wine is like a condom. You don’t always need it, but it’s good to have around. Then you tell her to sit down and relax.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Braless chicks do,” Kirk said. “If you don’t get your act together, you’re always gonna be stuck with the skinny chicks who read a lot.”
“I like skinny chicks who read a lot,” I said.
“I’m a skinny chick who reads a lot,” Linda said. I guess she was paying attention after all.
“You’re not…” Kirk cleared his throat and raised his voice before Linda could respond. “You’re better than skinny.”
“I’d like to read right now,” she said. “I should have brought a book.”
“You don’t bring books to football games,” Kirk said. “Just like I don’t take a radio to the art exhibits.”
“Art exhibits,” I said, with a short laugh. I might have been single, but it was fall, and I could watch a football game whenever I felt like it. Now that Kirk was back, he could deal with the uninterested girlfriend. Football season was a great time to be single.
*****
Despite my bravado, it sucked to be single at 25, even during football season, especially with a friend in a relationship. Even though Kirk was in a weird relationship, I was jealous. I was pretty sure that Kirk was never going to have his intimate moment with Linda. Kirk took Linda’s resistance as a challenge, and I think Linda was just seeing how long Kirk would go out with her before giving her the ultimatum. It was a bizarre reason to have a relationship, to see whose will would break first. But in a few days I was going to get into my own weird relationship. I just didn’t know it yet.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: Bad Library Behavior and Danielle makes her dramatic return!!
To read “The Literary Girlfriend” from the beginning, start here.
Even James Franco would probably say the answer is “No.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Until a couple days ago, I didn’t know that James Franco wrote books. I just thought he was a nice looking actor who starred in Spider-Man and Oz movies. But now he wants to crowd source one of his books (a short story collection titled Palo Alto) into several movies.
If James Franco can get $500,000 in the next 30 days (I don’t know when the 30 days started), he can start production. I kind of understand why James Franco has to get $500,000 from other people (it’s explained here and here if you really want to know), but I’m not foolish enough to question James Franco. He’s James Franco.
Contributors who give $5,000 can get a speaking part (probably just one line) in one of the movies. That’s an intriguing idea. I’d like to have a speaking role in a James Franco Palo Alto movie. I’m not really a James Franco fan, but it would be kind of neat to have a speaking part in one of his movies, even if the movie sucks (which is a possibility).
I might not fit into a James Franco Palo Alto movie though. Most of his characters (from the parts I’ve read) are high school students, and I was a high school student in 1980 (James Franco was two at the time, and I hadn’t heard of him yet). Plus, I have a monotone voice. I could probably put the audience to sleep with my one line. I’d at least make them yawn. I could be the guy that made people fall asleep in a James Franco Palo Alto movie. I’m not sure that would be something to brag about.
The other problem is I don’t have $5,000 (I do have $5,000, but there’s no way that my wife will let me spend it on this, unless she gets the speaking part, but she’s already been fondled by one celebrity, so I definitely don’t want James Franco getting anywhere near her).
But there’s a solution to this. If James Franco can crowd source his movie, I want to crowd source my speaking part in his movie. I would set up a Paypal button, but that would make me a hypocrite because when kids stand on the street asking for donations (usually for their football or baseball teams), I say no because they’re not really working for their donations. If they’re washing cars or selling cookies, I’ll gladly donate (if I’m in a good mood).
So if you’d like to donate to my crowd sourcing speaking part, just buy a copy of my ebook Having a Few and Getting Some on the Amazon Kindle. That way you actually get something for your donation (and I don’t like washing cars or selling cookies). If I can sell 10,000 copies in 30 days (again, I don’t know when the 30 days started), then I’ll give $5,000 to James Franco’s movie, and I can have a speaking part in a movie that might (suck or) never get made.
And you can be proud (or ashamed) of making a contribution to James Franco’s latest creative endeavor.
*****
Palo Alto by James Franco
A Book Review
If you think of this book as an elaborate practical joke, you might appreciate it. I think struggling writers (by that I mean writers who are struggling to get published) will (or already do) hate this book and resent that it got published by Simon & Schuster at all. I was feeling those emotions myself, but when I started thinking of it as a practical joke (on whom, I’m not sure), it was kind of entertaining.
After all, practical jokes are more entertaining when you’re in on the joke instead of being the victim. Now that I’m pretty sure this “James Franco-author ” thing is a practical joke, I kind of enjoy it.
James Franco (or whoever is playing the joke on James Franco, if that’s what’s going on) needs to be careful about these Palo Alto movies though. What works as a book doesn’t always work as a movie. Then again, sometimes what doesn’t work as a book does work as a movie. But it probably won’t work if I have a speaking part.
