Not THAT big question! Yeesh! We just met in a laundry room. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Under normal circumstances, I’m a polite guy. I open doors for women, whether they like it or not. I give women dibs on the newly opened checkout line in the grocery store (when I have the position to make that call). If a woman leaves her clothes in the laundry room dryer too long, I’ll leave the garments alone, even if that means a really long wait until she finally returns to retrieve them.
Yeah, I’ll wait. But before that happens, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure I get to that dryer first.
*****
I had it timed perfectly. I returned to the apartment laundry room thirty minutes after the hot chick in the clingy t-shirt and I had started our washing machines. She had a slight head start because of my clumsiness. But I had an advantage. I knew that there was only one dryer that was working, and I was pretty sure the hot chick hadn’t noticed.
I stopped the washing machine in its spin cycle and checked my clothes. They were more damp than I liked but not soggy enough to leave them in. A good cycle in the dryer would take care of that. If not, I’d run a second cycle. As long as I pushed in the second set of quarters before the first cycle of drying stopped, I would be within my rights. It might be bad laundry room etiquette, but I was sick (with maybe the flu) and it wasn’t my fault there was only one working dryer.
I was putting quarters in the slots of the one working dryer when the hot chick came in. Even though she still wore the same clingy t-shirt with the local NFL team’s logo and really short shorts, she was wearing a bra this time. As soon as she saw me, she shook her head and said, “You in a hurry too?”
“Doctor’s appointment this morning,” I muttered, even though it wasn’t true. As punishment, my hand jerked and a quarter fell, rolling into the hot chick’s path as she walked past me. She stopped and let the quarter roll past her and behind the laundry room trash can. She raised her eyebrow at me and then strolled to her washer.
It took me way too long to find the quarter. I thought it had rolled behind the trash can, but it had somehow gotten under it, so I had to move it, but instead I bent my legs and tipped the trash can, but as I reached with my other hand to grab the quarter, the trash can slipped and the contents spilled to the floor.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I groaned. Luckily, nothing disgusting had fallen out. There were just a couple plastic detergent bottles and some lint.
“Rough morning,” the hot chick said, walking her clothes to the nearest dryer, seemingly unaware that it was broken.
It wasn’t going to be her morning either once she realized that the other dryers weren’t working. And that’s where my dilemma came in.
Should I tell her that there was only one dryer? I felt like a jerk either way. If I told her, then she’d know that I’d rushed down here to claim the dryer before she could. If I didn’t tell her, then she might lose her quarters in the broken machine. Either way I’d be a jerk. But if I didn’t tell her, then she wouldn’t know I was a jerk.
I had finally pushed the quarter slots through and started the dryer when the hot chick cursed.
“Shit!” she said. “Shit!” she said several more times. Fortunately, she had noticed the “Out of Order” notice before she put her money in, but she still cursed. If anything, she over-cursed. At that point I had lived in the apartment complex for about two years, so I had witnessed numerous women utter lots of profanity. But I had never seen such a sudden shift in disposition in a woman before.
I was a bit uncomfortable. Unfortunately, she was between me and the exit, so I couldn’t leave the room without brushing up beside her and that would have been poorly timed.
“Did you know these dryers were broken?” she asked, hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed.
“They are?” I said. My performance was lame, even by my standards.
“I hate this laundry room,” she said. “I fu… I hate it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “As high as the rent is around here, you’d think we’d get better machines.”
“You’ve got the only good dryer in here,” she said, eyeing me. Then she took a deep breath. “Do you mind sharing it?”
I hadn’t thought of that. In fact, it seemed kind of rude for her to ask, especially since we had just met.
“I don’t know. Is that even legal in Texas?”
She had a quick silent laugh and rolled her eyes at the same time. “I’m sorry, but I’m really in a hurry.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in less than an hour.” That was a lie, but it sounded good. I had a runny nose and a bad headache and probably had a fever too, but I hadn’t taken my temperature. I guess I could have if I really went to the doctor.
“Plus these dryers aren’t very good,” I added. “If you put your clothes in with mine, we’ll probably need to use a second cycle, and then I’ll be late for sure.”
The hot chick didn’t blink the whole time I had been talking. “Are you fu… Are you serious?” she asked.
“No, I’m not serious,” I said, even though I had been. “I’m sorry. I have a monotone voice, so people can’t tell when I’m joking and when I’m serious.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “I couldn’t believe that you wouldn’t… Wait a minute. Are you serious right now?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, opening the dryer door. “Go ahead and put your stuff in.”
“You’re voice really is monotone,” she said as she dumped her clothes in with mine.
It was the first time I had ever done laundry with a woman without buying her dinner first.
*****
To be continued in The Literary Girlfriend: An Awkward Moment with Women’s Underwear… And yes, the hot chick does get a name soon!
Stephen King, speaking about the effect of e-books on the publishing indust… Hey! That’s not Stephen King! C’mon, guys, that’s not funny. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Most of us book fanatics can come up with our own summer reading lists, but if you’re stumped with a bad case of reader’s block, then maybe Stephen King can help you out with his summer reading list. Or (if you don’t like his choices) he might make your reader’s block even worse.
Stephen King even wrote a schedule of when you should read each book on his list. He has a June list, and a July list, followed by an August list. I don’t know how serious he is about sticking to the schedule, though. What are we supposed to do if we finish his June list early? Can we start on his July list in June, or is that cheating?
Seriously, how many people write out a summer schedule for reading books? Maybe that’s the secret of Stephen King’s success, and I am a fool for mocking it.
Here are a few of his recommendations that stood out to me:
Buried Prey by John Sandford- I haven’t read Buried Prey, but I’ve read several of Sandford’s Prey books, but I’m not sure which ones because they were so similar (and it’s been about 15 years). The one thing I remember is that all of his characters talk like tough guys, even the women. That can be entertaining, but it can get old too.
The Fifth Witness by Michael Connelly- It’s okay. I don’t read a lot of legal thrillers, but I’d take this over a John Grisham book (except The Firm).
Robopocalypse by Daniel H. Wilson- Every once in a while, Stephen King whiffs with a book recommendation (like he did with The Passage by Justin Cronin a couple years ago), and this is one of them. This book had an interesting concept but was kind of bland. I really disagree with Stephen King on this one, not that he cares about my opinion.
Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the real Stephen King!! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Case Histories by Kate Atkinson- It’s weird when a title of a novel sounds like the author’s name. Kate Atkinson just published a novel called Life after Life, and I was going to publish a book of short stories called Life after Life where all the short stories were called “Life after Life,” but now I’m going to wait. Since Life after Life might be too painful for me to read, I may try Case Histories instead.
MY SUMMER READING LIST
First I’ll check the books that are in the New Releases section of the library. I’ll peruse the ones that have cool titles, interesting first pages, and good dialogue. I’ll make sure the books don’t have any yellow/brownish stains or nose debris pebbles sticking to the pages yet. I’ll check out a bunch of these new clean books. I’ll finish a few of these books and stop reading most after about 10-15 pages.
That’s how I’ll determine my summer reading list.
I guess this is yet another way that I’m not like Stephen King.
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
According to a new study (whose validity I will neither defend nor refute), the use of e-readers inhibits reading comprehension when people read long or difficult text.
The short version is that in this study students who read the print version of difficult text understood it better than students who read the same difficult text on an e-reader. The long version with lots of analysis is here , but reading it on an e-reader might slightly decrease your comprehension of it.
My first (kind of selfish) reaction is, “So what?” I’m at an age where I no longer need to read longer or difficult text anymore. If reading on my phone (which I usually do now) inhibits my comprehension, that’s okay because I don’t need to comprehend most of what I read on my e-reader or phone anyway.
My other reaction is that maybe schools shouldn’t spend so much money on technology if we’re finding out it might hurt students’ reading comprehension. My kids go to a school district that is behind the curve when it comes to technology, and I’m okay with that. My kids get enough technology at home, but they don’t get a lot of math, science, and history at home, so I appreciate their schools for providing that. And if students perform better with actual books than they do with e-readers (I know, the jury is still out), then that’s great too.
There’s not enough information out there to conclude how technology affects reading comprehension yet, so a lot more of these studies would be a good thing. Book stores can sponsor studies that show e-readers inhibit comprehension. Technology companies can sponsor studies that demonstrate how e-readers improve reading comprehension. And then all of us adults who don’t need to comprehend what we read anymore can ignore the studies and read what we want however we want.
Kids, however, will still need to read what we want, when we want, and how we want. And they’d better like it!
All I wanted to do was to get this (and some other articles of clothing) clean. I swear I wasn’t looking for romance or trouble. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The literary girlfriend stereotype is that all of them are thin and pale, with long straight hair and big glasses. I’ll admit, my two literary girlfriends (not at the same time) in college fit that stereotype. That was okay because I was pale and skinny too, but I had short hair and contact lenses, so it didn’t feel like I was dating myself.
Maybe most literary girlfriends fit that description (I’ve never seen any empirical data to support or refute this), but I know of at least one literary girlfriend who shattered that stereotype.
*****
I was fumbling for quarters for the washing machine in the apartment complex laundry room when the door behind me opened. From a sideways glance, it looked like a hot chick had entered the facility, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I saw long dark hair and long tan legs, but I had learned from past experience that a corner glance hot chick could turn into a full view scary dude, so I played it cool and pulled quarters out of my pocket until the newcomer walked up beside me.
Once the newcomer’s laundry basket slammed in place on top of an empty machine, I turned for the mandatory but uncomfortable greeting. It got uncomfortable alright. A hot chick was indeed standing right next to me with a tiny basket not quite filled with… I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to look.
The problem with looking at hot chicks is that it’s tough to be casual. I had to acknowledge her, but I didn’t want to look at her too long (actually, I did, but I knew I shouldn’t), so all I saw was long dark hair, brown (but not leathery) skin, a light colored clingy t-shirt, and lots of leg. And her eyes, whatever color they were, were directed straight at me.
“Hi,” she said, with perfect posture and her hands on her hips. Jeez, I was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra, but I also knew my imagination could go crazy sometimes, so I forced my eyes up, up, up until I saw only her forehead.
“G’morning,” I muttered. I immediately looked away, mostly from shame at my own appearance. I was wearing torn shorts when I should have been hiding my skinny hairy legs. My bed head hair slanted to the left. My nose was runny, and I was the kind of guy who could have nasal drippage down to my upper lip and not know it. I was unshaven, not with the cool five o’clock shadow that made ladies swoon, but the kind of scraggly face that made people think I’d ask them for spare change. I could clean up nice when I needed to, but that was not my morning.
As I pulled the last quarter from my pocket, I involuntarily jerked and the coins fell from my hand. I promise, this wasn’t from being flustered. I’m naturally clumsy. I could drop stuff even when I wasn’t around hot chicks going braless in clingy t-shirts. I’ve dropped stuff while helping the elderly. This happened to be a poorly timed drop.
Two of the quarters bounced to my right where I could retrieve them, but the third and fourth rolled between the hot chick’s feet. There was no way I could reach for those coins. It was up to her.
If the hot chick noticed the quarters, she didn’t show it. Instead, she put her own quarters in the machine slot, picked up her basket, and dumped the clothes in. As I watched, I noticed definite movement going on underneath the clingy t-shirt. She was braless alright. I stood fascinated while she poured the detergent into the machine. Then she suddenly turned and faced me.
“So, how do you think we’re going to do this year?” she asked.
“Huh?” I said, looking back up to her forehead again.
“You know,” she said. And then I saw the logo on her clingy t-shirt. The logo was that of our local NFL team. Stupid me, I had noticed the clingy t-shirt but not the football team logo on it, and she had just busted me. This was indeed the ultimate bust.
The good news was that she had asked me a football question. “We’ll make the playoffs,” I said, “but we have to get past Buffalo to get to the Super Bowl.” Buffalo had just been to the Super Bowl two years in a row (as unlikely as that sounds now).
“Buffalo sucks,” she said.
“They don’t suck,” I said. “I hate ‘em, but they don’t suck.”
“Buffalo sucks.”
I wasn’t about to argue the meaning of the word “sucks” with a braless hot chick in a clingy football t-shirt. I was just happy she hadn’t called me a pervert.
“Okay, they suck,” I agreed. “But we still have to get past them.”
The hot chick nodded and turned to leave.
“Hey!” I said. It must have been with some authority because the hot chick stopped and turned.
I asked, “How do YOU think we’re gonna do this year?”
She smiled. “We’re gonna kick Buffalo’s ass.” Then she turned and left.
As she sauntered out, I made plans to shave, shower, and put on some flattering clothes for the dryer. The dryer! That’s when I remembered that two dryers were broken and only one was working. And she had already started her washing machine. And I still had to pick up quarters off the floor.
I suck, I thought.
I picked up my errant coins, slid them into the remaining slots, and stopped. Since the braless hot chick had a head start on her washing machine, I had to use the shortest settings possible. I put the machine on quick wash with cold water and figured I’d come back in thirty minutes.
Then I strategized.
If the hot chick put her clothes in the remaining dryer before me, I’d be stuck for the rest of the morning. Women were notorious for leaving their clothes in the dryer all day, and there was nothing a guy could do about it. If it were a man’s clothes, I’d take them out and set them neatly some place and no guy would care. But there was no way that I’d touch a woman’s clothes in that situation. I wasn’t going to be the guy in the apartment complex who was known for touching women’s clothes.
That meant I had to get that dryer before the hot chick. And it couldn’t be a tie either, because anything close to a tie went to the woman, whether she was a hot chick or not. My clothes had to be in the dryer before the hot chick even got back to the laundry room.
The hot chick was no longer a hot chick. She was now my opponent.
*****
To be continued in The Literary Girlfriend: The Big Question … and the hot chick actually gets a name.
When I was in college, the best kind of girlfriend to have was the literary girlfriend. Literary girlfriends liked to read, so dates were cheap. We could go to a poetry reading or hang out in the university library. The only problem with literary girlfriends was that they didn’t like football, so we always broke up in September.
But after I graduated from college and entered the professional world, literary girlfriends were difficult to find. So for two years I went without even a hint of a girlfriend. I think I was considered by my friends and family to be a lonely guy. It was kind of humiliating being known as the lonely guy. But all of that ended in the most unlikely of places.
*****
The low point of any week was doing laundry. My apartment complex’s laundry room was a few units away, so I had to stuff all my dirty clothes into one basket, carry them outside down a flight of stairs, walk past the outskirts of the parking lots past several other units, and then hope there were available washing machines.
Doing a quick empty-handed reconnaissance was useless. Even if washing machines were empty when I checked, by the time I had run back to my apartment, grabbed my basket, and returned to the laundry room, the machines would already be taken. No, I had to go with all the laundry the first time and hope for the best.
There was no perfect laundry day. Any day could bring competition. Families could be hanging out at 2:00 in the morning. Drunks could be lounging around at 2:00 in the afternoon. If there was an ideal time, one where the odds were pretty good you could wash and dry all your clothes without interference, it would be around 7:00 on a weekday morning. But I usually had to work.
The laundry room had six washing machines and three dryers, so this meant that a bunch of families tried to stuff two loads of wet clothes into one dryer and hope they could dry in one cycle. One day I walked into the laundry room when two mothers (I think they were mothers because there were a bunch of little kids standing around them) cursing and threatening each other because one had clothes that had just finished in the washer and the other was using up all three dryers for an extra cycle. I don’t like loud profane conflicts, so I turned around with my stack of clothes and went home.
The most awkward situation was when a load of clothes were finished in the dryer but the owner hadn’t picked them up yet. I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want to be the victim of rudeness either. I soon learned simple laundry room etiquette. If the clothes belonged to a man, I took them out and placed them neatly on the laundry table. Guys didn’t care. Once a shirtless tattooed guy with a bunch of scars caught me taking his clothes out of the dryer, and I thought for sure I was going to get punched out or stabbed, but instead he sheepishly apologized to me.
From that point on, I was confident that men understood the importance of keeping the trains running on time in the laundry room. But if the clothes in the dryer belonged to a woman, I would rather wait than get cursed out by a loud profane mother.
One morning I called in sick to work because of a bad cold and decided to do my laundry since I was already miserable. I was 25. I was single living in a second floor apartment. All I wanted to do was get my laundry done for the week and go back to bed. Nobody else was in the laundry room when I got there, which was good because I felt so foul that I really didn’t want to be seen. I was in torn shorts (not the trendy kind) and a pitted white shirt. These clothes should have been in the laundry basket, but I didn’t care.
As I struggled past the row of dryers, I noticed that only one of them appeared to be working. One dryer had an official “Out of Order” sign from management. The other had a sheet of paper taped to the top with a handwritten note that said: “THIS PIECE OF SHIT ATE MY QUARTERS!!!!!!” I took that to mean that it wasn’t working properly.
The good news was that I was the only one in the laundry room, so I wouldn’t have to worry about somebody else grabbing a dryer. I dropped my basket and began stuffing the clothes into the washing machine. I reached into my pocket for quarters when I heard the door behind me open. Uh oh. Whoever had just entered was potential competition. The best thing to do was to avoid eye contact. Just concentrate on putting quarters into the machine and get out. Don’t look at the competition. Don’t look!
Of course, I looked.
*****
To be continued in… The Literary Girlfriend: The Ultimate Bust .
Hillary Clinton testifying to Congress about… Hey, that’s not Hillary Clinton! C’mon guys, that’s not funny!!! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Book lovers who hate politics are going to have a tough time avoiding Hillary Clinton’s new memoir, set to come out next year. Simon & Schuster, which is publishing the (as of now) untitled book, have declared that they expect it to be one of 2014’s biggest books. Uh oh. Now that the bar has been set so high, Simon & Schuster has to do everything in its power to make sure that happens.
And that means hype. Lots and lots of hype.
And if Hillary Clinton’s memoir is expected to be a major book in 2014, that also means I have to talk about it (just this one time).
Hillary Clinton is a polarizing figure (whether that’s her fault or the fault of her political opponents is for a different blog), but her audience is built in already. There is a group of people who will purchase her memoir no matter what. There is a significant group that will cringe at the thought of her book no matter what. And there are those (like me) who are dreading the hype machine that is just beginning to rev up.
Hillary Clinton has a history of benefiting from literary hype. It Takes a Village was a hugely successful book (probably) because of genius marketing. I never bought the book (it had little to do with Mrs. Clinton. I was single at the time and wanted nothing to do with child rearing). I actively avoided the book. I wanted nothing to do with that book, but I remember the title. I’ll always remember the title. I don’t recall where I read/heard about It Takes a Village, but I was aware of it.
I don’t remember the title of Bill Clinton’s memoir. But I remember It Takes a Village.
Official portrait of Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton. Yes, that’s really her… or she. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The media outlets have to hype Hillary Clinton’s book to some degree (if they don’t want the IRS to come after them a few years from now), but the problem now is that they won’t stop. There was hype when the memoir was announced last week. There will be hype when a title is chosen. There’ll be hype when a ghost writer is selected. And when the memoir is published? Competing authors better make sure not to premiere their books on the same week.
This will be Hillary Clinton’s fifth book, and she hasn’t even been elected president yet. President Obama only had two books published before he became president. Not only could Hillary Clinton become the first female president of the United States, she could break the record for most books published pre-presidency (I haven’t actually researched that, so I could be wrong).
Maybe James Patterson should run for president; if he won, nobody would ever break that record.
I know that by discussing the hype of Hillary Clinton’s memoir, I am adding to the hype, making me part of the problem. There is a huge difference between me and The New York Times, or NPR, or USA Today (and it’s something other than relevance); I’ll never mention Hillary Clinton’s memoir again.
A lot of anti-Hillarys were hoping for a year or two of relative Hillary Clinton silence before she begins campaigning for president. But with the announcement of Hillary Clinton’s new memoir, that silence has been forever shattered.
Brace yourself for the hype. Lots and lots of hype.
William Shakespeare, looking rather plump during a famine. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This probably wasn’t the kind of news that fans of William Shakespeare wanted to hear. There was no newly-discovered manuscript of a never-before-read comedy. It wasn’t long-lost video footage of Shakespeare ranting at his men-dressed-as-women-actors messing up their lines (yeah, video footage is probably not going to happen).
Instead, the public found out that William Shakespeare (author of Romeo and Juliet, Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Macbeth, A Midsummer Night’s dream, Taming of the Shrew, and a few sonnets) hoarded grain during times of famine and cheated on his taxes .
As far as celebrity bad behavior goes, this wasn’t so heinous. This might not even qualify as a SHOCKING REVELATION. The United States exists because a bunch of colonists were trying to dodge England’s taxes. Perhaps Shakespeare was American ahead of his time. Maybe England’s tax system back then was fair, but I doubt it (I could be wrong). I bet the tax system was that you owed what the tax collector said you owed. There might not have been a 60,000 page code like there is now in the U.S., but I’m guessing there were some inconsistencies in who got which deductions and how much.
I’m not even sure hoarding grain is such a bad thing. During a famine, somebody was going to control how food was distributed, whether it was government or merchants (or Shakespeare). Selling grain for high prices during a famine was better than not having any grain at all during a famine. That sounds callous, but back then , it was probably an either/or situation; if you had food, you sold it for high prices (or consumed it yourself), and if you didn’t have food during a famine, then you were out of luck (unless you were friends with somebody like William Shakespeare).
I suppose Shakespeare could have evenly distributed his hoarded grain to every starving person during a famine, but they still would have starved, just maybe a few hours (or days) later. I’m just glad I didn’t live back then. This is one of those situations where I don’t want to prove that my theory is right (or wrong).
And maybe grain hoarding really was that bad.
Supposedly, historians and scholars have known about Shakespeare’s (alleged) tax evasion /grain hoarding and have intentionally kept this out of the public eye in order to maintain his reputation. Scholars shouldn’t try to hide unpleasant facts about writers (especially since writers need to write about unpleasant topics in order to be interesting).
What would it take to make people stop reading Shakespeare anyway? It would take something worse than tax evasion or grain hoarding. Shakespeare would have had to have murdered somebody, or spent the night with children, or spoken out against gay marriage. It would take a lot to make people stop reading Shakespeare.
However, it didn’t take much for me to stop reading Shakespeare. Once I didn’t understand what was going on or what the characters were saying, I stopped reading Shakespeare. That was probably in the opening scene of whichever play I was reading. I don’t like reading Shakespeare, but I enjoy seeing his plays performed by actors/actresses who know what they’re doing.
I’m pretty sure “Zounds! What mounds!” wasn’t in this version of The Taming of the Shrew. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd were brilliant in The Taming of the Shrew (on the television show Moonlighting). I don’t think that version was completely accurate, though. I once skimmed through the entire play looking for Petruchio’s line “Zounds! What mounds!” but I couldn’t find it anywhere. It must have been improvised. I bet Shakespeare hated it when actors improvised during a performance.
I wouldn’t want to mess up a line in front of William Shakespeare, especially during a famine.
Choosing a book title is like rolling dice; sometimes stupid luck plays a part. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It’s kind of an unusual story. Two novels with the same title are being released within the same week. Life After Life by Jill McCorkle came out last week (March 26, 2013), and Life After Life by Kate Atkinson comes out Tuesday, April 2. If potential readers don’t know which author wrote which book, then this situation could be confusing.
But the unknown story is even weirder.
What the publishing industry doesn’t know is that I was planning on releasing my own ebook called Life After Life on April 4, 2013, just days after the second of the dual Life After Life novels. I thought I had an original title and an original idea(s), and now I’ve discovered that my idea was trite before I even had a chance to make it trite.
My version of Life After Life was a little different from the other two. My Life After Life was a collection of four original short stories, all of them (also) titled “Life After Life.” The Life After Life collection was going to include the following:
1. “Life After Life”- a convicted murderer is released early from his life sentence (politicians may promise this won’t happen, but it does) and faces unexpected trouble (and redemption) with his new freedom.
2. “Life Afterlife”- A woman in a state of blissful afterlife has a chance to prevent something horrible from happening on Earth, but she has to pay a price for returning to her old (before afterlife) life.
3. “Life After Life”- A guy named Life falls in love with a woman named Life and spends years of his life fruitlessly pursuing her.
4. “Life After Life”- A comedian with a strong accent tries to be serious, but whenever he talks, people laugh at him. You know, because whenever he says the word “laugh,” it comes out as “life.” So instead of “Laugh after laugh,” it sounds like “Life after life…”
Umm… yeah. I guess if I have to explain the idea that much, then it’s not any good. That’s okay because nobody else is going to read it now.
You see, that’s the worst part of two other Life After Life novels (from my point of view): the two other authors have (unintentionally) ruined my ebook. I can’t release my own ebook now because every potential reader will think I ripped off these two other authors, and I pride myself on being original.
This whole situation is my fault. Nobody else knows about my Life After Life because I don’t have a publicist or an agent or a PR firm. I don’t talk about my ideas until I’m finished with them. Maybe I should start doing stuff like that (but it’s not in my personality to self-promote).
Still, what are the odds that three books with the same title were planned for release within the same week? If two books with the same title is astronomical, then three books would be…. astronomical squared. Or astronomical times infinity.
Maybe my Life After Life ebook was a bad idea. Maybe it’s a good thing two other authors are publishing books with the same title within the same week. The more that I think about it, the more I believe my stories could use a little (or a lot) more work. There was really no reason for me to rush the release of my story collection anyway. I’ll just save it for another year or two until people have forgotten Life After Life. Geez, I hope neither of them wins a Pulitzer or a Nobel (but I’ll be glad for them if they do).
The good news is that I’m also working on a book called Dervis Wurblewitz. I think that book title is safe.
She could have married a bibliophile instead, but he spent hours upon hours wandering aimlessly through the book store looking for something to read. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
We book readers can spend hours at a book store or a library searching for the perfect book. There are a lot of reasons for this. Maybe there are no good books to be found (very unlikely). Maybe there are so many good books available that it’s tough to pick the right one(s). Maybe there are non-book distractions that keep us from focusing. Maybe we’re feeling indecisive.
Choosing a book can be time consuming, but it doesn’t have to be. By following six quick steps, any reader can find a (probably) good book in a matter of minutes.
*****
1. Set the timer.
A time limit is important in choosing a book. Without that self-imposed limit, readers can waste valuable time searching and over-thinking possible book selections. Every second wasted picking a book is less time that we’ll have to read that book. We readers often leave a store with a stack of books that we’ll never get to. Setting a time limit will make that stack smaller while giving us more time to read.
DISCLAIMER: If you enjoy wandering through the book store or library just for the sheer joy of wandering through the book store or library, then disregard Step 1. Choosing a good book might not be your top priority.
****
2. Look for books with interesting titles.
Reading titles (while ignoring authors and book covers) means we can scan aisles of books very quickly. Each person has different criteria for what makes a good book title. I think I’ve been attracted to books with prepositional phrases in them. Talking to the Dead, The Power of Habit, The Lord of the Rings, Fifty Shades of Gray, A Game of Thrones, A Feast for Crows, A Clash of Kings, The Sword of Shannara, Love in a Nutshell, Rules of Civility, State of Wonder…
I haven’t read all the above books; I just initially gave them a second look because of their titles. I’m a sucker for prepositional phrases.
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3. Make sure the author is not on the DO NOT READ list.
Every reader’s DO NOT READ LIST is different. I don’t read more than three books by any author. I don’t read books in a series if the series hasn’t been finished yet. I rarely give (famous) authors a second chance if I disliked the first book of theirs that I read. And (as I pointed out last week) I don’t read books if there’s a hot chick with cleavage on the cover.
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4. Read the book jacket.
Everybody knows that reading a quick explanation of the book can be helpful, but it’s just as important to ignore any reviews that are on the jacket. The reviewers could be friends of the author. The reviewers could have been paid by the publisher. The reviewers might not have even read the book. Or the reviewers could have bad taste in books.
Readers are better off glancing at the plot summary and then moving on to the next step (if we choose).
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5. Read the first page (at least).
No explanation needed.
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6. Choose a random page and read (the dialogue).
I like to choose a random page just to verify that the quality of writing doesn’t deteriorate too much as the book continues. Some books start off strong but fall off quickly, and we readers are cheated. Perusing a random page might not prevent that from happening to us, but at least we give ourselves a chance.
I also check for dialogue on a random page. If the dialogue is unrealistic or too clever to be true, then I probably won’t read the book. Dialogue is important to me. Sometimes authors use dialogue to show how clever they are instead of using it to reveal their characters’ personalities.
Readers who don’t care about dialogue can still choose a random page and check the descriptions or exposition, or even the punctuation. The important thing is to make sure that the quality of writing meets our expectations throughout the whole book.
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Ever since I have begun this six-step process, I have spent more time reading books and less time searching. This doesn’t mean that every book I’ve picked out has been great. I’ve still chosen a couple disappointments that I didn’t finish. However, I feel less frustrated with a disappointing book now (unless I paid a lot of money for it) because I know that I didn’t waste time looking for it. And I still have a (smaller) stack of back up books that I have more time to read.
That’s the great thing about books. Even when a book sucks, there will always be a better one out there to replace it.
Rest in peace, “Long Story.” You deserved so much better than this. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For about a week, I was a popular kid because of “Long Story.”
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I was walking into Mr. Thornburg’s tenth grade United States history class on the following Monday when Davis, a surfer type guy, called me over to his desk. Surfer type guys didn’t usually talk to me, so I wandered cautiously, just in case he had been motioning somebody else.
“Dude, dude,” Davis said urgently. “I heard you wrote a long story.”
“Yeah, it’s called ‘Long Story’.”
“Can I borrow it? Thornburg’s going to read Chapter 6 to us today, and I can’t take it. I can’t take him reading to us today. I gotta read something else.”
“It’s in my locker,” I said. “But this is pretty good.” I handed him my copy of The Man in the Iron Mask which I had been planning to read while Mr. Thornburg recited from the textbook that day.
“Dude!” the surfer guy stepped back with a grimace.
I felt pity for the stressed out surfer guy. I glanced at the clock, saw that I had over a minute until the tardy bell rang, ran to my locker, retrieved “Long Story,” and made it back just as the bell rang.
I handed “Long Story” to the surfer type guy without thinking about it. It was kind of like passing a really long note in class, but there wasn’t any damaging information in it. It was a note of fiction. As Mr. Thornburg read aloud and the surfer guy read quietly, I was conscious of the surfer guy’s reaction to “Long Story.” I’d look back occasionally to see if he had fallen asleep or was turning my story into a giant paper ball. Every time I glanced over, he was reading. At least he looked like he was reading. His eyes were open. He laughed out loud a couple times, and that made me nervous because Mr. Thornburg glared at him. There wasn’t much humor in our U.S. history textbook, so Mr. Thornburg knew something was going on.
After class, Davis returned “Long Story” to me, and other students asked to borrow it. I became a semi-popular guy. Girls didn’t swoon for me or anything like that. But students who otherwise wouldn’t talk to me started talking to me. Some of them wanted to read “Long Story.” A few had questions about it after they had read it.
For two days, “Long Story” got passed around during various classes. Students were sneaky, and it never got intercepted. Students got caught chewing gum, doing other teacher’s homework in class, or staring off into space, but nobody got caught with “Long Story.”
On Wednesday somebody drew a picture on the second page of “Long Story.” It was a stick figure Curse brother beating up a smaller stick figure kid. It was a funny picture, but I was ticked off because the doodler didn’t have my permission. Even worse, the drawing was in pen, so I couldn’t erase it. I should have rewritten page 2 and not let anybody else see it. But I allowed the picture to stay.
That’s the problem with graffiti. If you let it sit there, other artists think it’s alright to add their contributions. The next day there were several more pictures. Several had Melinda and Danny doing things that never happened in the story. One picture was probably physically impossible in real life.
My “Long Story” was turning into a bathroom wall. I put a sticky note on the cover that said “Do NOT draw any more pictures on my story!!”
So of course somebody drew a giant male body part on the note. That was it! I almost decided to keep “Long Story” for myself… almost. If only I had stuck to that decision.
By the end of the week, “Long Story” was looking beaten up. Pages were folded and stained, and there were a bunch of dirty stick figure pictures on it. I was either going to retire “Long Story” or recopy it over the weekend so my peers could still read it.
Ten minutes were left in Mrs. Kramer’s math class. It was Friday afternoon, and Mrs. Kramer was teaching some difficult math concept that a bunch of kids didn’t understand. There was some fake sneezing and loud coughing, and some kid farted really loud, and Mrs. Kramer was getting grouchy. And then some kid decided to use “Long Story” to get my attention at the wrong moment. He had just finished reading it and flapped it like a fan so that I would notice him.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Kramer noticed him too and snatched “Long Story” out of his grip.
“How dare you interrupt class!” she snapped. “Whose note is…?”
Then Mrs. Kramer looked at the first page. The direction of her eyes and the way she narrowed them, I could tell she saw the inappropriate stick figure picture of Melinda and Danny. That’s all it took. Mrs. Kramer shredded the first page, shredded the second page, and systematically, page-by-page tore and crumpled “Long Story,” tossing each remnant into her trash can.
Davis, the surfer type dude, whistled from the back of the classroom, “Dude, Mrs. Kramer just killed “Long Story.’”
There was no way to reclaim “Long Story” anymore. It had been mutilated beyond repair and cast into a trash can filled with snotty used tissues. I’m sure my mouth hung open. I’m sure I couldn’t say anything. Mrs. Kramer didn’t even know that was my story. I probably stared motionless until the bell rang. Nobody talked to me after class. The kid who had flapped “Long Story” at me never apologized. Davis, the surfer type guy, shook his head as he walked past me, but at least he made eye contact.
I couldn’t believe how much it hurt to lose “Long Story” like that. I could rewrite it again, but it wouldn’t be the same. Word choices wouldn’t be exact. I’d probably add an extra Melinda scene. Maybe I’d even change the ending so readers wouldn’t boo me. But that would make it a different story. I didn’t want a different story. I wanted “Long Story” back.
Very few students remembered “Long Story” after its death. I was just the kid whose story got ripped up in Mrs. Kramer’s class, and my peers forgot that I had bailed them out by writing a story that took the entire class period to read. I kind of resented it. If Denise, the cheerleader with the really nice legs, had read my story aloud, people would have always remembered it. They’d probably still talk about it at reunions more than 30 years later.
That’s the thing about writing. It was exhilarating when I got the feedback that I wanted. But watching my “Long story” get destroyed hurt more than it should. And being ignored again after “Long Story” got killed kind of made me bitter. It might have even kept me from writing for a while again. To have my work destroyed and then forgotten? I didn’t want to go through that again. So “Long Story” has simply remained a memory for all these years.
Maybe one day I’ll try rewriting it.
The End
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That’s it for “Long Story,” but stay tuned (or check back periodically) for the next serial from Dysfunctional Literacy tentatively called…
Dysfunctional Literacy 