With summer’s end within reach, I’ve been bracing myself for the epic slowdown at work that occurs during the month of August each year. Those that aren’t participating in vacation high season at their favorite spot on the Jersey shore (or sitting in traffic trying to get there) are either running from staples to the pediatrician and back in preparation for the school year, or, like me, have simply slowed their roll to a near stop due to the sweltering temperatures. And this year it is a slooooooow August. Maybe we’re becoming more like the French and soon we’ll all just say F it and take the whole month off, but until that becomes official – I’ve been taking some time in between deleting the daily barrage of out of office emails to do what I love most… read.
I wouldn’t consider myself a writer, per say, mostly because I respect the profession too much to consider blogging worthy of it’s name. But I’ve always been a reader, thankfully a fast one to boot – I have the patience of a flea. In fifth and sixth grade I remember counting the moments until the end of the school day when I knew we’d be cruising in the family suburban (typically after a violent game of shotgun) to Barnes & Nobles in Bethesda for new loot. During those years I was hooked on a series of books about teenagers with terminal illnesses/life altering tragedies by the author Lurlene McDaniel. I know – shocker, given my rosy demeanor and amiable disposition..
I did eventually emerge from the trenches of fictional teen illness (after reading each novel of McDaniel’s at least 394839483 times), but it was there I developed my appetite for the written word. One of these days perhaps I’ll go back and reread some of my old favorites. Maybe not, though, somethings are best left just the way they are. For me, Lurlene McDaniel’s books are where I first learned that reading can do things nothing else can. In his book, On Writing, Stephen King uses the word telepathy to describe the state one enters while reading. It’s true, we construct the story in our minds as it’s processed from word to thought. You become both the producer and audience in real time, as if caught between two worlds. That, to me, is magic.
King’s book, On Writing, was recommended to me by my best friend, Mike, on a trip back from P-town last month. We had spent the weekend saying goodbye to Jeffrey Curtain Houston, our amazing friend who passed away six months ago, laughing and crying and eventually drinking as much as possible to one of the best guys we all knew. To say it was an emotional few days would be a colossal understatement. I needed something to take the edge off leaving P-town that day, and since I was driving that evening, Tito’s was not an option. King’s sarcasm and dark sense of humor was just the buffer I needed on that Ferry back to reality. First of all, Stephen King could be a stand up comedian if he simply read parts of that book aloud. Half memoir/half writing how-to, one assumes the read will be somewhat chalky. Nope, not this book, it had me laughing out loud on that ferry as the wake dissipated to nothing in the rain.
In part one of On Writing, King provides a dusty autobiography of his early life in the tone of someone that just can’t find a fuck to give. Outrageous memories from his childhood are woven so seamlessly into what seems to be a normal coming of age tale, you almost miss the fact that they may have something to do with the genre he’s dominated for half a century. The latter half of the book provides a bullet point-ish ramble on how not to suck at writing, my favorite advice being “if you’re a bad writer, no one can help you become a good one” …gotta tell it like it is sometimes. Also, he mentions his hatred of adverbs to which I wholeheartedly agree. Read it. If you don’t love it you probably wouldn’t like me much either. Kidding! Kind of.
So, yes, I read because of some nebulous magic that connects me to the words page after page, but really what the hell does that even mean? Not sure, but every time someone tells me (usually my mother) they loved my writing, or even that they liked it, my day gets better. King also mentions in his book that writers, not that I’m saying I am one, are needy AF and thrive on attention. I didn’t love that declaration, but it made me think. I came up with this: if it’s written and isn’t read it remains a thought. If your words are read, even if by just your mother and Pop-pop, they cross that threshold into potentially being part of someone else’s story, for better or worse.
That last part, for worse isn’t necessary negative. If you’re reading this dollop of words from my psyche I’ve done it. Reached you. I don’t really care why you might read what I write here, maybe the stuff I’ve gone through (which I know is nothing compared to many on this planet) makes you feel better about your life. Whatever the reason, what matters most is pieces of the upside down of my mind have made it to the real world. And if using my Demogorgons to put yours in perspective makes you happy, so be it. We’ve all got demons and I like that mine are being put to good use.
Now, something a little different to leave you with. Personally, I am always looking for new books to read, but upon given a suggestion feel the same apprehension I get before a long run. I can’t tell you why this happens, it’s like I’m worried I’ve forgotten how to read or won’t be able to negotiate the plot. Maybe it’s post traumatic stress from trying to remember all of the names in the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, which is basically impossible by the way. Anyways, I thought I’d share a list of some of my all-time favorite books with you as well as some I have read more recently. Maybe you’ll love them as much as I do. Maybe you won’t even consider reading them. Either way, here goes:
- On Writing by Stephen King. See above. But, I won’t touch any of his scary stuff with a ten foot pole. The trailer for the new IT movie still haunts my dreams. (please hold as I go burn incense to ward off Pennywise)
- Anything by Atul Gawande. I know all of his work looks doctor-centric, given he is an MD and writes nonfiction. But it isn’t only applicable to those in the medical field or those interested in medicine, his perspective on performance and honing one’s skills apply to everyone. My favorite is Better, but Complications is also amazing. To be honest, I’m pretty sure I’d read his thank you notes if given the opportunity.
- The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. If you love a good period piece (movie or book), this is for you. Wharton’s salty commentary on post-WWI New York is breathtaking in it’s irony and her descriptive abilities when it comes to interiors is transcendent.
- If you like/want to get into memoirs: Open by Andre Agassi, I read it 34983943 times. It reminds me of a good vanity fair article that lasts for 250 pages. Settle for More by Megyn Kelly – despite her flailing morning show and insistence that Santa is white, her story is pretty inspiring. She changed careers at 31 and is a very powerful woman in her own right. She also summers in LBI, one of my favorite places on earth. How to Murder Your Life by Cat Marnell… whoa, I said to myself. Just whoa. Disrupted by Dan Lyons is about a middle aged writer who gets let go from his real job and joins a start-up company in Boston. It’s hilarious and caustic. I have read it more times than I’d like to admit.
- A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle and Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes. Both of these delightful treats transport you to their respective European utopias mentioned in the titles. You can’t not like these two – I promise.
- Harry Potter 1-7. The third is my favorite. The sixth is the happiest. The fifth is the scariest. I’ve reread these books so many times the pages fell out of my first set. And my second set. You know that magical time on Christmas day after presents but before the flurry of activity starts before dinner? That’s what J.K. Rowling does with her writing and it’s my little piece of Christmas day whenever I reread HP.
- To move this list along and ensure this post isn’t out of date by the time I finish it… anything by Jhumpa Lahiri. The Namesake is especially beautiful.
- The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve.
- Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.
- Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides.
- Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell.
- Girl with the Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier.
- Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg.
- Girl with the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy, seriously epic.
I’ve left hundreds of books out. Some of the books on the list above are beach reads while others are more impressive works of literature. I’m a firm believer in the notion that there’s a time and a place for books of all “levels.” Read what makes you laugh and feel good, but give those that make you cry a chance. Don’t give up on a book if you can’t get into it after 20 pages, push through a little longer. Give up after 40 pages or so if you still hate it. Don’t read something because you think you should or for anyone but yourself. And lastly, don’t be a book snob… everyone’s recipe for Magic is different, snobs are the squibs among us.
PS. shoutout to all my teachers growing up who assigned amazing books each year and put up with my constant talking during class. Diane Springer and Joelle Lamboley, just to name a few, taught me how to write (maybe y’all should host a grammar refresher course for your now braindead former students) and made being smart look extremely cool. You guys are the real MVPs.
The Dog Hair Diaries 