Read This Before You’re Dead

My father is on this reading kick right now. He’s trying to read literature that’s considered “classic.” He called me yesterday after finishing Catcher in the Rye and asked, “Sara, why is this book considered a classic?” I was embarrassed to admit I didn’t remember why. I remember the book, of course. I remember Holden Caulfield (who my father found to be quite amusing). I remember the f-word. Other than that, I have forgotten why Catcher in the Rye is considered a “classic.”

Jake looked up the definition of “classic literature” yesterday after my conversation with good old Dad. According to About.com:

• A classic usually expresses some artistic quality—an expression of life, truth, and beauty.
• A classic stands the test of time.
• A classic has universal appeal.

Sure, okay, makes sense, right? I looked up a list of “Classic Novels,” and BLECH! I read a bunch of them in college, and I hated them. For example, The Great Gatsby is the most overrated book on the planet, and To the Lighthouse … well, let’s be honest, I never finished it, I was so bored. I wrote an entire college paper based on Spark Notes.

There are others, like Lord of the Flies and Animal Farm that were great, but they weren’t my favorites. I guess this study of “classics” made me want to make my own list. So. I did …

Sara Dobie’s List of Books You Must Read Before You Are Dead

1. Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Zafon is the best writer on Earth right now. His books are set in Spain. They’re considered “gothic fiction,” which means they’re beautiful, creepy, and filled with ghostly happenings. Angel’s Game is my ultimate favorite book … and that’s saying something.

2. Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs
The book is mysterious, creepy, and highly entertaining. Plus it’ll scare you if you read it at night; I love when books do that.

3. Map of Time by Felix Palma
This is Palma’s first book translated into English, and I can’t wait for more. HG Wells is the lead character. Lots of time travel (but not too much as to be confusing). Extremely intelligent plot line and a quirky narrative voice.

4. The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
Written for children (but not really). It’s a very adult book, in my opinion, about a boy named “Nobody” who’s raised in a cemetery by ghosts. I believe Gaiman is my generation’s version of Lewis Carroll.

5. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
One of the only “classics” that I believe is “classic.”

6. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Everyone on the face of the planet should read Fahrenheit 451, several times. It’ll make you realize how close our culture really is to becoming a sci-fi book.

7. The Devil All the Time by Donald Ray Pollock
It’s not supernatural. It’s psychological. People in southern Ohio who are bad, bad people doing bad things. Beautiful in its brutality.

8. Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
I don’t usually like Palahniuk. I think he’s a pompous writer who overuses sentence fragments. That said Fight Club is his masterpiece. Chuck is a perfect example of modern American writing, and it’s not always a good thing … but Fight Club is spectacular.

9. “The Yellow Wallpaper” (short story) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
A woman slowly loses her mind while on bed rest. If you’re having an “off” day, don’t read this one. Wait until you feel stable, happy, and brave, and then, strap yourself in for an uncomfortable ride.

10. Everything’s Eventual (short story collection) by Stephen King
The best short story collection in the history of the world. At least, I think it is.

This list is not exhaustive. I could go on forever about good books. This list is a pretty good collection of my personal favorites, though. So now, it’s your turn. Tell me what else I need to be reading. What else should be considered “classic literature?” And not in the academic sense. What is classic—to you?

Read Full Post »

Felix Palma’s Mind-Blowing Map of Time

I’m not happy to admit the rest of the world is kicking our ass in literature. Of my current four favorite authors, THREE of them are from overseas: Carlos Ruiz Zafon (Angel’s Game) is Spanish, Erin Kelly (The Poison Tree) is English, Felix Palma (Map of Time) is Spanish, and thank goodness, Ransom Riggs (Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children) is American. These odds are not good, and I have a feeling American writing will soon be extinct simply because it cannot stand up to the Europeans.

I came to this conclusion after finishing the recently released Map of Time by Felix Palma, because frankly, his book blew my mind. If I’d read up on the guy, I should have seen this coming. He’s been publishing since 1998, in Spanish, of course. Based on the descriptions of his books, he resembles our generation’s H.G. Wells (more on him later). Map of Time won the Ateneo de Sevilla Award in 2008, and it’s his first (and only) book published in the United States.

The cover is enough to make you want to buy the book, but the synopsis on the front flap ain’t bad either: “Set in Victorian London with characters real and imagined, The Map of Time is a page-turner that boasts a triple play of intertwined plots in which a skeptical H.G. Wells is called upon to investigate purported incidents of time travel and to save lives and literary classics, including Dracula and The Time Machine, from being wiped from existence.” There are cameos by Jack the Ripper and the Elephant Man, too, and much discussion over a supposed “fourth dimension.”

Not only is the story of interest to fans of science fiction, history, or romance, the narrative voice—reminiscent of another European, J.K. Rowling—is whimsical and relaxed. Palma utilizes a third-person omniscient perspective. He sees into the heads of multiple characters at one time, and he often converses with you—the reader. For instance, “I shall take the opportunity to welcome you to this tale, which has just begun, and which after lengthy reflection I chose to begin at this juncture and not another.” Wonderful!

Be prepared to deeply consider the ramifications of time travel. If you’re not prepared to do so, you’re not prepared to read Map of Time. Palma is not only a master of the written word, but he’s a science fiction genius, to have thought up the questions posed by time travel. He posits that we each determine our current dimension while, possibly, we also live on in other dimensions via the choices we did not make. In the words of Jack Kerouac, “What is waiting for me in the direction I don’t take?” It’s a serious mind-f@#%, for reader and fictional character alike, and it’s worth every word on every page.

I could tell you more about the plotline, but eh, I don’t want to ruin it for you. I will say that I felt personally connected to Map of Time because, with a lead character like H.G. Wells, it has a lot to do with the life of a writer and artistic self-loathing. I will also say that if American authors don’t want to be left in the lurch, we better up our game—fast. I leave you with some wisdom from Palma’s protagonist, H.G. Wells, as you go on, living in the personal dimension of your day: “I am only interested in writing about what is impossible.” And what a relief it is.

Read Full Post »

Why Do You Want to Be a Writer?

Last night, I attended my monthly critique group. We were set to discuss segment five of my over 300-page novel, currently a work-in-progress. The girls didn’t like segment five. They said my writing was sub-par, and some of the character behaviors didn’t make sense. This is a good critique group, who often says interesting, illuminating things, but last night, I could barely take it. Why? Because it got me wondering: if I’m already messing things up within the first hundred pages, who’s to say the next two hundred pages don’t completely suck? Who’s to say I don’t completely suck?

So is the interior dialogue of a writer.

As a writer, I am the following:
Moody
Easily discouraged
Impatient
Whiny
Fragile
Touchy
Cynical …
You get the idea.

My writer persona, although pretty on the page, is not pretty in life. Then again, writers aren’t pretty—not emotionally, at least. Emotionally, we’re whiny, bitchy, fragile souls, who have become unavoidably cynical from years of rejection. We’ve all received the form letter telling us, in so many words, “No, your work is awful, but I don’t have the balls to tell you, so I’ll tell you this isn’t what we’re looking for right now.” We’ve all found authors who make us want to give up because we’ll never be as good as, say, Carlos Ruiz Zafon, or the newly discovered Erin Kelly. We’ve all considered getting a day job, because what’s the use in spending a year writing a book when it’ll just get thrown in the garbage anyway? Finally, we’ve all had a little too much scotch and bemoaned our station while smacking our heads against a desk and saying, “I suck, I suck, I suck.”

Ah, the life of a troubled artist ...

There are plenty of inspirational books that tell writers to keep at it, it’ll be okay, just keep trying. One of these is Stephen King’s On Writing. His is more a philosophy book than a book about writing, but in his way, he gets the job done. For Christmas, I received David Morrell’s The Successful Novelist. I started reading it yesterday, and the first chapter is called “Why Do You Want to Be a Writer?” When Mr. Morrell has asked this question in the past, there are a variety of responses. Money, for one, although from what I can tell only about twenty-five authors actually make money. Fame, but Oprah scares me, so why would you want to be famous? I thought about it myself, and I came up with my answer.

So, Mr. Morrell, in response to your question, “Why Do You Want to Be a Writer?” I offer the following response: Nobody in their right mind wants to be a writer. Being a writer is an awful, solitary, thankless profession that you may work hard at and never succeed in. Writing makes you crazy. Writing makes you miserable. The passion to write is a passion I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. So why? Why does Sara Dobie want to be a writer?

Because I have to be. Because there is something deep within my DNA that made me this … thing. If I don’t write for a couple days, I get horrible nightmares. If I don’t cleanse my imagination often, it gets freaky up there. I’ve tried to escape my fate. For years, I was a bartender, followed by wine sales. Then, I was a publicist. I was good at all these things, but there was always an itch—like a tiny, gnawing centipede in my brain—telling me, “Nice try, Dobes, but you aren’t getting out of this. You will be a writer, and it’s futile to resist.”

I’ve screamed at God every time I get another rejection letter, lose another contest, hit another roadblock … “God, why the hell did you give me this ability? What the hell do you want me to do with it? Because after years of failure, it feels like you don’t want me to do anything with this ability … except be miserable.” I can see God up there; He’s shaking His head, telling me to suck it up and be patient. To which I reply, “But that’s the problem, Lord; sometimes, I think I really do suck.”

I don’t mean to be a downer. It’s just that in college, I was top of my class. I’ve always been successful and driven, and yet, I’ve spent the past ten years watching my friends get promotions and buy houses. I linger on, poor and career-less. They call me “an artist,” when what they mean is, “Sara sure didn’t cash in on that honors diploma.” What do I do? Do I give in and check out Monster.com? Do I lay in fetal position on my couch and drink a bottle of Macallan 12?

No. I know how that story ends. If I get a real job, I’ll just be miserable. If I drink a bottle of scotch, I’ll be miserable. If I spend the day going over my book, I might be semi-miserable, too, but it’ll be a misery with purpose. God, in His infinite wisdom, made me a writer. I am a writer. It sucks, it’s thankless, and it may never pay off … but this is the path laid out for me.  There’s method behind life’s madness, if we’re patient enough to put up with the bulls@#& and see it through to the end of the rainbow. Maybe, I’ll find a pot of gold. Maybe, I’ll find a drunken leprechaun. Either way, when I got home last night, Jake was here to hug me, kiss me, and tell me, “At least you look really hot.” If that isn’t positive reinforcement, I don’t know what is.

Read Full Post »