Bookish

After he helped Ter and me move by hauling countless boxes of books up the stairs to our suite, my then thirteen-year-old nephew declared, somewhat belligerently, “I’m getting you guys an e-reader for Christmas.”

I have one, but it’s safe to say it won’t replace hard copy books in my life. There’s nothing quite so relaxing as a rainy day, a pot of tea, and a fat, luxuriously-written novel. I must confess to being more discriminating in my book selection these days; space is at a premium at home, not to mention the scarcity of reading time after a day at the office relegates my mental capacity to something akin to a squashed apricot. Still, I love to read. I love books, real books; magical, wonderful, lavishly written books about characters who compel me to think, feel and live their lives with them. Books inspire me. They take me to faraway places. They introduce me to new friends and villainous enemies. They teach me things. They stretch my imagination. It’s true what’s been said about reading: “One who reads lives a thousand lives. One who doesn’t read lives only one.”

I’ve read bodice rippers and murder mysteries, high fantasy and pulp fiction, biographies of mediocre people brilliantly written and autobiographies by brilliant people who couldn’t write worth a darn. I’ve even dipped a toe into poetry and, under duress, tackled the occasional non-fiction tome. But the point of this post stems from a curious dawning about the last few books I’ve bought:

They’re about books.

Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451 is a one-off with a specific message (I’ve only just started it, so I can’t pontificate on that message - yet). Genevieve Cogman’s The Invisible Library is a steampunky/alternate fantasy series that revolves around a place where important fiction from multiple worlds is collected and stored in order to keep those worlds connected and balanced (easier said than done, of course). It’s rollicking good fun in four volumes so far; as usual, I discovered the fourth first and had to rewind to get the background.

What gives? Why am I suddenly discovering books about the importance of books? Farenheit 451 is older than I am, but The Invisible Library was published in 2015. Have books always been in danger? Maybe so. Every time technology advances, the fear of books losing their worth seems to rear its head. Radio, TV, the internet, smartphones, you name it – each one of them has been perceived as a threat to literacy and books in general.

Literacy is definitely under fire, but books? Paperback or hardcover, the printed word doesn’t seem to be going the way of the dinosaurs anytime soon. While touted as the solution to packing Thomas Hardy around in your backpack, e-readers have hardly replaced those weighty beauties of old. Yes, they’re convenient in transit, and mine sure came in handy at the hair salon yesterday, but overall, I still see tattered pocketbooks in play at Starbucks. What a relief. As a writer, I needn’t fear imminent extinction. Technology has provided a vehicle as portable as those beat-up paperbacks, but some things can’t be replaced. Books are important. Books are a comfort; a tangible, sensual means of taking a trip without leaving your comfy chair. And browsing through amazon’s Kindle store is not nearly as pleasurable as browsing the shelves at your local (emphasis on “local”) bookstore.

Find the perfect escape, make that purchase and carry it home. Brew that tea and curl up on that couch, lift the cover, smell the paper, run your fingers over that title, turn the page … and disappear into another life.

KAOS or Control?

The next time you’re driving somewhere, take your hands off the wheel and see what happens. I bet your vehicle will run straight for a little bit, then the tires will hit a bump or a curve in the road and suddenly you’ll be mildly—or wildly—off course. By taking the wheel again, you’ll be able to get back on track, but surrender the helm once more and you’ll be offroading before you know it.

The same thing happens when you let life run itself.

On the flip side, it’s possible to over steer, as well. Tighten your grip too much and you’ll be over-correcting the tiniest ripple, slowing in fear of an unforeseen curve, and generally depriving yourself of the pleasure in driving that long and winding road.

The same thing happens when you micromanage life.

I saw another Bradbury gem the other day: “Life should be touched, not strangled”. It struck a chord because I, the hundred-proof Virgo, am a control freak in the extreme. (A sick irony, considering that I dislike being micromanaged, myself.) By the same token, I have learned over the years to release my white-knuckled grip and let my life happen naturally, working with it rather than fighting to make it do my bidding.

It’s half what you get and half what you do with it. I’ve taken my eyes off the road on occasion, and that’s when my life has spun into chaos. Some control is required in order to keep to the map. Lately I’ve been reminded to trust in my partnership with the universe, that things beyond my control are being handled and I am to let them happen in due course. My role is to handle them when they happen. Everything we do is the result of a decision, a choice. Choose to do nothing and you’ll be at life’s mercy. Choose to act and you’ll be part of a team, you and the universe, getting it done.

You may also find that the scenery is pretty darned amazing.

KAOS or control. It’s always your choice.

Round and Round the Bradbury Bush

Great saying, eh? I first read it in the Ray Bradbury essays that Nic sent me for Christmas, Zen in the Art of Writing, and I like it so much that I’m putting it on my office board when I get back to work next week.

Back to reality, I mean.

I can’t say I’ve been drunk, but I’ve certainly been tiddly on writing during the past few weeks. I finished the Calista story in November but took this long to nail a title that doesn’t out and out suggest a cheeseball bodice-ripper—my original title of “The Devil’s Duchess” never sat comfortably, and when I ran it past my office-tea-fairy-slash-beta-reader, she did her best not to wrinkle her nose until I wrinkled mine, then she let herself release an unbridled sneer. I’m truly grateful that she didn’t barf, because I wanted to. Eventually, I settled on “The Devil She Knows” and filed Calista under “finished”.

Then, with more help from Ray Bradbury, I got the novel rolling again. Bradbury—whose fictional work I have never read—recommends following a character along whatever path he/she is walking (or running, in the case of sci-fi/suspense) or, better yet, jumping onto a landmine in the morning and picking up the pieces during the course of the day. I took his advice and punched through the barrier that’s hung me up for months on Reijo’s romance. It was more a matter of getting me out of the way and letting the characters run the sequence of events—I had a pre-conceived notion of said sequence and they were ignoring it. My continual efforts to redirect them proved so frustrating that we all gave up on the project. Now that I’m listening again, it’s proceeding much more smoothly, though the debris around the broken barrier will need some big time cleanup in the edit.

And, as of this morning, I am thisssss close to finishing “Black in Back”. I had written my protagonist into such a pickle that she couldn’t figure a way out, so I left her stranded with the villain for a few weeks while I concentrated on Christmas and Calista and a few other non-writing distractions. Again, I threw a Bradbury-style punch and she plunged through the hole, taking me with her rather than the other way around. Now I have an ending in sight and hope to have ’er done by Sunday night.

The biggest Bradbury fan I have known was our lone male in the 21^st Century Poets. His work was very much a nod to his idol’s genre, but Johnny, like the rest of the Poets, had his own magical style. He was also generous with his support for the rest of the gang in our communal flexing of the creative muscle. I will always hold him dear to my heart, but when Nic sent me the Bradbury book, she also sent me a flood of good-time memories, and a little nostalgia for the days of nonstop poetry and prose that I shared with a unique band of creative spirits.

Zen in the Art of Writing is the first collection of literary essays that I am using as a textbook, marking it up with a highlighter and scribbly notes in the margins. Normally I like my books to look like they’ve been read but remain relatively pristine. It seems appropriate that Bradbury, who recommends a punch to kickstart a project, authored the first book to be so punched. I expect to gain more nuggets from the pages, but every time I pick it up, my first thought will be a fond one for the Poets’ JP Jensen.

Wherever you are, write on, Johnny.