The Martian Tales by Edgar Rice Burroughs (Books 1-11)

The Martian Tales are wonderfully predictable; every story involves a skilled warrior rescuing a damsel in distress. He rescues her every time. The villains are despicable, the women are beautiful, and the heroes are honorable. Typos and grammar errors aren’t rare, and the writing is functional and repetitive… so why bother? Burroughs’ imagination is awe inspiring; what he lacks in original story format is made up for by memorable details. In fact, I would argue that the simple format of the story allows greater maneuverability for insane and invigorating ideas.

We know that a beautiful woman will be kidnapped, usually by a disreputable jeddak (that’s Martian or Barsoomian for emperor). The warrior (all men on Barsoom are warriors) will experience countless hardships as he is forced to fight, imprisoned in caves, and shipwrecked in vast wastelands. He’ll usually regain his princess several times only for her to be repeatedly wrenched from his grasp, and he’ll have to foil plans for world domination as part of the bargain. Burroughs makes his characters work hard for a happy ending, but the happy ending is always there. We know where we’re going, so we can enjoy the journey.

Every journey is punctuated by strange cultures and creatures: red men, yellow men, green men, white men, black men, plant men, thoats, calots, apts, banths, kaldanes, Great White Apes. Burroughs introduces us to Mars or Barsoom with John Carter, a fighting man from Earth. The only explanation for his presence on Barsoom is a sort of transmigration with a violent death on Earth implied; Burroughs just leaves it at that and gets on with the story. John Carter is captured by green men who are fifteen feet tall, have four arms, have tusks, and only find death and torture funny. Luckily, the gravity on Barsoom is weaker than Earth’s, so Carter can leap dozens of feet and has godly strength. He teaches a green man the meaning of friendship, acquires a faithful hound that resembles a cross between a Grizzly bear and alligator, and saves the entire planet’s atmosphere. Oh yeah, he also rescues a princess.

This is just the first book that sets off the Martian Tales, and subsequent adventures involve John Carter or a warrior from the race of red men. While Burroughs wrote some of the earlier and later tales in third person, the vast majority is written in first person. A warrior narrates his own travels, and the voice is seldom distinct; the warrior always values chivalry and bravery. The real distinctions come with the details of his predictable journey. He may have to battle strange creatures that can detach their heads from their bodies or track monsters with four legs, two arms, and tusks growing out of their many lidded eyes. He may work for a scientist who specializes in switching brains from body to body or fly around in an invisible ship (until he loses it). The point is each adventure doesn’t try to be anything more than an adventure, and Burroughs joyfully fills in the blanks along the way.

As science fiction, the Martian Tales plays with ideas that may have been censored in other genres during the early twentieth century. Burroughs treats men of all races the same; he grants them intelligence and emotions while Barsoomians are only prejudiced against cowards. Women are admired for their willingness to fight. Anything approaching a religion is treated with the utmost scorn by the narrator. Barsoom is a dying planet with receding waters and an artificial atmosphere. John Carter often sadly reflects that Earth will eventually share a similar fate before becoming distracted by his next adventure.

Selected Stories by Anton Chekhov

I knew that I had to read something by Chekhov after attending a lecture that praised him for his simplicity of language, minimal dependence on plot, and severe commitment to objective storytelling. I had also heard “If there is a gun hanging on the wall in the first act, it must fire in the last” way too many times from other writers to not read Chekhov. Since he was reputed to be a master of the short story, I started my exploration with a collection of selected Chekhov stories. I read these stories looking for the three traits listed above, any firearms put to good use, and pure entertainment.

Many of his stories at the start of the book were ten pages or less, delightful blips of information that captured a situation without twisting it into a plot driven story. The use of simple language was clear in each story, and Chekhov even made gentle fun of characters who tried to use more bookish language. “Bring us half a miracle, my boy, and twenty-four savories,” is how a pompous clerk asks a poor waiter for half a bottle of vodka and some appetizers. Rather than trying to impress and possibly belittle the reader with a wide range of vocabulary, Chekhov speaks plainly, cutting through extra syllables to the content of the story.

Each story strayed away from conventional plot - no sacred quests, heroes battling villains, or a twelve step guide to achieving true love. This style flourished in Chekhov’s shorter stories, where we are given repeated glimpses of a character’s inner thoughts, presented with a situation that may be a conflict, and given slight implications of what situations may follow. “He Understood”, my favorite story in the collection, starts out with a wonderful description of a cross eyed peasant and his ludicrous gun (don’t worry, the gun gets used). As he waits unsupervised in a room of a large house for his punishment for illegally hunting, the peasant notices a wasp flying repeatedly into the window and wonders why it’s too ignorant to use the door. Wonderful moments like these multiply in a few short pages and provide direction without being predictable.

However, as the stories lengthened, this minimal dependence on plot took on a feeling of aimlessness. This became apparent with Chekhov’s story of novella length called “Three Years”, which chronicles the extended relationships between family and friends. Yes, there were interesting ideas about the fluidity of love, but the situations upon situations grew tiresome. I felt like Chekhov gave me repeated glimpses of a display case filled with pristine rifles that may have been fired. After fifty pages, I had an urge to hate any character, view a confrontation that went beyond harsh words, or make more connections between each event, even with the risk of the story appearing contrived. Perhaps dependence on plot isn’t such a vice for works of increasing length?

Chekhov’s commitment to objective storytelling came through with a stream of consciousness style. The inner thoughts of each character carry their distinctive voice while still remaining thoughts that anyone could have. In this way, Chekhov presents us with the possibility that people do different things for the same reason or the same thing for different reasons. The same thoughts don’t always lead to the same action, so how do we pass judgment? Of course, Chekhov isn’t purely objective, but his ego definitely kept its distance, careful to cast as small a shadow as possible. I found this difficult and refreshing as a reader since I wasn’t sure what to think. “The Darling”, the last story in the collection, is about a woman with an immense capability for love who adopts the opinions of those to whom she is closest. In the absence of opinions and close relationships, she is miserable. I hope to offer some possible opinions in my work without looming over the page.

Go Mutants! by Larry Doyle

Go Mutants! follows a stereotypical, young adult novel storyline. An adolescent male must pursue his dream girl and deal with bullies while trying to fit in to the world of High School. However, Larry Doyle provides an original frame for this awkward state with an alternate timeline. Earth is made publicly aware of alien visitors during the 1950s. The main character is J!m Anderson, a High School junior with a bulging brain, blue skin, potential powers, and unseen genitalia. Approximately one-tenth of his High School peers can be classified as humanoid or other, and this minority status takes teenage discomfort to a heightened level.

Doyle achieves a satisfying mix of quaint, old timey references (Drive-in theaters and classic rock lyrics) and bewildering, futuristic technologies (gyroscopic school buses and a nationwide multimedia system with unlimited energy). Several chapters contain screenplay-like introductions that flirt with and reverse Hollywood monster stereotypes before guiding them in Doyle’s chosen direction. Stereotypes are Doyle’s stomping ground since he uses society’s extreme prejudice against “mutants”, certifiably non-human beings originating from alien planets or government laboratories, to follow patterns of McCarthyism, race riots, and religious persecution along his revised timeline.

In a world whose technology is several centuries ahead of our own, children and adults can still be relied upon to act out of fear and distrust. J!m’s last stages of puberty escalate this widespread paranoia and encourage martial law. During this electric journey, Doyle tests many limits while presenting our prejudices in an alien light. Thus, I found it frustrating that the book ventured halfheartedly into the topic of death. Sure, a few faceless characters ultimately die, but there are at least five instances where a major character seemingly dies but then miraculously comes back to life. This eventual predictability did not help the ending, which felt hastily constructed and too convenient. Despite this slight disappointment, Doyle expertly maintains an omniscient narrative, adding depth to an original storyline built on stereotypes.

All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy

All the Pretty Horses provides a highly romanticized but startlingly brutal account of a young man’s travels on horseback in Mexico. The traveler, John Grady Cole, is both unremarkable and fascinating. I believe this feature can be attributed to his words versus his actions. The dialogue between him and his two traveling companions is sparse and repetitive, but his actions concerning love, horses, and war are flamboyant. I believe this is part of the attraction for reading McCarthy; it’s almost as if one is reading the work of two distinct writers. There is lush language describing the majestic Mexican landscape side by side with matter of fact descriptions of eating meals or buying supplies from a store.

In a previous review on a McCarthy work, I fixated on his sparse use of commas and other punctuation marks, but I now believe that could be a misguided attempt to mix style with content. Yes, cutting down on unnecessary punctuation marks will help with my writing, but swearing off commas isn’t going to have me writing like McCarthy. While the man in undeniably talented, I wouldn’t want to write just like him. However, I do believe the contrast achieved in his writing is an aspect in which I could truly use more practice.

McCarthy’s attention to detail when describing the plants, animal life, and natural landscape of the Mexican setting is superb. An attempt to add these details to my own work will help with my obliviousness to my surroundings as both a writer and as a human being. McCarthy also describes important human interactions without getting bogged down in dialogue and editorializing body language. I can definitely learn from that.

There were times when I found the descriptions of setting too effusive and the human dialogue too clipped (i.e. John Grady trading so few words with his best friend when they both realized they had survived), too much of a contrast when a middle route wouldn’t have been a sin. McCarthy is a great writer in showing me that contrast may be a consistent option to balance my writer weaknesses with my strengths.

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler

Chandler’s novel is another work (in addition to Agatha Christie’s Poirot series and a Neil Gaiman story) that has convinced me that I must write a detective story. I have been analyzing what draws me to the detective story, and I believe it is the detective’s personal endeavor to connect seeming unrelated details into a bigger picture that appeals to me as a writer. Chandler gives us the detective Marlowe, who gravitates toward the big picture in a stoic yet compassionate manner.

Marlowe is the classic, hardboiled detective for whom smoking and drinking is part of the investigative process. However, he doesn’t subject us to bland philosophizing on dangerous dames or mention his special .38 revolver every other page. Yes, Marlowe uses guns occasionally, but they usually find their way to his reluctant hands from acquaintances who didn’t use them as wisely. And yes, he meets dangerous dames, but the sexual tension is frequently ridiculed as a flimsy filter between Marlowe and the bigger picture.

The Big Sleep is written in first person past tense. There are some limitations to this approach since the reader is privy to Marlowe’s musing on the case at certain junctures but then shut off from his conclusions that could spoil the surprise. Chandler limited this isolation from Marlowe’s intentions at very specific points, so the reader felt as if they were solving the case alongside Marlowe for the most part. That being said, I’ll still try writing my first detective story in third person to avoid those difficult contradictions.

Chandler throws temptations of the flesh and of the bank at Marlowe but always in a way that contributes to the detective’s search for truth. There is no shortage of murders in this book, but many of them reveal Marlowe’s own mortality, giving a believable edge of danger to every step of the case. I won’t spoil the ending, but when Marlowe finds his truth, he keeps it noble but not self righteous.

Changing Planes by Ursula LeGuin

A dedicated fiction writer is driven to create a world of fiction. In Changing Planes, Ursula LeGuin creates worlds of fiction, sixteen to be exact. In our world or plane, a young woman named Sita Dulip initiates this interplanary travel or world hopping after becoming stuck in a constipated airport where her flight is repeatedly delayed. Apparently, the conditions for such travel are extreme boredom and discomfort, a nice touch. Once despised travel hubs, airports become departure points for interplanary tourists. LeGuin takes a tantalizingly anthropological approach to each realm, which is filled with vivid detail, stunning imagination, and biting satire.

As a science fiction nerd, I wanted more detail about changing planes. For example, LeGuin lets the reader know that each plane has an airport-like waiting room to facilitate our journey back while alluding to different but still discomforting and boring techniques that inhabitants of other planes have for traveling. The passage of time is also different for each realm; a traveler with a two hour flight delay might spend a worthwhile day in a tropical plane. However, she does not let the reader know what happens to the travelers’ bodies; do they vanish completely or merely remain in a semi-coma in their own plane while experiencing an extraordinary trip.

Each plane provides a rich history, a fascinating situation that placated my inconvenient question. LeGuin also manages to turn each situation into a smaller, representative story through her first person narrative. Changing Planes is LeGuin in top form working with compelling ideas: inhabitants whose dreams are communal, a land primarily populated by Royals where commoners are celebrities, a conversation over maize soup with a waitress who is four percent corn, and an island where immortality might be achieved through a single fly bite. This is just a small list, but LeGuin hints at an infinite number of planes; the planes aren’t created but discovered.

Occasionally, LeGuin’s biting satire threatens to consume the original content present in each plane. The satire present is an essential component in defamiliarizing us to our “rational” practices, but I’d rather have fewer messages and more planes. Mrs. LeGuin has thought provoking ideas about corporations, sexuality, and war, but she left me greedy for more worlds of fiction.

Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman

Gaiman uses Mr. Nancy or Anansi (a character from American Gods) to create another story full of epic references. Anansi, the Spider god has died, and his son, Fat Charlie, is torn from his normal life as his father continues to embarrass him from beyond the grave. Anansi Boys is a less complex book than American Gods, but I think this simpler, less epic structure allowed for a more humorous tone. Gaiman reveals a fondness for the trickster, emphasizing cunning and smooth words instead of brute force.

Every story has already been told. This statement makes me think of myths, legends, fables, or other ancient stories that have unjustly stolen my relatively new ideas. Gaiman isn’t intimidated by these tales; he uses them as inspiration for impossible figures in modern circumstances. Anansi Boys isn’t quite an adaptation of African folktales but a continuation in present day London, Florida, and the Caribbean.

Gaiman also plays with the idea of parts being greater than their original sum. Fat Charlie has a godlier twin brother. This trickster component of his personality was exorcised when Fat Charlie was a small child. When a starfish is cut in half, each part will grow into another starfish. Anansi Boys combines this image with role reversals as the brothers meet and inhabit each others’ lives.

The only unsatisfying part of the book was the ending. It felt too convenient with an ancient power struggle resolved and happy circumstances achieved in one fell swoop. I believe the implication that a similar conflict would arise in another time and place was there (every story will also be retold), but a hint of uncertainty could have added to the cyclical nature of these epic references.

A story with a god and his offspring as the main characters is likely to have bizarre series of events. Anansi Boys is no exception, but Gaiman’s humorous tone turns these events into a wonderfully embarrassing but necessary component of Fat Charlie’s struggle to become his own starfish. In my own writing, I’ve been asking the question “how much is too much?” Won’t it be taken as a joke past a certain point? Perhaps I need to find that point, since some of the best stories don’t need to be taken seriously.

The Road, Cormac McCarthy

I’m a fan of post-Apocalyptic stories since the idea of being part of the privileged group of survivors trying to start a new civilization fascinates me. McCarthy’s words made me realize that I had never truly contemplated a nuclear holocaust; in this case, the privileged group consists of the people who died on impact. The Road begins with a father and son trying to make their way to the coast. Their dialogue is repetitive, ranging from “OK” to “I don’t know”, but it captures their situation in an eerily realistic way. Many post-Apocalyptic novels take the trouble to point out aspects of life that we previously took for granted, but McCarthy moves beyond this by chronicling the uncertainty between each meal. Survival becomes a strange concept as the father and son encounter other predators and victims along their journey. When tested by hopelessness and fear, the question of whether or not to cling to life does not translate into an inspirational tale. Instead, it remains a frequently tested question with no clear answer. McCarthy’s sparse use of punctuation marks and his simple, declarative sentences allowed the story to speak for itself, and his style has made me more conscious of the clutter that may exist in some of my own writing.

This Year You Write Your Novel, Walter Mosley

I scoffed at the title of this book since many of my previous teachers had mentioned great novelists who had spent a decade or longer writing their masterpieces. Mosley’s self help book is short and sweet while reiterating many of the pieces of advice I have gleaned from other craft novels (write every day, don’t expect your first draft to be a masterpiece, show don’t tell, etc.). However, Mosley has a distinct style of getting straight to business. He rarely interrupts the steady flow of advice by recounting his own struggles as a writer or by name dropping to criticize or praise the work of other authors. Mosley issues straightforward statements and illustrates them with examples of progressing stories. The story examples progress along with the book which reinforces Mosley’s advice in a simple and elegant way. All other craft books that I’ve read have made some assumptions about my knowledge of basic literary terms such as story, plot, and narrative voice. Mosley deigns to offer working definitions for these terms, and I found this extremely helpful. The author certainly stays true to his own advice like not undermining the pedestrian details that make a work relatable. This book is an approachable, refreshing read that doesn’t wallow in what it means to be a writer.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera

Kundera’s novel presents a treasure trove of ideas from the applications of kitsch to betrayal as a form of bravery to questions of true love. A good portion of the book is devoted to the workings of communist Czechoslovakia where contradictions fuel Kundera’s unique ideas on humanity. Kundera alternates between an essay or lecture format and relaying the experience of four characters across Europe. A fellow reader aptly described the reading experience as akin to peering into a Petri dish. Kundera boldly uses the omniscient narrative voice in this story. I was always aware of Kundera’s shadow looming over the Petri dish, but he never attempts to hide his presence. The author even mentions his writing process in conjunction with examining his characters. The characters became examples in his essays, although they were interesting examples. Kundera’s lecture like honesty was useful at many points but became tiring at others with a number of overused examples. The pure number of ideas present made for a worthwhile read, but I felt that some of the more original ideas could have warranted novels of their own.

Eva Luna, Isabel Allende

Here’s what happens in Eva Luna: a fascist scientist develops the perfect embalming method, an old woman survives a flood by floating in her own coffin, a little girl and a Portuguese man cut open chicken throats for gold, an artful application of Universal Matter helps rescue rebel prisoners from a jungle prison, a high ranking military official makes advances and threats during a classy dinner, a young Austrian boy and his mentally disabled sister hide under a tablecloth from their abusive father, three cousins explore love in a South American hamlet, a guerilla leader can’t follow some of his own rules, a talented artist becomes more of a woman than most who are already born that way, a girl buries her dowry after witnessing a suicide, telenovelas start heading in new directions, and a stuffed puma shows up every once in a while.
Allende manages to blend all these stories and more into a single, coherent story. The story within a story idea fascinates me, and I began to think of each Allende story as a living thing. I kept thinking of walking through a jungle as I read; there were enough details to be almost overwhelming, yet these details helped me focus on new details as they crossed my path. As Allende tells these stories, she seamlessly switches from first person to third person; she moves but never rushes. My only issue with the story was that Eva Luna seemed a little too irresistible to be believable, but that’s only a small interruption in what was otherwise a continuous and vivid dream. I’m satisfied that this read has left me with the open-ended question of “how does an author create this coherent jungle book, a complex ecosystem that has taken Mother Nature millions of years to achieve?”

Zen in the Art of Writing, Ray Bradbury

Bradbury’s collection of essay is part advice and part auto-biography from meetings with Mr. Electrico to keeping and feeding your own Muse. The beautiful aspect of these essays is that you can read and reread them on their own or any sequence; either route still allows the reader to experience Bradbury’s generosity as he openly communicates his sources of inspiration.
There were some points in the book where I was distinctly aware that Bradbury comes from an older generation. For example, he mentions how Fahrenheit 451 was literally a dime novel since he frantically typed all the text on typewriters in a library basement that charged a dime for each half hour. Unless I survive an apocalypse and my electronic appliances don’t do the same, I don’t see myself ever having this experience. However, there are some aspects that hold true through the generations. Bradbury frequently mentions that he has written a thousand words every day for a very long time. He certainly doesn’t claim that all these words have become masterpieces, but he does imply that all writing – even bad writing – has some value (how else do we preserve our inspiration?). I won’t give away the simple but insightful steps that Bradbury mentions in his essay for which the book is titled, but I’d like to end with a simile that he offers to the reader to keep as their own. “Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. That landmine is me.”

On Becoming a Novelist, John Gardner

“That’s me!” I thought to myself as I read the book title and congratulated myself on buying the book at my local Borders. I started questioning both my previous statement and my purchase when I struggled to get through the first half of the book, a section entitled “The Writer’s Nature.” Originally, I felt distanced from Gardner’s advice by what I took as pomposity (especially when he bashes science fiction); I eventually realized that this is Gardner’s honesty taking its own form. He repeatedly makes genuine appeals to the highest level of novelist in an extremely detailed fashion. These details are what make the continuous and vivid dream of a novel possible (“detail is the lifeblood of fiction”). Gardner provides numerous examples of how a poor choice of language can disrupt this dream from sentence structure to distasteful idioms. I was shocked to find that I had overlooked many of these applications in my own writing.
The second half of the book was more accessible, and I wonder if Gardner did this with conscious intent (many of his anecdotes follow a similar pattern of describing arduous but rewarding experiences.) We are taken on a brief but intricate journey through writer workshops, interactions with agents and editors, and possible bouts of writer’s block. I have faith that these later sections will be useful in my future endeavors, but there is an undertone of respect and generosity throughout the entire book that is immediately inspiring. I believe Gardner sums up these values when he warns the aspiring novelist to not “play pointlessly subtle games in which storytelling is confused with puzzle making.” Respect the reader enough to take them on as an equal partner. Be generous.

The Mammoth Book of Extreme Science Fiction edited by Mike Ashley

What is extreme science fiction? Ashley helpfully offers a definition in the introduction that it is a story which takes a wonderful idea and uses it to push limits while still remaining a respectable story. The nineteen stories in this book were supposedly arranged in order from least to greatest extremes. I can’t say that I would have followed that same order, but I can say that most of the stories expanded my mind in some fashion. There were times when I became irritated with a story because a concept or alien perspective was particularly difficult to handle, but there was always a payoff at the completion of each story. I definitely recommend assorted collections for readers looking for emerging or even well established authors in a genre; I already have a list of four authors whose works I have to pursue.
This collection has convinced me that I want a portion of my writing to find a niche some place along the vast spectrum of science fiction. The major attraction is that these stories are very memorable, and the impressive range of ideas can make for a damned good story. I can’t resist recounting a few ideas explored in these stories. Two members aboard a 250 million year old spaceship huge enough to contain entire planets and hundreds of coexisting alien species uncover a carefully concealed genocide. Human members exploring a potential colony world are attacked by repulsive blobs which turn out to be their own internal organs. An immortal witnesses the death of the universe. An entire planet made of randomly moving molecules is found to be a computing machine for creatures that live in a separate reality. Humans try to throw a feast in a time where everyone has essentially forgotten how to eat.
This collection has rekindled my love for science fiction. The genre is a beautiful blend of wild exploration and careful experimentation that I find irresistible. These stories push limits in ways that sometimes make me feel small and insignificant. This is actually a very comforting feeling that reminds me not to take myself too seriously. Most of all, it’s just plain fun.

Reservation Blues by Sherman Alexie

A man who had no natural talent for playing the guitar made a deal with the Gentleman to become the best guitar player in the world. It turns out that this isn’t the type of deal that one would want to keep forever, and this guitar man eventually winds up on a Spokane Reservation. The guitar decides to keep the deal running with a young man living on the reservation, and this union gives birth to the Coyote Springs band. Alexie takes the story of Robert Johnson, the best damn guitar player to ever live, and turns it into something that is undoubtedly his own artful creation. Each chapter begins with lyrics that might appear in a blues song while unearthing another facet of life on a reservation and what came before. I found that these lyrical beginnings helped the story flow seamlessly but with warmth like a treasured vintage record.
I was further amazed by this flow when I realized that the entire book was divided into numerous scenes that averaged about three pages each. This technique immediately made me think of the writer’s self-help book Bird by Bird, and it also gave the story a neat feel as if it were a mysteriously assembled puzzle that may or may not have had a big picture in mind; I’ll have to read more Alexie to see if this approach is used in his other books. I was really disappointed when the otherwise smooth flow of the story seemed to meet some resistance near the end of Reservation Blues. It felt as if Alexie was trying to wrap everything up after Coyote Springs’ audition in New York. Saying goodbye is never easy, but I would have been fine with an ending that left me with more uncertainty.
I experienced a healthy amount of uncertainty when trying to come up with a definite difference between the functions of Big Mom and the Gentleman. Both seem to offer a path of success or damnation to the musically inclined who are willing to interact with them. Does one path represent God and the other the devil? Does it all tie back into free will, or is that my assumption that I can even comprehend the motives of God or the devil? Perhaps the difference is that one of them only offers the illusion of free will. This is the type of uncertainty that I would have liked to see in the ending. I’m beginning to realize that this uncertainty may be part of the attraction of poetry. I’ve never spent much time exploring poetry, but I intend to start with Sherman Alexie.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

The power of a god or goddess is dependent on the number of their followers as well as their continued belief. Furthermore, this deity could not have existed without this belief in the first place. This idea seems both intuitive and startlingly absurd, and Gaiman plays with this contradiction by detailing the adventures of Shadow, a recently released convict. He is offered a job by a man who calls himself Mr. Wednesday, who eventually lets on that he is the American version of the god Odin. Yes, there are multiple embodiments of the same god in different areas of the world where there is still enough belief to sustain them. Gaiman details this wonderfully at times by recounting past stories of immigrants who brought their own gods with them to this strange, alien land broadly referred to as America. We are also introduced to these gods, who are memorable characters as gods should be, as Shadow joins Mr. Wednesday in his scheme to unite the older generation of gods.
Yes, there is a generational gap between the new gods and old gods; both generations must compete for precious believers. The old gods are out of touch and belief in them has waned; most have settled down into a more or less human way of life. The new gods are created and grow in power so rapidly that they have no idea what to do with their newfound belief. The stage is set for conflict, and yes, gods can die. I won’t ruin the ending, but I’ll say that much of the book is spent building up to that final showdown. Patience was not required for me to get to this point; the back stories and interactions of the gods were fascinating enough on their own.
I only realized that tremendous amount of research that Gaiman had put into this story when I read the very complete list of acknowledgements. As a fiction writer, this both intimidates and fascinates me. I originally set out to read this book after reading a collection of Gaiman’s short stories and being left with the question “how does an author decide whether their creation is best put to use as a short story or as a novel?” I’m beginning to think that it’s not so much a choice as an overwhelming desire to keep exploring an idea.

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman

Fragile Things begins with a remarkable introduction that details the process and motivation behind each piece in this collection of Neil Gaiman’s short stories. I recommend reading these descriptions after finishing the rest of the book, since several shed too much light on what would have been otherwise utterly unpredictable stories. The “fragile things” that piece together this book reveal an impressive range from whimsical poems to boyhood traumas to haunting accounts of what may lay beyond human understanding. The characters and situations mostly follow this same pattern; there was no time throughout the entire book where I found myself thinking “Hey, this story is really similar to that one four or five pieces back.”
Neil Gaiman’s collection also left me with a nagging question. How does a writer know whether their creation is best put to use as a short story or as novel? The first piece, a detective story called A Study in Emerald, already saw this question take form. I found myself resentful as if a host had just introduced me to all these wonderful people at a party before showing me to the door fifteen minutes later. I was actually relieved when an intriguing character, known simply as Mr. Alice, made a brief appearance in a later story. Gaiman hints that these stories, these fragile things may not be so fragile. As a writer, I’m determined to explore where these intricate structures stand tall and where they collapse. I believe that Gaiman will be a useful guide on this journey, so I intend to pick that man’s brain by looking now to his novels.

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

If I had to describe this book in three words, then I might say “honest, insightful, and refreshing!” Happily, this is not a movie review, so I have the chance to possibly say something meaningful about this honest, insightful, and refreshing work. Anne Lamott is like a word doctor who steps into a waiting room packed with sickly writers and announces “I have some good news, and I have some bad news.” I felt like I had already been given advice dealing with short assignments and shitty first drafts. On second thought, I wasn’t sure if some of this advice had been given to me in earlier writing workshops or if it sometimes just seemed so intuitive that I merely thought I had encountered it before. That is part of the genius of this book; it starts with the seemingly obvious before branching off into subtleties that somehow take us back to those natural ideas.
Even the title parallels this natural flow achieved by Lamott. She guides us gently through the concept of short assignments such as writing as much as you can see through a one inch picture frame, and I felt my frustration mounting when she recounted an excruciating personal experience of constructing, deconstructing, and reconstructing a novel. Yes, but how do we move from short assignments to full length books? I was enlightened by my own stupidity when I reread earlier sections and then actually bothered to comprehend the title. Bird by bird, piece by piece means that there is no secret technique to writing a short passage or a novel. A vengeful part of me was heartened by the mention that published writers still have to endure this painful process. The main concept that stuck with me was the perseverance required in learning how to let yourself go (listening to your broccoli) while keeping yourself pinned to the computer screen or piece of paper on which you are writing. Bird by Bird is not a book that I will reread all the way through again. Instead, I believe that a better approach to this book is passage by passage as different difficulties arise in my own writing process.

Four Souls by Louise Erdrich

Erdrich’s use of multiple narrators in Four Souls weaves an intricate but coherent story. My only difficulty with this achievement was how Nanapush had an in depth knowledge of Fleur’s activity when he hardly seemed to speak to her. I found myself emotionally invested in three out of the four narrators, but I was always aware of an uncomfortable boundary between myself and Fleur. I cannot recall a single passage focusing of Fleur that took place in the first person, yet we have that for all the remaining narrators. This would not have been so bad if Fleur had not come across as the central figure of the story. I got the sense the Erdrich had built this character up so much that any real level of intimacy would have spoiled that careful illusion.
At the same time, I believe that Fleur was a complex and evolving character. She is a mother, an independent spirit following an uncertain path of revenge, and person with multiple names that speak of a larger story beyond her existence. I am disappointed that I cannot get Fleur’s own perspective on her complexity and evolution. Four Souls did me a service by taking me through unfamiliar territory, and I intend to continue this particular journey by looking at least one of Erdrich’s other works before I head to other lands.

Book Reviews

I have a bunch of time on my hands, so I've been reading about three to five books a month. If you like to read and are looking for new authors, then you might find this helpful. Some of this is also part of my low residency MFA at Antioch; I'm supposed to read a few books, annotate them, and see if I've gained any useful information from the last two steps. If you have any suggestions for writers or books that I should check out, then please let me know!