I reviewed Ernest Cline's sci-fi novel Ready Player One on its release. I didn't like it. The book's boundless nostalgia for 80s nerd culture unsettled me on a deep level; hating the book kind of felt like self-loathing. In retrospect, I admit that my review of the book wasn't very good — I couldn't convey what I disliked about Ready Player One because I was wrestling with the issue of my generation's nostalgia on a personal level. So I'm thrilled to see Laura Hudson's excellent review of Cline's second novel, Armada, because she exactly articulates my problem with Cline's writing in specific, and with my generation's propensity for nerd nostalgia in general. Feast your eyes:
It's a valuable question for gaming culture—and “nerd culture” more generally—to ask itself: Do we want to tell stories that make sense of the things we used to love, that help us remember the reasons we were so drawn them, and create new works that inspire that level of devotion? Or do we simply want to hear the litany of our childhood repeated back to us like an endless lullaby for the rest of our lives?
Yes, yes yes! This is exactly what I wished I'd said when I reviewed Ready Player One. Go read the whole review. And pity poor Hudson's Twitter replies feed; for the next few weeks, it's going to be full of angry nerds howling for her blood.
The Seattle Review of Books will launch our readings calendar in the fall. (These things take time to do right!) But until that happens, every Monday we’ll highlight the best readings/literary events/talks/book clubs happening in Seattle — one event for each day of the week. (The above photo is of local author Doug Nufer and his dog. Nufer is on the right.)
Monday: The week opens on a promising note as Seattle’s literary godmother, Nancy Pearl, appears in conversation with the novelist Mary Doria Russell at University Book Store. Russell, in case you didn’t know, is the author of the excellent novel The Sparrow, which brought religion to the sci-fi novel in the most thoughtful, rewarding way possible. That was a long time ago. Now, she’s the author of a pair of historical novels—the first is about Doc Holliday, the newest is about Wyatt Earp. Pearl is a terrific interviewer, and Russell undoubtedly now has a metric ton of facts about the American west in her brain thanks to years of intensive research. This should be a fun conversation.
Tuesday: We at The Seattle Review of Books love Town Hall for their readings series, of course, but they also provide important community engagement sessions at key moments. This is one such moment: in the wake of the Supreme Court’s decision to make same-sex marriage legal across the United States, representatives from Lambda Legal, the ACLU of Washington, Legal Voice, and QLaw Foundation will lead a discussion about “the current state of LGBTQ equality, and examine key areas where there’s still work to be done.” It’s easy to forget, in moments of celebration, that we’re still so far from where we need to be. This is a great opportunity to plan the way we move forward.
Wednesday: Rebecca Makkai, author of the novels The Borrower and The Hundred-Year House, will read from her new book of short stories, Music for Wartime, at Elliott Bay Book Company. The Seattle Review of Books hasn’t read this book, but Makkai is a frequent contributor to the Best American Short Stories series, for whatever that’s worth, and Pam Houston can’t slather enough praise on Makkai. That makes this free reading absolutely worth your time.
Thursday: It’s always exciting when a Seattle author debuts her first book. And this debut looks to be a doozy: Sonya Lea’s memoir Wondering Who You Are is the latest production of the exceptional Portland publisher Tin House. The book is about what happens when Lea’s husband suffers a medical emergency that leaves him with no memory of their life together. Hugo House throws a party for Lea tonight, with a reading and signing and guest appearances from other local authors.
Friday: Up in Lake Forest Park, Third Place Books hosts Jesse Goolsby, author of I’d Walk With My Friends if I Could Find Them. It’s a debut novel. Third Place’s press copy describes the plot thusly: “three American soldiers haunted by their actions in Afghanistan search for absolution and human connection in family and civilian life.”
Saturday: This weekend, local Oulipian treasure Doug Nufer is hosting two readings. Saturday’s reading is a new iteration of Nufer’s popular Barrom Writers Offensive, and it takes place in Georgetown “and the water.” We’re informed that “ there will be a shuttle service from the Georgetown Art Attack.” More readings should take on the energy and mystery of a good kidnapping, I always say. (Sunday, Nufer will be performing with jazz saxophonist Wally Shoup at the Lower Duwamish Superfund Site, as part of the ongoing Duwamish Revealed art festival, too.)
Sunday: Ada’s Technical Books is hosting their third annual celebration of R. Buckminster Fuller’s birthday. Not enough mainstream attention has gone to Fuller, the geodesic dome fetishist and utopian thinker, and Ada’s earns a special place in our hearts for keeping the torch lit in Fulller’s name. The bookstore will celebrate Fuller’s birthday with a presentation by Fuller scholar L. Steven Sieden, a Q&A, and “a special birthday treat.” What better way to end a week, we ask you, than with a special birthday treat? None. There is no better way to end a week.
Published July 05, 2015, at 2:39pm
Outline is a novel in ten conversations, but it also examines what a conversation truly is: when a chatty airplane seatmate blathers all over us, is that a conversation? Can we have a conversation with an empty apartment?
A couple weeks ago, I visited the delightful Phinney Books for a reading. Customers at Phinney Books always have huge smiles plastered across their faces, and when you walk in, it's easy to understand why: from the categorization of books as either "TRUE" or "MADE UP" to the giant Ferris wheel along the wall of the kids' section, the whole store seems designed to maximize happiness in humans.
In preparation for the store's upcoming one-year anniversary, owner Tom Nissley was talking up a neat new idea: he had recently purchased a Polaroid camera (or whatever they call cameras that take instant photos nowadays; Polaroid got out of the Polaroid business a few years ago) and he was taking photographs of Phinney Books customers holding their favorite books. He wanted to decorate the store with the photographs.
This is a deeply lovable idea. How better to illustrate the shelves of a bookstore than with demonstrations of what the love of books can do to a person? Could there be a better advertisement for books than smiling humans, holding books they adore?
Nissley asked if I wanted to pose for a photo. Of course I did. But my enthusiasm quickly soured into a quandary. People ask me all the time for my favorite book, and the truth is, I don't have one. I don't believe in favorite books. I've written about this before: Out of the thousands of books that I've read, with the enormous palette of ideas and emotions they've represented, how could I choose only one? Why not ask for a favorite orgasm, or laugh, or grain of sand?
But I went out on safari anyway, scouring the shelves of Phinney Books in search of a photographic partner. In the fiction section, I spotted a copy of Stanley Elkin's masterpiece, The Franchiser. That seemed like an appropriate choice. Here's something I wrote years ago about what I call The Elkin Test:
Find the fiction section, locate the Es, and look for Stanley Elkin. If a bookstore carries Elkin's novels, it's a sign of all-around quality. Elkin, who died in 1995, was a masterful writer with a playful love of language that few authors this side of Nabokov could match—it's a good bet that almost every literary author you admire has read and loved Stanley Elkin's fiction. But many bookstores don't carry Elkin's novels because they're obscure and they don't sell—you'd be lucky to have one stolen every other year, compared to perennial sellers like Kerouac. Granted, any bookstore can order Elkin's books—the nonprofit Dalkey Archive Press keeps them all in print, supposedly forever—but so can I, from my laptop, on my couch. A bookstore that carries Stanley Elkin has more than good taste; it has a commitment to its stock and a willingness to shelve excellent books that don't pay for their own real estate.
My hand was almost on The Franchiser's spine when my eye caught a familiar friend a couple shelves away: Jim Dodge's sublime novella Fup. Sorry, Stanley: I instantly knew that Fup was going to be my date for this particular dance.
It's not that Fup is my favorite book, though it is one that I'll recommend to practically anybody. The thing is, Fup is my most memorable reading experience. It's the only book I've read three times in one day. I still remember the comfy chair I sat in to read the book, the sunbeam I almost unconsciously followed across the living room as I read the book once, came up for air, then went down again and again in a state of wonderment. I've read better books, but I've never fallen so quickly for a book. Every time I re-read it — and I re-read it often, sometimes even aloud — I relive the feeling of that day, when nothing mattered to me but sunlight and this remarkable new book that I had discovered.
People who love Fup have a hard time explaining why Fup is so important to them, but I'll give it a shot: it's a novella — actually, maybe "novelette" is more exact — about a young man who is raised by his taciturn, grumpy grandfather. Together, the boy and his grandfather find a young duck and adopt him as a pet. They name the duck Fup because it's a good, dumb joke — its full name is "Fup Duck" — and they grow into a family together. That's basically it.
Except it's not. Fup is a story that resonates with the weird magical crackle of an American tall tale. It's profane and hysterically funny and deeply moving. I've never read any book even remotely like Fup, although Tom Robbins at his very best sometimes brushes past it. And even after all these paragraphs, I'm not even coming remotely close to identifying why Fup is as important to me as it is.
Anyway, I went back up the counter and Nissley took my picture holding a copy of Fup and I didn't even blink when the shutter clicked down. I am someone who avoids looking in mirrors when he shaves, and even I have to admit that the picture came out okay; my smile is genuine and I look happy to be there. Fup is that kind of a book, and Phinney Books is that kind of a place.
This headline from Consumerist says it all: "Amazon Will Reportedly Pay Self-Published E-Book Authors $.006 Per Page Read."
According to the Guardian, that means the payments received by authors could be as little as $0.006 per page read, estimating that if an author publishes a 220-page book each page would have to be read by every person who downloads the book in order for the writer to make the $1.30 they get under the previous pay-per-download payment system.
Some authors have already left the program, "citing an estimated 60% to 80% reduction in royalties." The per-page payment system is classic Amazon-style shrewdness, in that it makes perfect sense and it's difficult to argue in terms of fairness. But even advocates for the plan have to admit that it's a hard-assed maneuver.
Think about it: when you go to a bookstore, how often do you buy books with the intent to read them right away? At least for me, the books that I buy wind up in a pile on my nightstand until the perfect moment for that particular book arrives. That moment might arrive two days after buying the book, or two years after buying the book. Maybe that day never comes.
When Amazon sells a self-published book to a customer, Amazon instantly makes money from that transaction. If the buyer never gets around to reading the e-book, the author will never make any money from that transaction. So Amazon is profiting from the author's hard work — plainly, the book wouldn't exist without the author, so Amazon would have nothing to sell — and paying nothing in return for that sale until the reader starts turning pages, a moment that is not guaranteed to ever arrive.
In this age of hyper-analytics, Amazon's new royalty policy is technically appropriate. But it's morally wrong.
The Hugo House has announced its 2015-2016 season, and it's a stellar lineup, featuring terrific big-name writers like Jonathan Lethem, Heidi Julavits, Dinaw Mengestu, Maggie Nelson, and Susan Orlean paired with some of the best local writers in the business today, including Maged Zaher, Sarah Galvin, and Sierra Nelson.
Novelist Peter Mountford took the helm as the House's curator a while ago, and this lineup feels like a manifesto. Or more accurately, as Hugo House prepares for a massive demolition and construction project, it's more of a statement of purpose. Come what may, Hugo House is here, in Seattle. It might have to move for while, but it's not going anywhere.
If you're a writer who needs a little help getting a project done, take note: now is the time to apply for CityArtists Projects funding. There is a literary category. Go get some of that money and make something beautiful out of it.
Seattle Mystery Bookshop has announced that their co-founder, William D. Farley, passed away on Sunday, June 28th, "just three days short of the shop’s 25th birthday." Our thoughts are with the staff of Seattle Mystery Bookshop at what must be a tremendously difficult time. What a legacy, though! The store he helped found is keeping a proud tradition of Pioneer Square bookshops alive.
The governor of my native state of Maine, Paul LePage, is unequivocally an imbecile. He's combative and unempathetic and ignorant and proud of it. He says terrible things on a very regular basis. But his most recent gaffe, as explained in the Portland Press Herald, is particularly troubling:
Gov. Paul LePage’s joke about shooting a political cartoonist is falling flat. The governor was laughing when he made the remark after the teenage son of Bangor Daily News cartoonist George Danby asked what LePage thought of his father’s satirical cartoons.
So let's restate this for proper context: a few months after the Charlie Hebdo shootings, Governor LePage made a joke about shooting a political cartoonist...to the cartoonist's teenage son. It should be noted that LePage (who is called "LePlague" by many Mainers) has also "joked" about blowing up a newspaper and punching a political columnist. I suppose it's too much to expect a subliterate man to understand the significance of using violent language, but someone on the governor's staff really must pull him aside and have a little talk about the fact that words have meaning. Use grunts and extravagant hand gestures, if necessary!
If you ever wanted to learn what the process of recording an audio book is like, Judy Oldfield Wilson's interview with Kathleen Wilhoite about the recording of the audio version of Where'd You Go, Bernadette is fascinating stuff. Bernadette was Wilhoite's first book recording experience — she was enlisted by Bernadette author Maria Semple for the job — and by all accounts, she nailed it.
Is it presumptuous to say that book covers are on the whole better now — more attractive, more informative, less clichéd — than at any other time in history? I believe that to be true, but I'm probably setting myself up for some epic arguments in the near future. Still, this retrospective on the life and work of H. Lawrence Hoffman inspires no small amount of nostalgia for the boom days of paperback books. Nobody is making anything quite like Hoffman's covers anymore, and that's kind of a shame. They're a little gaudy, sure, but they're great fun. I especially like the cover for FOG.
Design Milk published a photo-heavy tour of the Press Hotel, a new boutique hotel constructed from the old Portland Press Herald newspaper building in Portland, Maine. It's a little too precious — my heart hurts to see perfectly good typewriters used as decoration — but on the whole it's a gorgeous, writerly space. Maybe they'll offer a writer-in-residence program? Those writing desks look particularly welcoming.
(Once in a while, I take a new book with me to lunch and give it a half an hour or so to grab my attention. Lunch Date is my judgment on that speed-dating experience.)
Who’s your date today? Butterflies in November, an Icelandic novel written by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir and translated into English by Brian FitzGibbon.
Where’d you go? Queen Bee Cafe on Madison Ave.
What’d you eat? The BLT crumpet sandwich with fruit cup ($7.95) and a pot of Earl Grey ($2.75).
How was the food? Delicious! For the past billion years or so, Seattle has had exactly one excellent crumpet shop (that’s The Crumpet Shop in the Pike Place Market, for the uninitiated). I thought one great crumpet shop was enough for one city. I stand corrected: Queen Bee’s crumpets are baked fresh daily and they’re delightful — airy yet substantial, chewy but not too chewy, just the right texture. The produce in my BLT was fresh and delicious, the bacon was righteous, and the sandwich was accompanied with a cup of fresh berries; for eight bucks, I’d call that a steal. Queen Bee’s ambiance is a little overproduced — it looks slick, like a chain restaurant — but it’s got a lot of comfy seating and the employees are super-friendly. I plan on spending a lot of time there from now on, eating crumpets and drinking tea and reading books and otherwise being downright civilized.
What does your date say about itself? From the publisher’s promotional copy:
After a day of being dumped—twice—and accidentally killing a goose, a young woman yearns for a tropical vacation far from the chaos of her life. Instead, her plans are wrecked by her best friend’s four-year-old deaf-mute son, thrust into her reluctant care. But when the boy chooses the winning numbers for a lottery ticket, the two of them set off on a road trip across Iceland with a glove compartment stuffed full of their jackpot earnings. Along the way, they encounter black sand beaches, cucumber farms, lava fields, flocks of sheep, an Estonian choir, a falconer, a hitchhiker, and both of her exes desperate for another chance. What begins as a spontaneous adventure will unexpectedly and profoundly change the way she views her past and charts her future.
Is there a representative quote? “He’s home. I linger on the frozen lawn before entering, looking in at the light of my own home, and shilly-shally by the redcurrant bush with the goose in my hands, wondering whether he can see it on me, whether he’s noticed. From here I can see him wandering from room to room for no apparent reason, shifting random objects and alternately flicking light switches on and off. I move from window to window around the illuminated home, as if it were a doll’s house with no façade, trying to piece together the fragments of my husband’s life.”
Will you two end up in bed together? Yes, although I’ll admit to a little bit of discomfort. The protagonist of Butterflies in November is at first an almost ridiculously passive character. She lets everyone walk over her, do whatever they want with her, say whatever they dare to her. Too-passive main characters are a pet peeve of mine, and one of the most common problems plaguing literary novels. But based on the publisher’s description, I expect the passivity to decline after the first fifty or so pages of Butterflies. At least, I hope that’s the case.
Anyway, the writing is fantastic. Since I don’t speak Icelandic I can’t say for certain, but FitzGibbon seems to do a good job of capturing the cadence of Ólafsdóttir’s prose; the language is at once searingly human and alien-like. The protagonist’s is a voice that sticks with you, even as her actions infuriate you. The opening few chapters of Butterflies are a bumpy ride, but they promise something more meaningful just around the next bend.