How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

GOALS AS A NOVELIST:

1. FAME--Realistic amount. Enough to open new avenues of sexual opportunity. Personal assistant to read my mail, grocery shop, and so on.
2. FINANCIAL COMFORT--Never have a job again. Retire. Spend rest of life lying around, pursuing hobbies (boating? skeet shooting?).
3. STATELY HOME BY OCEAN (OR SCENIC LAKE)--Spacious library, bay windows, wet bar. HD TV, discreetly placed. Comfortable couch.
4. HUMILIATE POLLY AT HER WEDDING.

-How I Became a Famous Novelist

As always, I have a formidable stack of unread books sitting on my shelf--a bit of an obligation, but mostly a comfort, since not having a book to read is a none-too-secret terror of mine. Thus I had no reason to pick up How I Became a Famous Novelist at St. Vincent de Paul a few months back, except I thought that I would regret it if I didn't.

How I Became a Famous Novelist is the story of Pete Tarslaw, a twenty-something living in Boston and working as a professional polisher of school admission essays. He's--and I don't think there's a way to put this nicely--a loser. When he gets an invitation to his ex-girlfriend's wedding, though, it spurs him to action. Not for any particularly selfless reason: he just wants to win the breakup.

He hits upon his plan of action while watching a soft news piece on folksy novelist Preston Brooks. He quickly sizes up the man, who never met a platitude he didn't like, as a con artist--and decides there's no reason that he can't write a book like that. No point in trying to make it good, mind. He creates a list of what elements he would need to include to make his story popular, and dreams of the fame and fortune to follow.

To his credit, he does write a book. A terrible book, from all the evidence provided, but nonetheless a book with a beginning, middle, and end. (As a NaNoWriMo participant, I realize just that is an accomplishment). How I Became a Famous Novelist then charts Pete's new career, with its highs and--more often--its lows. It's a funny ride, particularly when author Steve Hely pokes fun at the modern book scene. (His imagined titles and plots for New York Times bestsellers were amusingly believable.) While Pete himself is not particularly likeable, he's self-aware enough that the reader doesn't tire of his company, and I found the book overall to be pretty enjoyable.

Up next: The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente. (Whew, that's a mouthful.)

Pawnee: The Greatest Town in America by Leslie Knope

The historical portions of this book were largely written from memory by The Author, then fact-checked by both Bill Haggerty of the Pawnee Historical Society and a team of researchers from Pawnee Community College, who proclaimed them to be "shockingly accurate." There's really no reason for The Author to include that fact here, except The Author is feeling a little braggy and she wants everyone to know that she basically typed this from memory.

-Pawnee: The Greatest Town in America 

So, here's the thing: I love Parks and Recreation. It's one of the best shows currently on the air, after all. Because the show is so funny, and because I'm a TV nerd, I was psyched to read Pawnee: The Greatest Town in America, which actually featured in the third season of the show.

But I read it very quickly about a month ago, so I must admit that the details have already faded from my memory.  It was certainly funny, and very much captured the voice of Leslie Knope (unsurprisingly, since it was helmed by Parks and Rec writers). It has a lot of information that is sure to appeal to anyone who appreciates the show's humor (a list of town mottoes over the years, a history of Newport family, etc.) If you're the sort of person who's inclined to pick up a book like this, I imagine that you'd like it.

Other than that, not much else to add, I'm afraid. I think I must press on if I'm ever to have any chance of catching up on posts.

Up next: Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter by Tom Franklin.

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? by Mindy Kaling

Bren and I befriended each other early on, became inseparable through a shared sense of humor, a trove of nonsensical private jokes, and had the same enemies within the Drama Department. We clung to each other with blind loyalty, like Lord Voldemort and his snake, Nagini. I, of course, was Nagini. If you messed with one of us, you knew you messed with both of us, and Voldemort was going to cast a murder spell on you, or Nagini was going to chomp on your jugular. It was such a good, dramatic time.

-Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? 

Oh, dear. I am disastrously, disastrously behind here. Things have been fun & busy here in real life, which has left me with slightly less time to ruminate about books. Still, I hate to abandon things, so I'll try to scrape together some--probably abbreviated--posts.

I wanted to come up with some cute intro for Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, something to explain how much I like Mindy Kaling or how much I'd been looking forward to reading her book. Unfortunately, all I seem to be able to come up with are cliches and anecdotes about cupcakes, which I'm going to skip in the interest in keeping things moving.

I read this book quite quickly--I think I read the first chapter before going to bed one night, then finished the rest the next day. It's light and (unsurprisingly) funny, the tone conversational and very engaging. Kaling writes about her childhood, her college life, and her struggle to make it in New York post-graduation. She has the killer combination of being both extremely funny and extremely dedicated, so (spoiler alert!) even given the difficulty of the industry, it's easy to see why she's been as successful as she has. If she didn't seem so awesome, I'd have to be a little jealous. Instead I'll just content myself by enjoying her Twitter feed and looking forward to her new fall pilot. I could definitely see rereading this one in the future, especially if I were in need of a pick-me-up.

Up next: Got on a little comedy kick and went with Pawnee: The Greatest Town in America.

Bossypants by Tina Fey

Why is this book called Bossypants? One, because the name Two and a Half Men was already taken. And two, because ever since I became an executive producer of 30 Rock, people have asked me, "Is it hard for you, being the boss?" and "Is it uncomfortable for you to be the person in charge?" You know, in that same way they say, "Gosh, Mr. Trump, is it awkward for you to be the boss of all these people?" I can't answer for Mr. Trump, but in my case it is not. I've learned a lot over the past ten years about what it means to be the boss of people. In most cases being a good boss means hiring talented people and then getting out of their way. In other cases, to get the best work out of people you may have to pretend you are not their boss and let them treat someone else like the boss, and then that person whispers to you behind a fake wall and you tell them what to tell the first person. Contrary to what I believed as a little girl, being the boss almost never involves marching around, waving your arms, and chanting, "I am the boss! I am the boss!"

-Bossypants 

So I decided I needed to take a bit of a breather from Little Dorrit, which I hate to admit is fairly slow going so far. I'm nearly halfway through, and I'm hoping things will kick into high gear soon. In the weeks I've been reading it, a dozen books from various sources have piled up on my shelf, and I thought it might be better to take a break and read a couple of those. Thus, Bossypants, a birthday present from my most excellent brother.

I've loved (and identified with) Tina Fey since she first came into the spotlight as co-anchor of Weekend Update. I always have solidarity with ladies who wear glasses, but beyond that she seemed both funny and incisive, which is about the best you can ask for in a comedian. Also, she went to my alma mater, which means I was lucky enough to see her perform on stage with a touring company of Second City during my time there.

All of this led me to believe that I would be a great fan of Bossypants, and I was absolutely right. Tina (I feel like I can call her Tina, right?) starts with a self-deprecating look at her nerdy childhood, which is always a good start in my book. She covers everything from her college years* to her time running 30 Rock, with enough room in between to share the story of a honeymoon cruise gone wrong and the travails of working at the YMCA. Tina has that enviable talent of a great writer to take a fairly mundane situation and make it both funny and engrossing--you just want her to tell you about everything. 

It's a very quick read--ideal for bringing along on a plane trip or to the beach if you don't mind risking looking a bit crazy while stifling laughter in public. I'm quite pleased to have a copy, as I can definitely see both rereading it and lending it out in the future.

Up next: I am quite behind in blog posts, so I've already finished Spoiled by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan.

*I was pleased when she took a line to explain a bit of the terminology we use at Mr. Jefferson's University. It's absolutely pretentious of us and I love it so.Wahoowa!

The Club of Queer Trades by G.K. Chesterton

That I should have come at last upon so singular a body [as the Club of Queer Trades] was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens ever since, in my audacious youth, I collected the Athenaeum. At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a word.

-The Club of Queer Trades

The Club of Queer Trades is an excellent name for a book, is it not? It's a collection of linked short stories by G.K. Chesterton, all featuring the anti-deductive detective work of mystic ex-judge Basil Grant. Basil quit the court after a public incident generally regarded as a total meltdown. He now spends most of his time up in his garret, philosophizing. In the course of these stories, Basil's brought in on various cases involving the curious titular club at the behest of his brother Rupert - an actual detective, though one far more prone to leaping to erroneous conclusions. The brothers are accompanied on their adventures by the book's narrator, the society-loving Swinbourne. These are no Sherlock Holmes stories: Basil has no interest in the evidence that drives Doyle's famous detective. He's far more interested in the morality of the people he meets, and what they're capable of.

I'd never read any Chesterton before, although I've seen him named as one of England's best writers, as well as one of the funniest - mentioned in the same breath as Wodehouse, whom I love. Certainly the Drones Club might come to mind when one is reading the passage above. Although The Club of Queer Trades is cleverly written, I didn't find it to be as overtly funny as I had hoped. However, a little research informs me that it's not considered to be the peak of Chesterton's fiction writing and, as he was almost frighteningly prolific, I'm sure I'll try something else in the future. It was certainly an enjoyable read - one must admire the creativity it would require to construct both the mysteries and the trades themselves. I also must say that it was quite short (less than 150 pages in my edition*). After the behemoth that was Keats, that was a welcome change. However, the length also leaves me feeling as though I don't have much to comment on, particularly given that much of the joy in reading these stories comes from uncovering the quirky cases along with the characters. Thus, saying less is probably good policy anyway.

Up next: The Private Patient by P.D. James, one of my favorite mystery writers. Hooray!

*I couldn't find a decent picture of the cover, which is why I provided the picture of Mr. Chesterton, looking thoughtful.

My Booky Wook by Russell Brand

I'm incredibly sentimental about animals. It's the only opportunity I get to occupy the moral high ground: when I got clean, after chatting with some Krishna conscious devotees, I gave up fish as well. They said if you put death into your body you will emit death, but I'm mostly in it for the high ground. "You're vegetarian?" comes the inquiry. "Yes." Then the inevitable, "Do you eat fish?" This is where they catch a lot of people out: the inquisitor is already at this stage anticipating a "Yes" and loading up with, "Ah, well, you're not a proper vegetarian then are you because fish are incredibly sensitive and some of them write haikus." That's why I have to stifle a smug grin when I reply, "No. No, I don't eat fish because it's cruel to them, the lovely little things." And on particularly smarmy days, "If you put death into your body you emit death." Even as a junkie I stayed true - "I shall have heroin, but I shan't have a hamburger." What a sexy little paradox.

-My Booky Wook

Russell Brand is an excellent subway companion - too good, almost. There was more than one day last week that I was loath to get off at my stop because I didn't want my time with Brand to come to an end.

Of course, I only had him in book format, but that was pretty good as far as those things go. (If I'd traveled with the real Brand, I think we can all assume there's no way I would have made it to work without some kind of rannygazoo* ensuing.) My Booky Wook is an eye-poppingly candid account of Brand's rocky childhood in Essex, his ascent into the world of show business, and his simultaneous descent into full-blown heroin addiction. He also deals with his slightly too, ah, spirited pursuit of ladies, which results in a stint in a New Jersey sex rehab. You can see how one might regret having to close the book every morning.

Russell Brand is one of those people I just knew that I'd like - I mean, just look at that hair. How can you not love him a bit?** He stole the show in the (mediocre, in my opinion) Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but I didn't really feel compelled to read his memoirs until I watched The Big Fat Quiz of the Year (search for 2006, 2007, and 2009 on YouTube if you need a laugh - and have a fair amount of time at your disposal). He's just so clever, so cheeky, and especially such a delightful teammate to Noel "King of the Mods" Fielding. (The Goth Detectives. I rest my case.)

"You just give us 48 hours and we'll get the job done - if we weren't so bloody miserable."

I don't think I have much of anything in common with him - but it doesn't matter, because the man can really tell a story, and My Booky Wook captures his distinctive voice perfectly. It's an affecting memoir, really. He tries to make light of things often, but at a certain point you can't help but go, wait, his father's taking him to a strip club in Southeast Asia? He's cutting himself while someone is calling 911 (well, 999)? Clearly things were not ship shape. He's told at one point, right before choosing to go to rehab, that in six months he will be in jail, a mental institution, or dead. It does not seem like an exaggeration. He did some things that I found horrible (or horrifying), but it is a testament to his charm that I still can't help but like him. He's really a singular man, in the end.

Up next: Working on Keats, as I indicated in the previous post. I imagine it will be slow going, and I may take a break as I'm traveling next week, and I can't bear to lug this 600-page behemoth on a plane.

*A Brand word if I ever heard one. Well, a Wodehouse word really, but Brand really has a flair for language. It means nonsense, incidentally.

**I'm sure tons of people have jerky things to say about his hair - I know not everyone shares the love. Tough for them, I suppose.

From McSweeney's: "Famous Authors Narrate the Funny Pages"

I am a total sucker for jokes that apply a well-known author's style to something wholly different from what he or she ever wrote.

Here's a recent example: "Famous Authors Narrate the Funny Pages"

I'm more familiar with the concept as it applies to the improv game "Authors," as seen on the British Whose Line Is It Anyway?, which I watched religiously as a senior in high school.* Here's an example of that (probably not safe for work), and there are plenty of clips on YouTube if you're so inclined. Tony Slattery was pretty much my favorite in any game, but I must admit that John Sessions is rather impressive in "Authors" (though he does come off as a bit of a showoff).

Still plugging away at NaNoWriMo. I've just reached the 10,000-word mark - which actually means I'm about 1600 words behind, but never mind that. Still longer than anything I've ever written before.

*The show used to come on every day at 3:00 on Comedy Central. Since I never got home form school earlier than 3:20ish, I used to set my VCR to record episodes whenever I had a blank videotape. I was pretty hardcore.

From McSweeney's: "From the Diary of John Adams"

The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forevermore.

- John Adams

As promised, something lighter: "From the Diary of John Adams." Is it odd that, considering the essay clearly has little basis in fact, I still feel the need to point out that Sally Hemings was not born until around 1773, and thus clearly Thomas Jefferson was not having an affair with her in Philadelphia? Everything else I can take to be funny, yet I am too nerdy to let that slide.

Since I am on the subject of history, I might as well take the opportunity to be the millionth person in the world to recommend John Adams by David McCullough. I read it a couple of years ago and it was completely absorbing. Despite my college minor in history, my knowledge of the man had been largely gleaned from my repeated viewings of 1776 (which is actually remarkably accurate in many little details). John Adams really made me love him - for all his crotchetiness and bluster, he was just so human, so smart, and so true in his love for Abigail. Theirs is truly a story for the ages. The HBO miniseries is also pretty great, though the book is still superior.

In conclusion: Happy 2nd, Happy 4th, whichever you prefer. I'm almost finished with Blackwater, so I expect to be back to review that within the next couple of days as well.

From McSweeney's: "Social Security Denies Gregor Samsa's Disability Claim"

This is a couple of years old, but it's new to me (and hopefully to you). I figure a little dose of German existentialist-related humor is good for getting through the middle of the week.

"Social Security Denies Gregor Samsa's Disability Claim"

Every time I read "I AM A GIANT COCKROACH," I can't help laughing.

Free-Range Chickens by Simon Rich

As soon as my time machine was finished, I traveled back to 1890, so I could kill Hitler before he was old enough to commit any of his horrible crimes. It wasn't as gratifying as I thought it would be.
-Oh my God. You killed a baby.
-Yes, but the baby was Hitler.
-Who?
-Hitler. It's...complicated.
-Officer? This man just killed a baby.

-"Time Machine" from Free-Range Chickens

As I mentioned in my last post, I bought this on a whim at the Virgin Megastore closeout sale yesterday. I'd read a couple of essays by Rich in The New Yorker and loved them. I brought the book with me to lunch later in the day, and decided to pull it out instead of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Bad idea. Within a couple of minutes I was putting such an effort into not bursting out laughing in the middle of Cosi that, at minimum, I was pretty sure I was making some unfortunate faces. (I also thought my chances of choking on my food were increasing the further I read.)

I took it out again when I was home later. The book is made up of a series of very short essays (the quotation above is the entirety of the essay "Time Machine"), so I kept reading "just one more" until there was nothing left. It's a very quick read - about twenty minutes if you went straight through, I'd guess - but I'm glad I bought it because I also think it's highly rereadable. I've already been flipping back through it.

A couple of samples to give you a better taste of his writing:

If adults were subjected to the same indignities as children

What I imagined the people around me were saying when I was . . .