The Power of One

I have been a distracted, undedicated blogger. For this I apologize. Now back to business.

Due to a bunch of unforseen circumstances in the past couple of weeks, the bet was canceled early. I personally think that Brett appreciated this hugely, because I was undoubtedly going to finish (over two weeks left and into my 6th book); he now gleefully calls the competition a draw or a stalemate instead of admitting my unbeatable lead. Next time, I will take no prisoners. Tortilla soup will be mine.

Before having to give the books back, I did get to finish Into the Wild, which I thoroughly enjoyed. My only wish is that it had read more like a novel and less like a biography - but this is clearly Krakauer's style. I'm intrigued to read his other book, but that will have to go at the end of the list. Oddly enough, I found myself more attached to the Alaskan wilderness than to McCandless' character by the end of the book. The environment in which he passed away seemed more of a victim than the boy himself. It also seemed to be represented more negatively in the media coverage following the incident (of course I Googled, it's an obsessive compulsive habit), as if the temperature and harsh simplicity of the area had consciously hidden themselves from the traveler, hiding behind a tree until he was nice and comfortable and then jumping out, mugging him. This is most likely the opposite of what we were supposed to take from the book, but McCandless seemed to me like a cocky, under-prepared teenager who would have thrived in a regular, perhaps even slightly irregular climate, but who met his match in an extreme one, like many of us would have. I have always had a curiosity about Alaska - the blatantly honest and forthright, unapologetic harshness of the land seems attractive to me for some reason. There's something I like about a place that doesn't need tropical climates, hugely posh shopping malls or the promise of free liquor to be enticing. Someday I'd like to head to Alaska (after adequately preparing, of course) and explore it for myself.

After finishing Into the Wild, I had a brief one night stand with The Secret History of Words before having to give it up. I have to admit that I wasn't terribly upset about this. The text read more to me like a list of instructions than a book, and I was already plodding along less than 50 pages in. I didn't even make it to Salinger's Nine Stories, which is again something that I'm disappointed in less than I'd like to admit. Slightly discouraged from the loss of free tortilla soup (but also excited at the new found freedom to begin any book I'd like), I followed the advice of a girlfriend and started The Power of One, an intimidatingly large book by Bryce Courtenay. With a title like that, I think I was expecting a self help book hidden behind a feeble attempt at a plot line. Fortunately, I was wrong. Power has turned out to be a relatively addictive novel following a young South African boy through the misadventures of his childhood and adolesence - and when I say misadventures, I truly mean misadventures.

At which point should an author stop throwing constant conflict at their main character and let them coast for a bit? Should the character ever be given a chance to establish themselves outside of extreme circumstances, or should the reader constantly be kept on their toes, wondering what the next curveball will be? I find myself distracted again and again by Peekay's unfaltering goodness against adversity. I understand that the point of the book is his unexpected maturity for such a small child, his inexplicable kindness, patience, and innocent curiosity. But, 300 pages deep, I have yet to see a temper tantrum, an impolite slip, or even a figurative toe out of line. This brings me back to the issues mentioned in the entry concerning James Frey and Nic Scheff - is an author of fiction, who builds his character around a mishmash of life experiences and examples, capable of creating a slightly imperfect character? Or will the character, who inevitably becomes a part of the heart of the writer, like a son or daughter, always carry more goodness than harm? The exception, of course, are characters designed explicitly for evil (or annoyance.. I'm looking at you, Salinger). When an author introduces the character as a villian, some truly beautiful negative personality traits can blossom. But I find it rare that a character meant for good, hero-esque things can have realistic negative qualities that don't end up cured or conceded.

Take, for example, Ian McEwan's Atonement. We begin the novel with 13 year old Briony, a good girl at heart. But within Briony we see a stubborn, selfish, and narcissistic streak that I found refreshing. Bri isn't a criminal, or a villain (although she does end up as the villain of this novel, I suppose), she is simply a little girl with good qualities and bad qualities, who makes a bad decision. However, by the time Atonement comes to a close, Bri's less than perfect personality traits are wrapped up into a neat little package with a big red bow, so perhaps that's not the best example. Nevertheless, I'm rooting for Power's hero, Peekay, to snap one of these days and go off at someone, or to use those boxing skills in a random, irresponsible manner.

I have an interview this afternoon to run the children's summer reading program at the library of my childhood hometown. Although it would require moving home to live in my mom's attic for three months, I am so thrilled about the opportunity that I can barely see straight. If I get the job, I will be spending the summer helping kids to get excited about reading, and to spend their time doing something other than watching TV, playing video games, or losing their virginities at an alarmingly early age (don't get me started on that rant). It will be my first real step into the librarian career, starting me on the path to grad school for a MLS degree and eventually into a public school system to work as a K-8 librarian within a school district. The outcome of this interview will probably influence my next book choice. So if I'm trudging through a lamenting tragedy for the next week, you're safe to guess that the interview wasn't stellar. Here's hoping for a comedy.

Into the Wild of California

The first book of the bet to be finished was the collected works of ee cummings. Once I happily finished that beautiful work, I was excited to move on to JD Salinger's Franny and Zooey. Since Salinger's recent death, his books Nine Stories and F&Z have been on my mind. I didn't especially enjoy The Catcher in the Rye, but I wanted to give his other works a chance. I read Catcher in high school, like pretty much every other student in the country, but wasn't as enamored with it as I felt I should have been. I think that is because I found Holden's character so hard to root for - by the second chapter, I was so annoyed with the hero that I wanted to keep reading just so I could finish the book and not have to follow his thoughts anymore. Its not very often that I dislike a character enough for it to ruin the entire book for me, especially with such a universal and interesting theme as maturation and loss of innocence. But Holden got under my skin enough to make me want to hide the book behind the couch in the living room just so I wouldn't have to look at in anymore.

As it turns out, F&Z had a very similar effect on me. When I turned the last page, I found myself wondering just what I was supposed to have gotten from the story - why did I read it? (Other than to get free tortilla soup and rub it in my boyfriend's face, of course.) What lasting impression was this story supposed to have on me? I didn't relate strongly to Franny or Zooey; in fact, the only strong feeling I got through all 200 pages was pity for the mother. How many times can a son call his mother a fat cow before he starts to feel a little bit guilty?

Overall, the experience left me disappointed and slightly confused. I am a little bit ashamed to say it, but perhaps Salinger just isn't for me. This makes me feel like I am a literature delinquent - after all, shouldn't I appreciate such a celebrated author? Normally, books considered "classics" leave me with warm, fuzzy feelings. Whether it is a fault of my own or of Salinger's, F&Z just didn't do it for me. However, I will not be deterred. Nine Stories is one of the remaining books in the betting pool, and I will tackle it soon enough.

After Franny and Zooey, I wanted to begin a straightforward, action filled story. Something that would have me tapping my leg with anticipation in the way that I love, but my boyfriend abhors. So I began Into the Wild, which has been exactly that. This week is spring break, and my boyfriend and I are spending it in California with my sister in the San Jose area. So throughout the entire 7 hour and 25 minutes of travel we did yesterday, I made it over halfway through Krakauer's documentary-esque story of Chris McCandless' tragic Alaskan journey, tapping my leg all the while. I think my boyfriend almost threw me out the window of the plane, but it has been very enjoyable regardless.

To me, many of Into the Wild's pages reflect the importance of balance within life. A relationship with nature (with the "wild", even), at least to me, is a crucial part of happiness and balance. An avid follower of yoga and pilates and a self-proclaimed physical activity fanatic, I am about twice as happy when I can get my heart rate up. If that involves being outdoors, I'm the happiest gal in the world. But, as Krakaur's book is reminding me, getting obsessed with nature, with its simplicity and cruel survival-of-the-fittest Darwinism can have terrifying, even lethal, consequences.

It was especially interesting to think about this juxtaposition this afternoon, as we hiked to the top of a 4 mile track in Los Gatos. Nature is is so stunning that it is easy to forget that it can be so dangerous. If I take anything from this book (other than pity for McCandless' family, of course), it will be how happy I am to be able to run around climbing and exploring things during the day, knowing that I can return to a hot shower, soft comforter, and bag of microwave popcorn later. I'm not sure that that is exactly what Krakauer meant for his readers to take from his book, but maybe it would comfort him to know that I have learned another important lesson? If I am ever traveling in Alaska in the late spring, I will take more than a ten pound bag of rice. And, no matter how tempting, I will avoid the seduction of taking up residence in an old, rusty bus.

now two old ladies sit peacefully knitting

now two old ladies sit peacefully knitting,
 and their names are sometimes and always.


"i can't understand what life could have seen in him" stitch
-counting always severely remarks;and her sister(suppress-
ing a yawn)counters "o i don't know;death's rather attractive"
 --"attractive!why how can you say such a thing?when i think
of my poor dear husband"--"now don't be absurd:what i said was
'rather attractive',my dear;and you know very well that
never was very much more than attractive,never was


stunning"(a crash.    Both jump)"good
heavens!" always exclaims "what
was that?"--"well here comes your daughter"
soothes sometimes;at which


death's pretty young wife enters;wringing her hands,and wailing
"that terrible child!"--"what"(sometimes and always together
cry)"now?"--"my doll:my beautiful doll;the very
first doll you gave me,mother(when i could scarcely
walk)with the eyes that opened and shut(you remember:
don't you,auntie;we called her love)and i've treasured
her all these yeras, and today i went through a closet
looking for something;and opened a box,and there she 
lay:and when he saw her,he begged me to let him
hold her;just once:and i told him 'mankind,be careful;
she's terribly fragile:don't break her,or mother'll be angry' "


and then(except for
the clicking of needles)there was silence


e.e. cummings, taken from the Myths and Allegories section of his Selected Poems


A beautiful, sad, and whimsical look on what effect mankind has had on love. I won't say much, because I am a firm believer that each reader should take their own opinion from a poem. But for me, it is wonderfully thought provoking to hear cummings allude that mankind is the one that has ruined love; we so commonly see the opposite, especially in poetry.

The Bet

Yesterday afternoon, my boyfriend and I stopped by the library in his hometown on our way to dinner with his parents. As I am used to the library on campus, this library was beautiful - spacious, well lit, unusually organized but still rich with more selection than I'd seen in awhile. As expected, the result was like setting a spoiled six year old loose in a Toys-R-Us with her father's credit card. As I started to load my arms up with books, I told him that he was going to need to give me a limit if he didn't want to have to leave with a wheelbarrow. We agreed that four was a good number. So when I met him at the checkout desk with seven, he wasn't too surprised. However, he doesn't believe that I can finish all seven but the time the books need to be returned on March 26th. And so we set a little wager.

If I finish all seven books by the 26th, I win a dinner out of my choice (which will most likely involve tortilla soup). If I don't, then I have to pay for the meal, and he gets to choose the venue. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me. Poor boy. He has no idea what he's getting himself into.

Tweak

Finishing Tweak left me with mixed emotions. If you're planning on reading the book and want to be surprised, don't read the rest of this post. It contains "spoilers".

As with any memoir, the reader becomes very close to the narrator. We go through hell and back with this boy, get to know him inside and out - at points I felt so attached to Nic Sheff that I was biting my nails, on the edge of my seat, wanting to scream "Don't open that door! Don't go in there!" the way the socially unconcerned do during horror movies. If you're an active reader like myself (and I mean active; I could probably replace my cardio with memoir reading), you pour a little bit of your heart into these heroes, somehow hoping that your attention and prayers will change what has already been printed in the dwinding few pages remaining in the novel. But the truth is, the future has already been written. It has already been published. All you can do is turn the pages.

I find myself torn between wanting reality and wanting a happy ending. At the end of Tweak, Nic is only in his early twenties. He's in probably his fourth or fifth stint in rehab, and probably reaching the end of what his frail and abused body can handle. He is working his way through a treatment center that seems to have reached him in a way that none of the others have. And so page 319 closes with the promise of a clean adult life. Relapse is so far out of my mind that it hardly seems a threat...until I turn to the epilogue. Here we find Nic chain smoking and sucking down coffee like its the juice of the gods. True, he's still not using - but what happened to the clean, bright and shiny Nic we left in Phoenix? Where is the newfound belief in family, sobriety, and self esteem? He seems to have taken steps backwards. And yet I finish the epilogue still with an ember of hope for this boy to live normally.

And then I turn to the afterword.

First of all, give the reader a break. A prefacing note to readers, three different sections including 60 some chapters, and an epilogue - you can be finished now. We are being dragged through broken glass here, and could use a break. And yet, in the afterword, all of our (I use "our" because it truly feels as though I have been through this process, as well.. I should start a support group for Tweak readers) work seems futile. Nic has relapsed. He has crawled back out from that dark hole and begun his quest toward sobriety again, true. But already I am starting to feel the stress his family must feel; how many times can you wipe a slate clean and put honest hope in someone, even if you love them? I cannot help but believe that a soul can only carry so much hope for each specific person. What happens when that hope is used up? With a close friend working his way through the twelve step Alcoholics Anonymous program, maybe this is what I should take from the story. To work on my patience and increasing my hope.

After the afterword (of course there's more. Why wouldn't there be?) we are invited to look at Nic's blog, http://nicscheff.blogspot.com. Here we can read about a chunk of Nic's life after the novel was finished. Many of the entries are rambling, confusing (perhaps what his writing is truly like without editors), and I find myself wondering whether they were written high or sober. Its frustrating. I want to find this boy and shake him. My drug-free, upper middle class white upbringing has not taught me how to handle hardcore relapse. I am aching for a happy ending, even if its fictional. Even as an obsessively honest person, I want a lie here. I am tempted to type a page of "and then he lived happily ever after" and staple it into every copy of Tweak I can find at the bookstore, just to give future readers some piece of mind.

That being said, I am most definitely taking a break from memoirs for awhile. I'm not sure how much more my frayed nerves can handle. This afternoon I think I'll put the Tums away and start looking into some e.e. cummings, which will still fill my weird quota, but with less needles and methamphetamines (I hope).

The Writer's Rap

The Writer's Rap

I can absolutely see this as the next big hit. Add a looping Rhianna vocal in the back and it'll be playing 3 times per hour on MTV in no time.

Addicted to memoirs

Thus far, 2010 has been the year of the memoir. Since reading James Frey's A Million Little Pieces, the genre has captivated me. Having hardly done more than smoke a cigarette, I can't explain the pull the tumultuous lifestyle of an addict has over me, but once I begin these books I cannot seem to put them down. I think the reason that I am so attracted to the genre is because within its writing has a brutal, cringe-worthy reality that fiction just can't carry.

It's my belief that a fictional character simply cannot carry flaws in the same aching way that a character based on a human being can. As a writer, I think I can see why - we fall in love with our characters, put pieces of ourselves into them. Because of this, we can't seem to help giving them at least one redeeming quality. In order to create a character as truly dark, troubled, and seemingly hopeless as Frey in Pieces, a writer would have to be far more accomplished at separating the heart from the craft than I can ever imagine myself to be. We tend to give our characters tiny glimmers of hope, to fill their mouths and heads with witty and thoughtful words. In my (limited) experience with memoirs, the conversation doesn't have to sparkle. The characters don't always turn out to be inherently kind or hiding an unexpected heart of gold. Sometimes, they're just fucked up. And for me, that's part of the draw.

I also think that a book based on a real life experience reaches a level of horror that a work of fiction simply cannot. Even if I were to put months into researching drug and alcohol addiction, I don't think I could ever create a scene quite like the opening of Pieces. Frey awakens from a blackout covered in "a colorful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood," somehow on an airplane en-route to Chicago. "My front four teeth are gone," he says. "I have a hole in my cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen nearly shut. [...] I look around for anything I might have with me, but there's nothing. No ticket, no bags, no clothes, no wallet. I sit and I wait and I try to figure out what has happened. Nothing comes." Unable to walk, he lands in Chicago and is handed off to his parents. Halfway through their drive to drop him off at a rehab center, they stop at a hotel for the night.Alone in his room, Frey smokes and drinks until he blacks out, completely aware that his mother is crying herself to sleep no more than a few doors down.

I'm not convinced that this could have come from any other mind.

Regardless of how they relate to fiction, drug and alcohol rehabilitation memoirs are my addiction (no pun intended) of the moment. Since finishing Pieces, I have also read Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood and Beautiful Boy, a girl's struggle with alcoholism from elementary school through college and a father's take on his son's meth addiction, respectively (although both are captivating, neither had the hold on me that Pieces did). Currently, I am making my way through Tweak, a natural segue after finishing Beautiful Boy - it is Nick Scheff, the son about which Boy is written, telling the other side of the story. As terrifying as it was to be the father, expecting everyday to receive a call announcing his son's untimely death, I am even more on the edge of my seat as Nick, wandering around the streets with nothing but track marks and hole-filled sneakers.

After this stint with memoirs, it's going to be difficult to throw myself into the next book on my reading list, Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Maybe I'll skip ahead a few to make my memoir detox a little more manageable.