Book Review: The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco

Umberto Eco, famous for his medieval mystery The Name of the Rose and slightly less well known for occult classic Foucault’s Pendulum, managed to sneak in a different, remarkable book on my shelves.

The Island of the Day Before is Eco’s thorough exploration of an age of exploration and of the baroque. He navigates among a Europe on the verge of enlightenment, and the book spins lengthy ramblings on geography, religion, and science as the characters try, and often falter, to make sense of their world.

Young Italian aristocrat Roberto is a baroque paragon who absorbs shifting and contradictory worldviews as easily as he meets unusual characters on his travels. Roberto finds himself shipwrecked upon a ship, a turn within a turn. The ship is beeched on a coral reef within a bay or atoll. From its deck, he can see islands on either side of the ship, and later guesses they are the same island. There, he spends his days reminiscing about the travels that brought him to this end, and having a few odd adventures with a bizarre mystery shipmate.

Roberto’s flashbacks, told by the narrator who refers to Roberto’s journaling on the ship, comprise the meat of the novel, and certainly the most entertaining, even absurdly humorous episodes. Eco portrays Roberto as a noble’s son who, upon facing discipline from his hard farther, concocts tales of an evil twin, Ferrante, his ultimate foil, an evil mirror image whom Roberto repeatedly and imaginatively plots into wild romances to explain his own miseries and misfortunes.

Roberto battles the Spanish (where he watches his father die futilely, if somewhat valiantly), lounges with occult philosophers in Paris, learns sword dueling from an old atheist skeptic, and dabbles in espionage at the behest of the French cardinal. And, in each such episode, he encounters worldview after worldview, readily lapping up each one right after the contradictory other.

Roberto does show flourish – he absorbs those disparate philosophies and weaves in his own variations and swirls, a creative act that lands him at the mercy of the cardinal and puts him aboard a doomed ship destined for the titular island. Their mission? Discover what the British are up to in using a strange sympathetic magic to master measuring longitude at sea.

That mystery – the measurement of longitude – becomes Roberto’s obsession so he can return to his unrequited Parisian love. Once he discovers a mad old Jesuit who hides from him on the wrecked ship, the two set out with contraption after contraption to reach the shores of the island where the Jesuit has erected a device he claims proves the spot the antimeridian. Oddly enough, neither of them can swim.

Father Caspar is a mad genius, and wildly colorful character, who confounds Roberto into believing that God borrowed water from “the day before” by carrying it from beyond the antimeridian to carry out Noah’s flood. Here again, Roberto laps up apocalyptic notions from Caspar, and again rolls those into his amalgamated worldview even after Caspar perishes in a bit of black humor while trying to invent a diving bell contraption.

For all the color and absurdity (from a modern reader’s perspective, especially) of the cast of characters, Roberto is Eco’s accomplishment. Eco writes a novel in celebration of the baroque era, transforming his written narrative in substance and style as a baroque homage. It’s no small effort; today the word baroque is derogatory. But, importantly, Roberto is not merely the modern readers “eyes” to experience it all. In the end, he’s Eco’s triumph to reveal his genuine love for the art, and the soul of Roberto.

Despite challenging chapters, and ever expanding meanderings of philosophical fancy and minutiae, the book delivers in the end. It’s a flawed, but absolutely fascinating book.

The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco: B+

Upcoming book reviews

Rumors of my demise ... probably never happened. Nonetheless! New book reviews coming up, including:

• The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco


• Purity of Blood by Arturo Perez-Reverte


• The Last Run by Greg Rucka

That means I've read the books already, and need to write up my reviews. Oddly, I have about the same reaction to all three books. I read each with very high expectations, and all three fell short of those, but barely. That's a my critical way of saying these were pretty damn good, just not damn good enough.

Getting down to business in a bleak economy

I'm a news junkie. Have been since I was a nerdy 80s kid watching the nightly news when things got exciting overseas. I remember spending the first part of my summer in '89 watching Tiananmen Square unfold from my sweaty upstairs bedroom on the old Zenith. I really caught the bug in college as I went through j-school (that's journalism school) and even my stint as college newpaper editor, where I was always angling for international news amid local bar scene hoopla.

Through those times, I had a deaf ear for business news. It was incomprehensible, to say nothing of stiff and boring. I still joke about how we journalism majors can't even figure out a tip at lunch, let alone figure out business policy. That was, until I began working at a publicly traded corporation. Even then, it too me years to build an interest, mainly in digital tech.

When I finally took the plunge to get my MBA, it was inevitable. Accounting classes loomed, for crying out loud. If there was a polar opposite to the coursework I took in college, accounting was it. Not far behind was macroeconomics then finance.

I'll be damned if I didn't learn a thing or two, and it kindled my interest, especially in figuring out what the hell all this business news was really about. Until then, I pretty much understood bonds as those pesky certificates grandparents sometimes snuck in my birthday cards.

Looks like those grandparents knew what they were doing. Mom showed me a hand-written ledger the other day. It was all of Grandpa Riggen's bond investments, split between his two surviving daughters. For a coal-miner-turned-farmer who weathered the Great Depression and fixed things more often than buying them, it's pretty understandable why he put that kind of money in federal bonds rather than, say, stock in IBM. Even so, it's an impressive ledger of investments. Hell, I think Mom even showed me because she was a little tickled by it.

So, now, when I hear about China worrying about the U.S. defaulting on its bonds, I actually have some sense what that means, and how it might affect the economy, at least in layman's terms.

Maybe it's one of those ignorance is bliss deals. There was a specific moment about three years ago. I was standing in line for lunch, carelessly staring at the news headlines on TV when I realized that no longer was my job a certainty, that money might not always be there. That things had shifted into a new era. It wasn't the stuff in the news, not some abstraction about mortgages. It was a thing close to home, an aftershock of losing work colleagues to lean times, knowing my long tenure (if I can call it that) is no guarantee. This week that hint of worry came back as I gobbled up more bleak economy news about job reports and debt limits.

Before that moment, I was driven by the "inevitable" boons of getting an advanced degree and a promotion. After that moment -- and ever since -- I'm driven by a harder ethic. Call it perseverance over prosperity. There's no sign it'll pay off soon, and still I'm working harder than ever. The payoff may not be on my paycheck. But, it sure is nice to have Mom confide in me like a grown up.

Stepping away from the work desk

Canada came home today. I sloshed my way to the airport in a four-inch downpour. And, there she was riding down the escalator, looking a little weary and very much happy to see me. We're pitiful old high school sweethearts and wouldn't know what to do without each other. We don't often spend more than a couple days apart.

Then, off on a pleasant post-rain ride to Barrata's for lunch, where we each had a stiff drink (my usual -- Southern Comfort), which made us both a bit bleary eyed and ready for a nap. Which we did!

We both needed the rest. She didn't get much sleep in between marathon sessions of grading 700 test essays. For me, work has been unusually intense these past couple weeks.

When I finally managed to find my phone late in the afternoon, I glanced at work email out of sheer habit. There was big news from management, and I wanted to read the memo. The trick with those pep rallies in email form is reading between the lines. Then it occurred to me. I had managed to enjoy the afternoon without thinking about work at all. Without realizing, my brain unwound. It was that moment of release, as though life had unclenched its white-knuckle grip on my spinal column, that I realized I need to walk away and breathe much more often. It's easy to miss that slowly tightening grip.

And, Canada had her own realization, ironically while working in Kentucky. She just said to me "I take myself way to seriously!" We both do that, love. We work hard, and then wonder why we're worn out on weekends spent mostly at home. Hell, I'm not even sure what I want to do with most of my free time. Work's constantly on my brain, even more so than last years.

Work to live, not live to work.

The way to Normandy

It'd D Day +2. One of my hobbies is WWII. I dabble rather than obsess, unlike some history buffs I've witnessed here and there. I've let the only magazine subscriptions I actually bother to pay for run out. That would be WWII magazine and World War II History magazine. And, I haven't watched Saving Private Ryan in a while. I think I will tonight -- I couldn't find the DVD around the house on Monday.

It's the heroic WWII moment for us Americans, and with good reason. It was a big gamble that changed the war, and lots of Allied soldiers paid the hard way for the action and ensuing campaigns. But, it also tends to shift our attention from other events of the war. We talk a lot about the casualties on Normandy or the Battle of the Bulge, but the numbers of dead on the Eastern Front are staggering by comparison.

The Allies involved around 175,000 men in the invasion, a campaign that lasted from June 6 to June 30. Somewhere around 5,558 Allies died during that time. German casualties were somewhere between 4,000 and 9,000. Neither figures include wounded casualties.

By comparison, the Battle of Stalingrad -- which went on over a longer period from August 1942 to early February 1943 -- was also a major turning point in the war. There, the Soviets fielded well over a million soliders. 478,741 were killed or missing. About 40,000 civilians -- that's about 9 of my home towns -- died. The Germans had killed or wounded numbers around 750,000. Which means well over a million people died at Stalingrad, and easily more than another million were sick or wounded.

As hard a time as I have watching those jarring opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan, and as much as my insides bust up for those poor guys when I imagine what it must have been like -- for all that, I can't even wrap my head around a million people killing each other or shitting or starving themselves to death, literally. For us Americans, it just doesn't have that heroic message, that bravery overcomes. But, without Stalingrad, there is no Normandy. It's an easy thing for us to ignore, but it's there. Spielberg put his camera in another direction, and that's how we tend to think of it. (Who blames him? I don't -- the guy's a genius.)

Real life heroism is never so simple, is it? We want stories, we don't want muck and shit and dying.

So, I'm off to watch the movie that I find a little hard to watch. When I saw it in the theater -- I'll never forget this -- I saw it at the theater in Indianola. I had a box of Runts candy in my hand. Next me me was some loud mouth asshole who was talking all kind of macho bullshit as the film started. I tried to ignore him.

So, the landing craft door opens up, and for about 20 minutes I was paralyzed. When I was over, I realized two things. First, that had that box of candy gripped tight as hell in my hand. I hadn't touched a one, and I was motionless. Awestruck. The other thing I noticed was that asshole next to me finally shut the hell up. It took him about 30 seconds of watching to knock him down a peg.

Genre fiction power!

I'm into genre fiction. You know the place -- that quirky section of the book store lumped along back walls labeled science fiction, fantasy and horror. Nearby, usually, are those kissing cousins-- mystery & thrillers, graphic novels, and even a faint trace of young adult.

Right now I'm reading Purity of Blood, the second in Arturo Perez-Reverte's Captain Alatriste books. It's a book of pure entertainment, which probably means it hits all my buttons more so than it actually is a universally entertaining novel. It's the kind of book my father would love. He's old school, a real paperback cowboy who loves direct, well plotted books. Adventure books. Westerns. Thrillers. Naval fiction. He's big into mysteries, especially detective stories. He doesn't read much speculative fiction, but has a crazy knowledge of authors and lots of hours beating feet in the used book store.

And, something just struck me about all those books -- the books my father loves, and the ones I enjoy as refreshing breather among more complicated or literary works. So much of those old tropes are guy stuff. I'm talking about the private detectives, the heroic naval scoundrels, the spies, the pirates, the superheroes, the vikings, barbarians, thieves, space farers, and on and on. We're attracted to them because they're powerful. Westerns aren't popular because they happen to be part of American history. The Shakers are part of American history, but they're not getting their own genre shelf at the book store. Westerns are popular because the edge the line of violence and power in America (and beyond, sometimes).

We read these kinds of tough guy things because their romantic, powerful figures. They pull more interest because they're easily plotted, active and victorious ideals. We go in knowing this is exciting stuff. These tropes become assumptions, short hand for escape and suspension of disbelief. We just know Vikings are rough around the edges and mock those silly, girly Christian men. We just know spies just get into sexual tension. It's not just part of the job, it's part of the genre. And, to a genre, these things are populated foremost by narratively compelling, powerful guys.

Then sometimes a funny thing happens. Someone comes along and subverts those assumptions. It's a sexually powerful spy, but she's a woman. The gunsligner is a wronged woman.

And, still other times something comes along and tempts that allure and power in a new way. I can't really unpack the subgenre of Steampunk, but it's a fascinating case where things once silly and genteel and colonial get a grunged out glint, a hint of sex, and a lot of power and excitement. By jove, a new bookshelf category arrives.

All of which isn't me saying much insightful. I'm certainly not critiquing those genre twists and turns. It helps me recognize why I'm drawn to the spectacular Captain Alatriste and not at all to, oh, Miss Marple.

George R. R. Martin on the two types of writers

I caught bits and pieces of BBC interview George R.R. Martin did about his work and the new show. I'm a fan of his books, so it was fun to sneak in a few minutes of the interview to see what he thought about the show and how he writes organically. Martin explained to the enthusiastic interviewer that there are two kinds of writers - architects and gardeners.

An architect, he explained, is a writer who crafts in excruciating detail the skeleton of his narrative and the identities of his character. An architect outlines and revises before even putting prose on page.

Contrarily, a gardener is a writer who begins with a seed, an idea planted from their swirling subconscious on to the page, and then tends that idea as it courses on to completion. Martin identified himself, smiling from behind that bushy beard of his, as a gardener. And, my observation of many writers who discuss such things or pen instructional texts on fiction, are these seed planters. They seem to generally regard architect writers as oddities.

Martin's dichotomy seems apt to me. I suspect there's a tendency for writers to identify as gardeners, but I certainly don't. When I try it, I suffer my greatest setbacks as a writer, meandering with decorative, but ultimately aimless prose. I paint myself into corners, and have no idea what I'm after. If I'm a gardener writer, I have a black thumb.

I think to myself, therefore, I must be an architect! A ha! Glorious! All I needed to do was prepare copiously, and then the writing will simply be laying the flesh on the bones I've so meticulously crafted. And, that may be so. But, there the tendency is to daydream, to outline or imagine elaborate settings that lack any actual narrative.

The dichotomy, like so many things, is easy to take too far, settling into prescriptive ideas about the process. Obviously, gardeners need to address plotting and planning at some point. And, architects have to inject some spontaneity along the way else they'll craft wooden tales.

At the very least, it was helpful for me to hear someone like Martin acknowledge that his organic approach wasn't the only path there is.

End of the seasons

It was a season-ender in every sense of the word. Given the schizophrenic Iowa weather these last few weeks, I'd say winter finally ended, and summer turned up the heat. Spring? We don't need no stinking spring!

The kids soccer season is also finally here, which is cause for celebration all around. The kids now have a free and clear summer vacation on their hands. That's nothing compared to Canada's and my relief from soccer shuttle duties. With four dollar gas, we'd have to tap into college funds to keep this going much longer!

I don't know what it is about the kids' on-field performances when their mother's out of town, but they were tearing up the pitch today. Riggen scored two goals, which lead to a couple cute comments, grins and a thumbs up at dad. Before that, Kate was up to her usual self as defender. Her ball handling skills really have improved, and she's much more into the games.

Did I mention it was hot as hell out there? I mowed the lawn this morning in record time, trying to beat the heat. But still managed to sweat profusely. Canada says she loves this weather. I think she needs to be checked into a facility for psychiatric evaluation. Give me late fall any day.

Canada says it's hot and humid in Kentucky, where she's managed to run every day when not grading those essays. Apparently, the food's also terrible, so she's excited about losing a couple pounds. Women.

With Kate at an overnighter, that leaves me and Riggen for a rare guys' night. Riggen's all excited to play video games, maybe tinker with some Lego, and watch a movie. He asked me earlier, "Dad, does this mean we get our own man cave?" Yes, son. Yes it does.

Counldn't come at a better time. I'm about shot from single parenthood after only a couple days. Worse, I have another longer stint as Mr. Mom in late June, when I'll be starting up the new MBA class to boot. All I have to do is make it to August 1, right? Then some real R&R.

My Mr. Hyde side

You want to know something about me? I have a vicious temper. This isn't some quaint character flaw. You know, like Hemingway is a romantic drunk or how your grandpa tells racist jokes sometimes, but you love him anyway. No. This is relationship crashing stuff I'm talking about. It nearly wrecked everything I had and ever wanted.

It makes me ashamed, honestly. I don't talk about it. I try my best to prevent stress. I talk through things with my wife that I used to just swallow. It's there, and never leaves me. But, it doesn't have to ruin me. It won't.

I can't say I'm happy I went through such angry periods in my life. My life is damn good. But, there were times where, despite how good I had it, Mr. Hyde took over. I wanted to break things and scream, and I did. I scared my family. Hell, I scared myself. If anything good comes of out that, it's understanding.

I understand how badly stress affects my life, and how frustrated anyone can become with the right pressures. I understand that real cowardice is denial, not being a tough guy. I know literally what it feels like in my muscles and bones when I'm tense, and what kinds of things start the blood a boiling. And, I understand -- as much as one can -- how to control it.

I had to chuckle a couple years ago when someone at work said they admired how much of a cool customer I was when it came to conflict at work. At the time, I was as starved for a compliment about my composure as I could be -- it had been only a few months since working things out with my wife. The idea that someone looked to me with admiration of any kind for dealing with stress just left me speechless. I had to shrug, not knowing what else to say. Maybe a little afraid of what else to say.

The terrible thing is that from time to time, I see that anger in other people. It's usually men. And, you know, I pity them because I know what that tiny, white-hot part of their mind feels like. But, while I sometimes see this, they usually don't. I see it exactly because I see it repeated, and I know they barely realize they're stuck. My pity doesn't linger. They're responsible for what they do, just like I am. Man up. Get help, I think. All that thrashing about doesn't scare me, and it sure as hell doesn't get them anywhere they think it does. People are worth more to us than we think.

The sad truth is they're powerless. Helpless. Utter helplessness is the cause of all that fury. What worked for me is another person, which turned out to be a counselor and my wife, hearing me out, and then showing they actually understood what I was thinking. That got me off the edge of that angry routine, and I walked down bit by bit from there.

A couple days ago I wrote that not a lot of people really know me -- that fewer people really know me than I have fingers. Not even all of them know all this about me. I guess I just got weary of feeling ashamed about it. Maybe some poor bastard out there can get off that edge, too.

The art of solitude

"People are crazy and times are strange
I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range
I used to care, but things have changed"

- Bob Dylan, Things Have Changed

I spent a good part of the afternoon meeting with my old boss, John. We still work together after I transferred to another department about 5 years ago. We still manage to have a rap session now and then, too. He and I share a lot of the same taste in music, which usually comes up as we connive to conquer the online media world in between lunches at the local Vietnamese restaurant. Unpack that irony, if you can.

John's an old hippie. My favorite story, among many, from him is the time he was working in Colorado in his younger days. He heard some music from his outdoor job site, so he wandered over to a concert. They had to break through a fence to get in. On stage was Jimi Hendrix. Now that is far out, and I've got nothing that cool in my repertoire to impress young co-workers someday.

But, truth is, I'm not so young anymore, and John and I don't often have time to chat on all things digital and aural. He's well read -- I don't have anywhere near the patience he does -- and he explained an article from the New York Magazine about how Internet services are packing us in a bubble by making choices for us. Pandora spits out variations streams of music to people as they tweak their stations. Google delivers search results based on our history or our Gmail contacts. Amazon recommends products. And on and on.

The machines are making choices for us, and it's supposed to make things easier and more relevant. The trade-off is a shrinking, not expanding, avenue of information. It may make things easier, but is it more interesting? I think that's a fair summation of John's point.

It reminded me of something I'd been chewing on for a while. We don't share music like we used to. It's another of those trade-offs. My best pal and music comrade Hastie and I used to hang out just listening to albums and music. It wasn't as deliberate as the vinyl days, which John waxed nostalgic about today. Now, people shuffle around, in more ways than one, with white cords growing out of their ears. Digital music shattered the experience of albums, which I've always lamented (but not enough to avoid an iPod and those white ear buds). Music is often a solitary experience, or background noise. It's become more passive.

And, hey, it's not all bad. Trade-offs, like I said. But, I'm with the old hippie in thinking it's kind of a shame. Worse, I think it's also true of other art we enjoy. A fragmented, uprooted modern life means a lot of solitary consumption and interpretation of things we enjoy.

So, isn't crazy that when we actually get to know someone in our life well enough to find out they enjoy art we enjoy, that it's a thrill? How bizarre that people would have to get excited that someone out in the wide universe actually knows and enjoys a musician or a show or a book? I mean, of course there are people out there doing that. It shouldn't be much of a surprise, especially when it's good stuff -- great albums or books or films. Whatever.

The other day, I found out that Heather, the woman who sits across from my cube at work, loves Scrivener, which is some pretty specialized software for writers. Which means she does writing at home. I also later found out that her husband writes a beer blog and wants to taste every IPA in the world. It only took us, oh, eight or nine months to realize this wonderful stuff.

I don't blame her one bit, to be clear. She and I have a lot of work to do, not enough resources to get it done, and families to love and enjoy after the bell rings. Ok, there's not actually a bell. We mostly sit at our desks through lunch, eating alone, and still reeling every so slightly from the last round of "be happy we still have jobs."

I wonder what books she reads at night? Does she ever wonder what other people read, too?

What a world.

Kickin' it at Pancheros

After a blissfully hum-drum day at work, I shuttled off to my temporary single dad duties. Kate had a soccer game in Polk City. On the ride home from Ma and Pa Snyder's house, Kate reminded me at least three times she had to bring after-game treats.

Polk City is tucked up north and well out of the way for us. That meant a pit stop at Hell on Earth, the lobotomizing experience we all know and love as "Wal Mart." Now, I assumed, foolishly, that the Ankeny Wal-Mart could not muster the kind of IQ-lowering enhanced interrogation techniques that the south side store does so spectacularly. I managed to swear in front of the kids only a couple times as the Amazon checking us out remarked on poor quality of our fruity snacks.

Kate's penultimate soccer game for the season proved to be worth the ordeal. Her team struggles, despite their improvement and determination. They've lost every game so far, and they have gone scoreless in about half their matches. Today, they put up a hell of a fight, went into the half leading 1-0 and ended up in a tie after a bizarre penalty kick that shot over the poor 10-year-old keeper's head.

Trish, mom to Kate' s best pal, and I did more yelling and fretting than any grown up should do for a bunch of fifth and sixth graders. "I think I'm going to have a heart attack," she mentioned to me at the half. "You and me both," I replied with a smirk.

I grew up on little league, slow pitch, baseball, basketball and football. You know, meat and potato sports of the good ol' Midwest. I'm a die hard NFL fan, and love my Hawkeyes, too. So, it's a little strange for me to holler at the top of my lungs to the left defender to cover the goal on a corner kick. I'll be damned if I'm not on the edge of my fold up nylon chair for each girl out there as they dribble the ball up the field. Now if they could only pass a bit better ...

I'd teased Kate and Riggs before the game. Pancheros was in their future. So, we dined like royalty. For those not in the know, Pancheros is a made-to-order burrito place on the order of Qdoba and Chipotle. But, those places? Mere shadows on the cave wall. Food for plebes and riff raff! Pancheros is ambrosia. I have been going to Pancheros since 1993. It started as a single restaurant in 1992 in my home-away-from-home, Iowa City. In a bid to keep me sane and well fed, they franchised right as I moved back to the Des Moines area (they're in bunches of states now, too). I have spent birthdays there. I bring the food home for Christmas, for christ's sake! Watching them prep food inspired several of my own cooking tricks for Mexican grub.

The secret is the tortilla, which they press from dough as you order. It is divine, and I never want to know the ingredients or nutritional values of that glob of delicious stuff. Shuddup and eat it, I say. It makes all that soccer dad mania almost palatable.

Working things out, day 1

I worked out at the gym in my small town today. Most people I talk to say they prefer exercising outdoors. I'd rather run and lift weights inside. It's because I use that time to wind down my thoughts. Running outside tears the hell out of my knees, too, but it keeps me distracted. What I need is focus and time to process thoughts while I'm huffing and puffing on the treadmill or on whatever the hell they call that barbell on tracks machine I do leg squats on.

Today's June 1st. It's a Wednesday, and my wife just left town for nine days to grade 1.2 million essays with about 1,200 other teachers. How nuts is that, anyway? Teacher let the monkeys out, and now she's grading strangers' standardized tests in some kind of sweatshop in Louisville. It gives me still more time to process thoughts. We've been so busy lately I can hardly keep up.

So, June 1, a fine time to start a little personal challenge for myself. This post is round one. More to come. While I was dripping sweat into my eyeballs doing leg squats, I realized a few things about this little challenge I had cooked up for myself.

First thing is this: The hardest part about setting a big goal for myself isn't setting the goal. It's putting aside all the other things I have cooked up inside my carousel of a brain. I've been reading a couple things recently about how to go about accomplishing a big goal or accomplish something significant and difficult. The advice is grand. Set a goal, see? Then, just break things down into the steps I need to achieve that goal. I'm over simplifying, but it truly is sound advice. The problem is that I can't settle on one goal.

Second thing is: I beat myself up about this kind of stuff, especially when I don't get anywhere. The reason is pretty damn good, though. I'm already past half way in a big goal, and keep forgetting it. I'm in getting my MBA, while working and having a family. Day by day, it's hard to remember that I've learned a lot, sharpened my critical thinking, and really transformed my role at work over four years. Here's to hoping there's a big payoff down the road for all this effort. But, it comes at a cost, which leads me to ...

The third thing: Creativity atrophies. I can't figure out if it's actually the case that all my focus on job and graduate school actually deadens creative thought, but I'm beginning to wonder. Maybe it's just that I have less time overall. I sure as hell hope that's it. The idea that I've driven off my creative energy and skills terrifies me, to be honest.

And, all of that is why I'm still sitting up with about 70 minutes to spare on day one of my challenge. It's why I'm sitting in the dark typing before I go to bed, and why I'm not already asleep, having rationalized away why this challenge was a silly whim.

So, this is for me. This is a reminder that I don't give half a damn about being able to run a marathon some day, but I'm scared to death I won't have the chops to create, to write something worth reading some day.

I think I decided somewhere in these last few days that I've stopped worrying about what people might think of a guy who has opinions and ideas like mine. What I write here and anywhere else is who I am. The number of people who really have any real sense of that are fewer than I have fingers. But, what's the use of all that? It mostly just makes life a little more lonely. It sure as shit isn't going to make my creative life any better.

Up next: The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco

I'm now reading The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco. Eco's famous for his intricate novels, with layer upon layer of reference and meaning. He's a semiotician, an academic concerned with signs and the meanings of messages, symbols, metaphors and the like. That's another way of saying he's one hell of a lot smarter than me.

It makes his books challenging reads. I've read Foucault's Pendulum, but not his most famous work, The Name of the Rose. Eco's approach is often to zero into a European period and locale, detail it obsessively, and invest into his work clever meanings and explorations of meaning. The Island of the Day Before is an exploration of the early 17th century and the baroque. Which means the prose itself is deliberately baroque and not for casual, sleepy eyed reading.

I read a handful of brief reviews, and many were disgusted with this book. Perhaps I shouldn't have let it color my reading, but I'm delighted so far. It's clever, complicated and funny, and I'm eager to see if he can maintain interest given the protagonist is stuck on an abandoned sailing ship and unlikely to leave it  (he can't swim). Fortunately, the flashbacks remain engaging, and the ship a mystery.

Walker of Worlds reviews Queen & Country

The Walker of Worlds blog has a review of one of my favorite series, Queen & Country. Check out Stephen Aryan's review of Queen & Country: Definitive Edition Volume 2.

I'm not surprised Stephen liked it! Queen & Country is amazing.

Shaping up a routine

Around the first of the year, the company I work for always puts on a special event to get employees exercising. I started and stopped the last couple years. But, this year I stuck with it. So far, I've worked out nearly every week. I missed a couple when I was sick and on vacation.

For the first time in my adult life I stick with it. There wasn't anything special about it. Oh, going with my wife to the gym helps, sure. She does look great in workout gear! But, it wasn't anything different this year.

I still hate doing it. I have sore knees. When I lift a lot, I get stiff and sore. I dread the exertion, but finally did reach a point I feel good after workouts. I haven't quite hit running 2 miles without resting, but I'm close. And, I'm already lifting more than when I started. It's progress, as long as I can keep that damn knee of mine in line.

Last week, I sat down on my couch with my laptop and actually wrote more than 500 words of fiction. I did it again last night, though it was fewer than 500 words. It was something. The writing's not terrible, and I may actually get a short story out of my efforts for once. But it won't just happen effortlessly. And, as my graduate classes ramp up again, the routine will be tough to keep.

I've been at this point before. Over a year ago I wrote a couple thousand words, but never finished. For years, I've had starts and stops, but never have much to show for it.

Writing is a lot like working out for me. No amount of reading inspiring books on writing, no amount of knowing all the tricks of the trade changes the fundamental thing. Just like braving cold January days when I don't have to work out, I also have to set aside time and write. I'll have sore knees, and I'll have frustrating sessions of only a couple hundred words.

I accept that it's exercise. It's a routine. And, it doesn't come easy. I know this isn't news to anyone. It's not news to me, either. Exercise  is good for me, but I still didn't always do it. Writing's the same way. I know what I need to do. Doing it's another thing.

I take heart in two things. First, that I can actually change my routines in life, whether working out or writing. Second, that those things shows real progress, bit by bit. The trick will be keeping that up.

Ebook Review: The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman

The Imperfectionists: A Novel by Tom Rachman hits a place dear to me - newspapers. I spent my college years learning to be a newspaper man in one of the best damn college newspapers in the country, The Daily Iowan. But, like the paper and staffers in Tom Rachman's novel, my journalism career was doomed to a short life. Fortunately, my life isn't quite as dysfunctional and, well, imperfect. I think we both have just a little regret, though.

The book assembles several short narratives from a different characters' perspectives. Here are short, usually tragic stories of, say, the ambitious obituary writer, the hapless news editor, the copy desk old maid, and even the obsessive-compulsive newspaper reader among others. All work at or read a once-great international English-language newspaper headquartered in Rome.

Between the short fiction for each of these journalistic  has-beens, Rachman insperses vignettes of the paper's history that serve as its obituary. It is the kind of inbred jouarnlistic enterprise whom all the participants refer to simply as "the paper." (Say no more; I know the kind.)

Rachman's title is clever. They characters are all imperfection personified, and they're more than slightly obsessive. Yes, the thing unfolds in a kind of broad stroke imperfect tense -- things that have happened with indefinite endings. Characters with action, but without "tense," so to speak. Rachman's too good at noting the idiosyncracies of copy editing -- and copy editors -- to avoid such playful spirit in the book.

It works. But, there's something off kilter about these frustrating messes of people, as though the twisted, tragic endings for each chapter and character came out of a modern day O. Henry school. Oh, the trajedies aren't surprise endings. Some are predictable. Rather, Rachman paints an expatriate life that the imperfectionist fools manage to let slip through their fingers.

The book does have an incredible sense of both time and place. Rachman, who worked as an international journalist and still lives in Rome, paints a wonderfully mundane, vivid locale of Rome. His characters walk his streets, and it shows. There, too, are wonderful juxtapositions of actual events in precisely the right time. The novel's set around 2007, and headlines bubble up through the work, giving the characters a grounding in the real world we all know and fret about. Iraq war references abound, as do events like the Virginia Tech shooting.

That juxtaposition is Rachman's real achievement here. He crafts believable characters living in a dynamic world. But, he doesn't cast them larger than life, caught up in those events. He lets them be their imperfect selves, worried about a bit of flab or sucking on hard candies, or lonely at night. When their imperfections aren't frustrating (and they are, those poor, imperfect bastards), they're vulnerable and endearing. Cheer for them, anyway, won't you?

In each tale, though, there isn't much time to cheer. The stories are brief, as is the book. It's a fine, quick read, but Rachman rushes at times. Dialogue is more reported than scored, which may be the effect Rachman aimed for. It's a newpaper pace that doesn't let the characters breathe.

And, taken as a whole, the strung-together short works stumble their way to the newspaper's demise, yet those characters never realize their fates. The book works as a novel mainly in name. Yes, characters "cross" one another's narratives, thus tying the work together. But, its differences from an anthology are sparse.

In the end, it's a wistful look at the tough times newspapers face in a new digital world, and the human mess those stubborn old journalists make of things. I feel bad for them ... almost.

The Imperfectionists: A Novel: C+

Shakey says keep blogging

My daily commute is usually me shuffling through songs on my iPod as I dodge traffic in my car. I've been driving the same route for about 13 years now, so it's getting pretty robotic.

Today, Neil Young popped on the list. This song's not very old. It's the eponymous Fork in the Road, which was a pitch-perfect send up to the recession. It really affected me in a time when the world was going more crazy than usual.

Anyway, I had to smirk when Shakey blasted out this verse:

Keep on bloggin'
'Til the power goes out
Your battery's dead
Twist and shout

Immediately preceding this great lyric is:

Download this
Sounds like shit

On the knee-slapping video of this bit, he has a pair of headphones plugged into an actual apple. After he sings that bit, he takes a bite out of the apple. Funny stuff, but it's one hell of an irony that I love Neil so much I had Keep on Rockin' in the Free World engraved on the back of my ipod.

Up Next: The imperfectionists by Tom Rachman

I'm already well into The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman. It's a speedy read, and it came recommended by my old boss. He thought the quirky stories about a newspaper would suit me, and he's right. It reminds me of my short-lived days as a news journalist. These days, I'm far gone from those nobly intended days to do good in print. I still remember them fondly, and I still am a news junkie.

Those brief years, even while young, did give me enough of a taste of newsrooms to appreciate Rachman's fictional newsroom, inspired by his own reporting days. It's proving a nostalgic read that way, although the characters are a entertaining, frustrating mess so far. Review to come!

Book Review: A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin

In the fourth installment of his A Song of Ice and Fire series, George R. R. Martin veers from his juggernaut of a fantastic story, slowing down to pick up the pieces left over from A Storm of Swords. Here, with only a select cast of his trademark and ever-expanding (and sometimes murderously contracting) pageant of rich point-of-view characters, Martin crafts a novel-length transition piece. While it disappoints in comparison to the previous three outstanding novels, which are among the finest, most entertaining fantasy novels written in decades, the novel maintains Martin’s excellent writing, captivating characters, and fascinating situations. The book offers some insight on how A Song of Ice and Fire can capture the crown of the best fantasy epic of the modern day.

While most fans know the history of A Feast for Crows’ publication and the long wait for fifth book, A Dance With Dragons, here’s a quick summary. In 2005, Martin published A Feast for Crows with a note indicating that it was only part of text meant to be a huge fourth novel. So, he split the text in two, placing some of his point-of-view characters in this book, and the remainder in a fifth book. Fans have spent years since in sometimes impatient furor demanding the “other half” of the tome (it arrives this summer, July 12, 2011), replete with fan favorite (mine included) characters Tyrion and Jon Snow, among others.

This split structure reveals itself in the novel’s story. Unlike the previous novels, here the multi-character story is flatter, the build up less climactic and epic. A Feast for Crows opens with Westeros a ruin in the thralls of war. The landscape is apocalyptic. Winter is coming. The lands are muddy wastes, decorated with hanged soldiers. Packs of wolves and outlaws haunt the land, and the common folk suffer terribly.

That theme is more present than ever. Martin’s previous books squeezed tension between the nobles of the game of thrones and the commoners. Here, we see devastation, dismemberment, horrible cruelty, rape, torture and worse inflicted on those poor bastards not lucky enough to be born in a noble house. And, yet, every single point-of-view character has some kind of noble lineage or direct link to high nobility. True, some – like Arya – are thrust into commoner roles, seeing through their own eyes the sometimes ugly, sometimes profound, and nearly always suffering lot of commoners. Martin manages to draw out our egalitarian sense of pity for these folk, while still stoking our root-for-the-underdog sense of heroism for the noble-born good guys – like Brienne or Samwell Tarly (notably, both “slum it” with hapless commoner companions).

At the center of the book are those lascivious, leonine Lannister twins, Cersei and Jaime. Both feature prominently in the book, particularly Cersei, whose chapters outnumber those of all other point-of-view characters in the book. She serves ably, maddeningly as antagonist.

The focus on those twins, who spend the half the novel in the same locale, dampen Martin’s ability to reveal a fantastically realized world in Westeros and the lands across the sea. While their events ultimately prove interesting, the build is slow. What’s more compelling is Martin’s strength as a character transformer. He’s at his best showing detail by detail how Cersei spirals out of control and Jaime distancing himself from her and gaining back some of his own self.

Through them, we see key events, like the siege of Dragonstone, but Martin reveals these from afar, after-the-fact. Unlike, say, the battle at King’s Landing or the Red Wedding in previous books, we don’t even a point-of-view character present for their own part in the action. The “off-stage” effect feels less powerful than those tense scenes of pinpoint action in previous books that Martin then follows with subsequent chapters and perspective. The mix is genius drama in A Storm of Swords. Here, it’s quieter.

Tales of the Viking-like Iron Men, who finally unite and throw their own hat in the ring for the game of thrones by invading the mainland, seem to dwindle as the book progresses. Point-of-view chapters from varying Greyjoy family members wander and ultimately fizzle, leaving this reader uncertain why Martin bothered. It seems as though he’s experimenting, then gives up the game there.

The star of the book is Brienne, the ugly lady warrior knight. In her search for Sansa Stark, she faces the toughest struggles and the book’s only real, exciting action. With a motley crew of unwanted companions wandering the apocalyptic landscape, she’s heroic, driven, and at her best when Martin whispers, and sometimes reveals her vulnerabilities. In Brienne, fans of the series find a noble hero worth cheering for opposite the cynical villainy of Cersei and her cohorts.

The beloved Starks aren’t wholly absent. Sansa and Arya prolong their separate lives as refugees with hidden identities. Their chapters, also, are too flat, feeling more of the same from their chapters in previous books. And, we get a glimpse of Jon Snow through Samwell Tarly, who then ventures out on his own for a wandering, slightly confused trek to the south.

All told, the chapters do indeed build to a compelling ending, though some are whopping cliff hangers. Martin’s writing is solid, though I will say his affectation of describing clothing and medieval foodstuffs reveals one hell of a Renaissance faire complex! That’s my good-natured rubbing, as the novel held up surprisingly well for me given all the flak it received from personal friends and online commentary. It was enough to confirm that Martin will continue writing fantasy I’m thrilled to read.

A Feast for Crows: B+

Spring break, with pirates

I spent the week on vacation with my family. We drove to Denver to stay with my wife's sister and enjoy the tourist attractions. Among those was the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, where they had a special touring exhibit, Real Pirates! The exhibit was wonderful, and inspiring for my current writing project.

The exhibit featured artifacts from the Whydah, a slave galley turned pirate ship by "Black Sam" Bellamy in the golden age of piracy. The ship wrecked off the coast of Cape Cod in 1717 during a storm. Barry Clifford located the wreck in the 80s, and it's now touring the nation in various museums. The exhibit displays the usual stuff -- cannonballs, parts of muskets, various tools and utensils, and an impressive display of real pirate treasure in the form of hundreds (thousands?) of silver coins. It also had many interesting insights into the make-up of pirate crews (including many black and Native American sailors, their mentality about going "on the account" (a.k.a. signing on to be a pirate), their almost dandy style, and the cultural mess of the triangular slave trade.

I tried to sketch down some notes about it all, but managed to lose the notes on my smart phone. Still, it was inspiring stuff, and I managed to write down much in my journal later on.

Canada and I decided to cut our trip a bit short and drive back home late Thursday night. She asked about my note taking and what I was up to with this writing thing. I explained it all to her, my idea for a fantastical novel of sky pirates. She knew I had been up to something, and I think is more than a little pleased I'm finally getting around to that writing thing she's always wanted me to do. She has no idea how I needed to get all that out from the echoes of my head.

I spent a lot of time this weekend doing more research and sketching out more ideas, names, second-world geography. Oh, true, it's not the first time I've dived into a creative project like this, and often those ideas sit idle, or used in ways other than fiction writing. But, I have an inkling -- only that so far -- that I'm finally getting myself into a strange routine to see this through.

Mark Charan Newton explains writing styles and world building

UK author Mark Charan Newton writes one hell of a blog. (He also writes fantasy novels -- check out Legends of the Red Sun series). Two recent posts from  him dive in to writing styles and second world building. He talks about his approach to both as a writer, but also acknowledges other techniques. And, he praises Scrivener software, which I've checked out as a demo for PC. It's a powerful writing tool that remains straightforward to use and learn.

Check out both posts:

Planning Arrangements - here he talks about narrative structure and writing.

Building Secondary Worlds - Mark breaks down the components of imaginary places he writes about, from names of characters to the color of the buildings they inhabit. Fascinating stuff.

Ebook Review: Brave New Worlds edited by John Joseph Adams

While we're living in interesting times, we might as well enjoy the show. Brave New Worlds is a great companion to an increasingly acrimonious and digital world. Editor John Joseph Adams  has assembled a relevant anthology of dystopian short fiction for the 21st century.

The anthology assembles dystopian classics along side more contemporary works. Included is Harlan Ellison's classic, "Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman among other notable stories from notable speculative fiction authors like Ursula Le Guin and Robert Silverberg. Here, too, are contemporary writers, like rising star Paolo Bacigalupi.

(NOTE: The ebook edition does not include three classics that appear in the print edition. Those are: The Minority Report by Philip K. Dick, Billennium by J. G. Ballard, and Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. These are literary greats, in my view, but as this review is from the ebook, I don't include those works here except to say that Harrison Bergeron is one of those "everyone reads it in high school" stories. I have no doubt these improve the already wonderful anthology.)

Unsurprisingly, the book offers a panoply of dystopias, and only a few of the expected Big  Brother variety. Adams' has edited here a thoughtful variation on theme, a Noah's Ark of awful places we never want to visit. Fortunately, most of them we want to read. Taken as a whole, the collection is superb. At their best, the stories are profoundly troubling and timeless. Sadly, a few -- blissfully only a very few -- are political screeds that can't carry the torch of the classic and contemporary greats within.

There are 30 stories in Brave New Worlds ebook edition (33 in print). Rather than comment on all, I'll settle for highlighting ones I thought were outstanding as well as a couple that I thought stumbled:

The Best

Three stories in this collection stood out:

The Funeral by Kate Wilhelm is a wonderfully cryptic narrative told through the eyes of a girl in an impossibly strict (and violent) school for girls. The story is beautifully constructed and leaves readers piecing together three generations of totalitarian education. It's a haunting, fascinating work.

The aforementioned "Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman by Harlan Ellison is one of the funniest black humor stories I've ever read. It deserves its already established reputation as a classic of science fiction, and it lays bare the absurdity of those who know what's best for you.

Finally, Cory Doctorow's The Things that Make Me Weak and Strange Get Engineered Away is a well-realized, well-crafted work. It's one of the longest in the collection for good reason. Doctorow crafts an elaborate landscape for a near-future monk of the digital age who unravels the paradox of his dystopian masters.

The Rest

Other superbly written stories in the collection include:

O Happy Day! by Geoff Ryman is by far the most disturbing work in the anthology. I see other reviewers have wide-ranging reactions for this one, but I found it superb. (Pop Squad by Paolo Bacigalupi runs a distant second on the disturbing scale, and his Blade Runner-esque tale is also excellent.)

Amaryllis by Carrie Vaughn is almost sweet, despite knowing all along that the powers that be force people into awful decisions about procreation.

The Lunatics by Kim Stanley Robinson along with Jordan's Waterhammer by Joe Mastroianni, strike me as companion tells of enslaved miners breaking over inhumane circumstances to face oblivion. The tales are both fascinating viewpoints of those who lack full awareness of their awful situation, but nevertheless realize  the injustice.

All told, the remaining stories are worth reading. I found about three works that read more as political posturing than accessible narratives, but I wager that any reader could say the same of nearly any thought-provoking fiction.

Brave New Worlds: A-

Up Next: A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin

In 1996 while on a dinner break from my night job as a college newspaper copy editor, I discovered a new paperback with an interesting cover. It had some wolves and a young heroic looking fellow in the snow. I'd never heard of the book, nor the author. My friends, who also loved reading fantasy novels, had never mentioned it.

It turns out that heroic youth on the cover was a character named Jon Snow. The "unknown" author was George R. R. Martin, and the book was the first copy I ever saw of A Game of Thrones.

I remember clearly finishing the book. I had probably read it for a couple weeks, but I finished the thing in mad dash until 5 a.m., at which point I exclaimed to my then girlfriend, now wife, that it was the best book I ever read.

Ok, I may have exaggerated at that point. I have read better books. Not many. I loved Martin's characters, and cheered that for once I wasn't totally put off by clichéd, regurgitated fantasy. I became an A Song of Ice and Fire evangelist to all my friends, and I still smugly remind them who introduced them to the now famous series.

Oh, there are much more devoted fans of the series than me, I have no doubt. But, I love the books deeply.

But, I confess, I'm bitter. When news arrived about A Feast for Crows, I learned it was a riven text, and that A Dance With Dragons was its delayed twin that contained all my favorite characters' chapters. Those friends shared their slight disappointment after reading. And, life otherwise got busy.

So it was that this fan, discover of the Western Kingdoms, never read A Feast for Crows in some kind of self-inflicted protest. What a waste. I decided my next read would be a treat to myself. Bring on the disappointing saga! I can't wait.

Getting emotionally invested in narratives

My Kindle robotically tells me I'm 93% through Brave New Worlds. It's a depressing reminder how slow I am in reading this collection of short fiction. I was on a tear in December and January for reading, and now I see I'm back to my plodding pace.

So, instead of my usual whining, how about some silver lining?

I'm genuinely astounded at how I, and presumably other readers, approach narratives. When I read a novel, I enter a narrative, however complex, of compelling characters and events. This all feels natural. I'm eager to turn pages and discover the ups and downs of it all.

But, in truth, it requires effort. Let me call it interpretive effort. I get invested into the tale. It doesn't even mean I must "like" the characters; it holds true even when I find them fascinatingly abhorrent. The point remains; it takes effort to read and appreciate fiction, and certainly to consider its value and meaning as a story.

When I read short fiction in series, that seemingly natural feel fades away, and that interpretive effort becomes obvious. Each story takes that little bit of investment that adds up -- for me, at least -- to interpretive effort. This is true for me regardless of my fondness for the stories. Brave New Worlds is excellent overall, and yet I'm still plodding along, emotionally worn out, so to speak.

I should add that Brave New Worlds is a collection of dystopian fiction. It seethes with bleak themes and ugly, depressing resolutions. It takes more emotional verve than usual to kick off  reading a second story after just finishing one in which, say, work camp revolutionaries are literally obliterated.

That said, I think the point stands. Again, it's not complaining. I find it a fascinating thing for both readers and writers.

Speculative fiction as a political act

I'm still reading Brave New Worlds. My reading pace is normally pretty slow. Throw on to my schedule a new workout regimen and my and my wife's new addiction to watching Dexter on Netflix means I'm way behind here.

The anthology is fascinating. It's been a long while since I read any short fiction, especially speculative fiction like this. I studied it formally in college years ago, and outside of that I had read a lot of science fiction short story classics.

I confess, I have forgotten how thick with political identity the speculative genre is. It's almost quaint to me to see how things have changed. That sounds more condescending that I mean it, though. I'm just fascinated to see so many of the stories in this collection featuring climate change as a key premise, for example.

The collection is, at least thus far, also heavy into themes surrounding gender issues, GLBT, and especially reproductive issues like abortion, fertility and population growth (or devastation on a couple cases). I have no quibble with the topics. Indeed, I don't think I can say I even have a quibble with the political positions these authors take.

But, I do find the conceits surrounding the oppression and the ruling powers of these dystopia are sometimes so bizarre as to be political farce. In one story, an evolved Catholic church conducts infanticide-by-baptism because the infants are diagnosed as infertile. In another, a new American theocracy resurrects a Green party pot smoker and then summarily cites imaginary George W. Bush era terrorism laws for his being a terrorist. To be fair, other stories go the opposite direction as political commentary, including troubling story of a matriarchy run amuck that imprisons violent men.

But, I will say there's precious little political viewpoint in this collection that isn't either left-leaning being self crticial or left-leaning criticizing the right. That's not really surprising; it's not even disappointing. That's not my point. It echoes my experiences and observations for current day geek subcultures, most of which at least acknowledge slightly left-leaning politics and at most extreme rant against race, religion or conservative politicies with their own shouting groupthink.

So, yes, I find some of the stories to be those kinds of screeds. Which I think is an odd reaction for me to have. Speculative fiction is a vast playground in which I like to think of myself as the open-minded adventurer, eager to explore unusual worlds and stretch the boundaries of settings, ideas, and themes. And, dystopian fiction is especially likely to present extreme, political landscapes and villains. Yet, I still find a small number of these stories to be careless. Stories in which the terror of dystopia isn't villainous, or even bleakly humorous, but trite and ill-conceived.

I think those kinds of stories do not stand the test of time, which is the bullshit way of saying they aren't very good stories.

Thankfully, Brave New Worlds is not full of such stories. They are the exception, not the rule.

Up next: Brave New Worlds anthology edited by John Joseph Adams

I've already dived in to my next read, Brave New Worlds, edited by John Joseph Adams. It's a collection of dystopian short fiction from diverse authors.

The Kindle edition notes that the digital rights to three classic stories by famous authors (Kurt Vonnegut, Philip K. Dick and J.G. Ballard) aren't included. Disappointing, but understandable. And, along with many other American high schoolers, I've already read Vonnegut's Harrison Bergeron.

So far, it's quite enjoyable. I'm about a third through the book, and the stand out in the book so far is The Funeral by Kate Wilhelm. It's a superb story, a dark and severe tale of a girl reared in an ultra-severe caste school. Wilhelm's murky ending teases out a string of implications about the generations of teacher tyrants in a bleak future.

Waking up a dream

I’m 35. This year, my wife and I moved into our dream house after six frustrating and stressful years of trying to move out of our first home. Now, we and our two children have a wonderful place to live.

When I was 15, my dream was to be one of two things – bass player in rock band or a novelist. I’m was always a pretty mediocre musician at best, but I could write. Or so I thought, anyway. I chose my beloved University of Iowa based solely on its world renown graduate fiction writing program, the Iowa Writers' Workshop. My mother made me reply to at least one other school just to be safe. I barely bothered. I was a Hawkeye.

I actually made it into a select portion of the university’s undergraduate creative writing program (taught by some talented Writers' Workshop graduate students), but the truth was I wasn’t ready to become a world renown fiction writer. I got the journalism bug not long after I decided I needed to have some kind of job. I needed that job because I wanted to marry my girlfriend – now wife – and have a home and family. That desire outweighed my novelist dream.

I got a great education along the way, and a degree in English and journalism both. The journalism degree turned out well. I’ve been working at a media company for 13 years, and have a respectable income sufficient to buy this wonderful house I’m sitting in now.

No regrets. I knew all along I was making choices that would prevent me from being the writer I dreamed of being some day. Pay the bills first. Feed the kids. Get a nice home for us to have a decent life in. Then, writing.

Ok, not even then. I’m currently a graduate student . . . in a Masters of Business Administration program. Not exactly a beatnik existence, huh? At least it's also at Iowa! Life-long Hawkeye, here. Classes chew up a lot of my time, and will continue for a couple more years. But, it helps my career considerably. It ensures my kids have great coverage and a college education some day.

Still, I didn’t lose that creative urge entirely. For much of my leisure time over the last 10 years, I created indie role-playing games. I had some decent success, too, and wrote and published three unique games – a Western game called Dust Devils, a horror game called 44: A Game of Automatic Fear, and a Greek myth inspired modern fantasy called Nine Worlds. The latter two are available for free at StoriesYouPlay.com.

But all of that added up to much less time reading, and almost zero time writing fiction.

About two months ago, something changed – the kind of change I think people require before they can will themselves into doing something hard. After all this time, I wanted to read fiction again. I’ve read more books in the last two months than I have in the last two years. It’s refreshing, and it’s not going away any time soon. Something in me clicked.

Something else clicked, too. I got that desire to write again, that dream revived. And, I confess, it remains just a desire. Writers write, of course. So, all I can say so far is that aspiring writers research. I’ve spent my last few days writing some imaginative notes about the age of sail, the moons of Jupiter, Archimedes, and Pascal. Oh, and pirates.

There’s a wonderful idea there, begging to get out as a work of long fiction. It’ll take hard work, patience and willpower, all amid an already very busy life of work and school and family and friends. Given 20 years of distant dreams, I have no illusions how challenging it will be.

I’m going to give it a shot.

Ebook Review: Ammortals by Matt Forbeck

Full disclosure: I’ve met Matt Forbeck a few times. I can’t say I know him well, but what I do know is he’s an extraordinarily nice guy.

Angry Robot Books just recently released Amortals by Matt Forbeck in the U.S. It’s been making rounds in the UK on reviews, and is currently gathering up good reviews here  in the states as well. It’s a science fiction thriller with plenty of twists, turns, and technological tricks.

Hot on the heels of my reading of Sandman Slim, Amortals is another first person account with a detective fiction feel. The protagonist narrator is Ronan “Methuselah” Dooley, the world’s first and oldest amortal. Amortality is the technological centerpiece of the book, a process where people can be resurrected by means of a clone and downloaded memories. Dooley dies protecting the president in the early 21st century, and his heroism helps usher in widespread acceptance of the new technology for a new era of rich, amortal haves and poor, mortal have-nots.

The book begins with Dooley’s latest death. After a string of dying in the line of duty over about 200 years, Dooley’s almost become used to the process. But, this death is more gruesome than most, and leaves a cold trail of who or what his killer wants.

Forbeck wastes no time propelling Dooley and his mortal partner Querer, a middle aged woman whom he distrusts initially, into action. After a presidential celebration of his rebirth, Dooley begins collecting up information, especially via his nanoserver implants. The effect for readers is seeing the technological layers of the world through Dooley’s eyes as a living, breathing internet enabled world reveals clues and threats. It’s a nice touch to consider how information swarms our senses, even in today’s real world.

Pacing in the first half or more of the book earns that thriller label for the book. Dooley’s attacked by Indian gangster, snipers, and rocket launching mystery men, then chasing after same in acrobatic hover car action. The action makes for a pleasant, page turning read.

Dooley himself is a salty dog of an agent, but also a lens for readers. He’s roughly my contemporary (and Forbeck’s) – someone born in the late 20th century, and still remembers bits of his family life from that time. Forbeck adds just a tad too much for my tastes on some minor details – it’s clear he’s writing for geek culture by drumming up Dooley’s fondness for Settlers of Catan in one passage, rather than the more rough and tumble Eastwood type that he otherswise behaves as in the line of duty. It’s a small thing, but one that snapped me out of an otherwise well done character who’s far too old for his young cloned appearance.

The Amortal Project, the official organization that controls amortality for an elite superpowered United States, is the matter of much controversy. Dooley’s investigation is peppered with references to religious objection and activism against the immorality of amortality. Here again, Forbeck makes some interesting commentary on the consequences of amortality, including class warfare and religious extremism, for which Dooley seems to have no interest.

Nestled between action sequences is Dooley’s introduction to his sixth generation descendant grandson, whom he calls Six. The teenager forms a bond with Dooley, but also introduces the relationship with the boy's father, whom Dooley calls Five. It ends badly, or so Forbeck leads readers to believe.

It all turns sharply when Dooley encounters his killer, someone much, much closer to him than he ever suspected. The book then builds rather quickly to a revolutionary turn for Dooley with Querer at his side. Here, the book suffers. While the future shocks revealed in the final chapters of the thriller provide interesting turns, Forbeck rushes. The story builds to a dramatic confrontation with the Amortal Project conspirers, and then ends abruptly. Forbeck abandons Dooley’s relationship with Six. We see nothing of a key religious figure, or the presumably messy consequences of a probably better world. It’s a clumsy ending to an otherwise entertaining near-future science fiction thriller.

The book does provide a fascinating appendix (I read the Kindle edition -- I assume it's also in print). Forbeck includes a brief history of him getting the book published, and how he crafted the work over several  years. He even includes the original version of the first chapter written in the 90s. It’s a interesting peek inside his emergence as a published writer, and will be especially worthwhile to aspiring writers.

Amortals: B-

Sandman Slim's real life mentor

In my recent review of Sandman Slim, I was unaware of the historical figure of Vidocq. Eugène François Vidocq is the father of criminal investigation, i.e. the grandpa of detectives, and creator of the French Sûreté Nationale. Kadrey's cleverly including Vidocq to liven up his Chandler-esque fantasy.

Read all about Eugène François Vidocq on Wikipedia. Great stuff.

I love discovering stuff like this in books. Wish I had realized while reading to catch the good references (I'm remember some already, including the bit about him creating the Sûreté!)

Brave new readers

It’s news to no one that we’re on the leading edge of a digital revolution. The rise of ereaders this past year is the most obvious sign of rapid changes in how we find, acquire, read and reflect on fiction.

I for one am excited! The changes coming should make things better for readers in the long run. But, it could get ugly for writers, for publishers, and for booksellers, especially in the short term. Rumors abound that Borders faces bankruptcy. This comes at a time when some book publishers are tightening belts. Should Borders fail, those publishers won’t just tighten belts, they’ll tighten nooses.

But, now writers facing a much tougher market have a new option that just wasn’t feasible even a few years ago. They can now publish digitally. They can work with innovative publishers, or maybe assemble themselves into publishing collectives, or even publish as individuals.

Digital media changes everything. Even readers who demand books the old fashioned way face changes in price, availability and selection in coming years. There’s no way to avoid it – the change will affect you somehow.

Digital infinity?

Geek culture – indeed, popular culture in general – is all about the consumption of media. We read books. We play video games, watch movies, listen to music, and collect merchandising that’s mostly spun off from some content. It’s the core of the hobby, genre fiction especially.

All of these things we consume can be digitized. And, that means that, at least in theory, the supply of these things is limitless. How many copies are there of an ebook? Effectively, as many as you like. Not only that, but the cost of hosting and distributing “as many as you like” copies of that ebook is so small anyone with ambition can try publishing.

In this new universe isn’t a matter of having enough media to consume. We have a supply of media so vast it may as well be infinite.

But, how much media can you consume? Not as much as you’d like. I have bookshelves full of unread books, for one. My Netflix instant queue keeps getting longer not shorter. There’s only so much time in the day.

Supply far exceeds demand. There is more fiction out there than you want to read. Or, at least than more fiction than you have time to read. Publishers will try all kinds of techniques to boost that demand, whether by often maligned Digital Rights Management (DRM), special editions, or the dreaded (for them) lower prices.

An army of readers

As more and more authors feel the squeeze, and more fiction gets distributed digitally, rather than the pretty presentation of handsome covers on display at bookstores, it becomes more challenging to wade through it all, to find that diamond in the rough.

That’s where something interesting happens, once again thanks to that digital revolution. Readers aren’t just browsing  around in the local bookstore or library anymore. They’re actively seeking out help to wade through all this surplus of stuff to read. They read reviews on Amazon.com, catch up with a favorite blogger, or seek recommendations from people they’ve never actually met on Twitter.

I have just a couple connections with other bloggers so far. That’s one of my goals this year – expand my network of fellow readers and authors. Taken alone, my reviews will be too few, too random to reliably help readers find their way to good fiction.

But I’m excited to see others doing already what I want to do – take part in an army of readers and reviewers that help people figure out how to survive the revolution.