I’m not who I was supposed to be. No aspiring writer sets out to be a minor writer. I didn’t dream of growing up and writing books that sell modestly, are received quietly, and reviewed indifferently. I was indoctrinated by hours spent curled on the sofa and in bed at night reading great writers and feeling, somehow, in their presence. Whoever it is who first gets his or her hooks into you, Jane Austen, Saul Bellow, J.D Salinger, or, in my case, Jack London and then Joseph Heller, it feels as if he or she understands you, from thousands of miles away and even centuries ago. To become such a writer, a so-called major or important writer, that becomes the dream.
Yet not all of us make it. For me, there was no map to becoming a major writer. (There might be one now, more on that below.) I read the lives of writers and how they came to their majesty and they were impossible to track. Jack London worked at a cannery. Joseph Heller wrote advertising copy. Harper Lee took airline reservations.
Some answers are direct and literal, but others require you to think about the familiar in an entirely different way. There are questions that seem unsolvable until you consider outlandish possibilities: Does this answer read backward? Do multiple letters reside in a single box? It was during these moments that our real bonding took place. We challenged strongly held perceptions, released ideas that felt accurate but did not represent the only truth. Using a combination of logic and flexibility, together we arrived at places that once seemed impossible.
I much preferred puzzling to watching my son pack up his countless possessions: camping equipment, snowboard gear, carabiners and ropes. Calculus books in one pile, Calvin and Hobbes in another. It all reminded me of that teary car ride years ago, after first dropping him at college. I didn’t cry because I missed him — he hadn’t been gone long enough for that — but because I thought I’d done such a flawed job raising him. Like me, he ate much too fast and could barely fold a T-shirt. I remember thinking, “If I just had more time.” As if time could solve what I truly was stuck on.
When I’m shopping, I feel no pain. If I’m sick, I don’t feel sick anymore. My right hip stops hurting. I don’t feel hunger. My adrenaline is pumping. I love the anticipation of shopping — just thinking that I’m going to go buy a new dress makes me happy. It’s only about a week later that I’ll say, “Why did I spend $3,000?” I do return things, but that doesn’t help the problem. I think I use it as an excuse to shop, to be honest. I’ll tell myself, “Go ahead and get it; you can always return it.”
"In tarot, the Fool begins the journey. With an innocent heart and a soul full of wonder he sets out on his wanderings, looking to explore the universe, delighting in all things, trusting in all things the Fool is a card of exploration, hope."
I love that line — which occurs some 300 pages deep in Claire North's new gut-punch of a novel, 84k I love it because it is so goofy, so stilted in its language and heavy-handed in its significance. I love it because, in a lesser novel, it would've been a framing device — thrown down early to serve as guideposts for the early phases of the hero's journey. Mostly I love it because it is a complete lie.
“Country Dark” is dark, but deeply humane. The love in this book is deep and powerful. And winsome twinkles shine through the blackness throughout, thanks in no small part to Offutt’s keen ear and eye. The coffee remains “strong enough to float a rock.” An old boy is commended for still being on his “hind legs.” Beanpole is fat with “table muscle” and Tucker remains “either-handed as a spider.”