I’ve always been a Reader. From birth, practically, I would read and read and read. I was That Girl whose head was buried in a book all the way home on the bus. I’m That Lady who carries a book in her purse to read while in line at the bank.
Confession: I’m trashy. I’m a trash fiction whore. I buy paperbacks for 6 dollars at Target or 1 dollar at Goodwill or 25 cents at a yard sale, and I’m easy. I’ve read every Patricia Cornwell, Jonathan Kellerman, John Sanford, and James Patterson book ever released. Maybe I get some comfort from the redundancy. Maybe the short sentences make me feel smarter than I am. Maybe I’m just lazy. I can sit down with an Alex Cross novel and kind of mail it in, whip through it in a few hours, maybe even watch a movie or carry on a phone conversation at the same time. And when I close that book I probably couldn’t tell you the name of THIS story’s engaging character who turns out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing during the last 15 pages.
I had high hopes for Jodi Picoult and Dan Brown too, until I read more than one of their books and realized, hi, they are telling the same story over and over and over again! Oh, here’s another freaky crisis. And wait! Is that a legal battle? With some soul searching thrown in? A heart wrenchingly true to life scene that I can easily imagine in my own life? Here’s the plot twist. And now the enigmatic epilogue, which leaves you to draw some of your own conclusions, make the story your own. Run with it, readers! It’s YOUR story. Thank you and good night.
Like I said. I’m a lazy whore. But once in a while a book comes across my lap, usually off my radar because it’s a real book and therefore not in my budget because it can’t be had for 5 bucks in the checkout line, and I remember what reading is for. I remember what it’s like to be just blown the fuck away by one sentence and then another sentence and to find myself unable, physically just unable to shut the book and go to bed. This year my mother in law sent me a few books, among them Snow Flower and the Secret Fan and The Way the Crow Files and believe me when I tell you these are the kinds of books that make my life better for having read them.
But I really wanted to tell you about this book. That Chuck Palahniuk is a fucking lunatic, man! What a nutty, freaky, compelling, awesome story. You read something like this one and you think what the FUCK must this guy’s dreams be like? Sometimes a book just makes me glad to be a Reader. This is one of those. I’m not even up to the task of a book report/review for ya’ll. I’d just fuck it up, and spoil the surprises. Here’s a link to a shitload of reviews. They all say it better than I ever will.
The thing is though, just like knowing that Radiohead exists makes my Little River Band CD just that much skankier, knowing that Palahniuk’s books are out there, along with scores and scores of others I’ll never even have a chance to hear about makes turning the page of a J.D. Robb novel feel like a betrayal. A dirty, slutty, lazy, betrayal to my poor atrophied intellect. Goodbye, intellect. You had so much promise. Yesterday I read a comment on Marrit Ingman’s blog about publishers and how books are marketed, and I felt dirtier still. Where’s our underground indie-book culture? I know you’re out there, folks. Let’s start a book rotation. Indie authors, I’d LOVE to go buy your books retail, every single one of them because as I learned when Inconsolable was released, authors don’t make shit when we buy from Amazon or the clearance rack at Barnes and Noble and I know you don’t make shit when I mail off your awesome book to my friends so they won’t have to buy their own copy. But I just can’t. I just can’t keep the local indie book seller in business (even though my request for Inconsolable did inspire him to order several copies and they did sell!) but just like Jimmy Buffet will pay the mini mart back someday, I’ll pledge here and now that if I ever get rich I’ll buy new copies of all my favorite indie books. I’m talking to you, Nerd Girl in Paradise City!
Confession: the new Patricia Cornwell book’s still on my wish list. I just can’t get enough of that zany Kay Scarpetta and her cute little lesbian neice.
Do I have A Problem? Do I need intervention?
Hell yes. I love Diary. I am totally hearing this entry man.