Showing posts with label Steve Hely. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steve Hely. Show all posts

How I Became a Famous Novelist: Some Thoughts

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Today was one of those days—accidents fueled by an insane level of exhaustion (knives swashbuckling across fingernails that might have been fingertips; perhaps a broken toe). After awhile I decided to stay put on the stiff black couch and read Steve Hely's How I Became a Famous Novelist, about a wanna-be bestseller who eyes the novel competition, studies the stats, and bludgeons his way onto the charts with a novel he calls The Tornado Ashes Club (decode that, if you will). The wannabe wavers, for a brief spell, between writing an action-packed thriller or a literary hearttwist, and for the reasons he explains here, he goes with the latter:

It's easy at first, describing your hero's monumental chin and iron-core integrity and so forth. But slowly you discover it's like a complicated math problem, or assembling a bookshelf. You have to keep track of dozens of tiny parts, which good guys turn out to be bad guys, and which cars will get blown up by which helicopters....

With literary fiction, on the other hand, you can just cover everything up with a coat of wordy spackle. Those readers are searching for wisdom, so they're easier to trick.

All right, so that had me laughing (throbbing toe and ugly fingernails and all)—especially since, yes, yes (I hang my head, I apologize), it's true: I stand accused as a purveyor of literary fiction, some of which does indeed take inspiration from Mediterranean countries (a setting that comes under ruthless attack) and some of which includes invented words (not that many, I swear, or at least, not in every book). I'm also, at times, a book reviewer for the Chicago Tribune and elsewhere. Here's what Hely's protagonist has to say about that:

Book reviewers are the most despicable, loathsome order of swine that ever rooted about the earth. They are sniveling, revolting creatures.... They are human garbage.

Hmmm, I thought, as I sat on my couch with my blue, swollen toe and my peeling, unpretty fingers. Has reading become a dangerous business, too?

And should I be writing thrillers?

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The Books I Bought This Week

Saturday, January 16, 2010

I have a funny habit of buying books when I know—it's an unbeatable, unbearable fact—that there will be no time to read them. They sit on the chair that sits opposite my desk, their lovely perfect spines toward me. They tease, they seduce until I finally give in—slip one into my bag and take it with me, everywhere.

I steal into a page or two while waiting in the Whole Foods line. I read while warming up for Zumba. I hover over pages while on hold on conference calls. I say to my husband, "Go ahead. No, seriously. You watch that show on the air battles of World War II; I'm just going to go upstairs."

It feels so good it almost feels wrong.

Here are the books that came into my home this week, in the order in which I believe I will read them. (I've already started The Disappeared, and so far it's the dream I thought it would be after reading the review in last week's Times):

The Disappeared (Kim Echlin)
The Girl with Glass Feet (Ali Shaw)
How I Became a Famous Novelist (Steve Hely)
A Jury of her Peers (Elaine Showalter)
Unfinished Desires (Gail Godwin)

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