Book reviews

Writing that rocks – Stephen King

Cathy LaGrow 12 Comments

(In two parts, for those of you who don’t have all day.)

PART ONE

Confession: I have been a HUGE fan of Stephen King’s work for many years.
Confession: I read my first and only Stephen King novel about six months ago.

Why yes, I’d be happy to explain.

For a long time, there were only three genres of fiction that I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. 1. Science Fiction, for no good reason (and, as we’ve already seen, I’ve overcome that aversion.) 2. “Bodice Rippers,” as I believe they’re called – I read one once, just to see, and it was not a successful experiment. And 3. Horror, because I am too easily scared, and I don’t like gore.

Like everyone else on Planet Earth, I was well aware of Stephen King, and had actually enjoyed the movie treatments of some of his famous novels (although I had to close my eyes in parts.) I knew he was one of the best-selling fiction writers of all time, with upwards of 350 million books sold. I also knew he had written a few non-horror novels – but I wasn’t interested in reading those. If I couldn’t sample what he obviously did best, then I didn’t want to sample him at all.

Then, in 2000, King went and wrote a little something that he called On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.

When On Writing was published, book critics, most of whom had long treated King’s work with either disdain or indifference, sort of collectively shuffled their feet. Because the book was…um…really good. As in, people were saying it was the best book on writing since The Elements of Style. Which was a bit outrageous.

And also, true.

The simple fact is, Stephen King has managed to sell several hundred million books, in a niche genre that is not even liked by anyone I know, because the man knows how to tell a freaking story (and I would use stronger language, but there are children around) better than just about anyone. This was evident to me before I had read a single word of his fiction. This was evident when I read his amazing memoir/guidebook.

On Writing contains a short (less than 100 pages) account of King’s childhood and early writing history. He then tells you everything he knows about writing. (In a postscript, he also writes about the 1999 accident that took place while he was writing this book, in which he was nearly killed by a runaway van while he was walking near his home.)

King touches on philosophical advice, as when he describes how he eventually traded in the massive writing desk he’d always dreamed of for a smaller one, so his kids would have space to come hang out in his office. He writes:

It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.

And King packs his book with practical advice, much of it echoing The Elements of Style (which he references.) He hates adverbs. He doesn’t believe in dressing up your vocabulary, or lecturing while writing, or forcing your characters to do things your way. He does believe in trimming the fat from your writing; if a stretch of narrative does not move the story along, no matter how beautiful it is – it must go. He hammers this point home wonderfully, as here:

It’s also important to remember it’s not about the setting, anyway – it’s about the story, and it’s always about the story. It will not behoove me (or you) to wander off into thickets of description just because it would be easy to do so.

On Writing has an easy, conversational tone to it that makes it sound like you’re talking to your Uncle Stevie (as King often refers to himself.) DO NOT BE FOOLED. Producing his kind of writing is in no way easy. It is one of the hardest things in the world to get right – and the only reason King can do it, as he oh so casually relates in the book, is that he has written his fingers to the bone since he was a child. He wrote his way through grade school, and high school, and college; he wrote in the laundry room of a double-wide, far into the night, every night; he wrote through addictions that were so bad, he can barely remember writing some of his books; he wrote his way back from the brink of death, in a variety of ways; he wrote when no one would pay him for it and when his first four completely-finished novels all went into the permanent reject heap. He writes because (I suspect) for him, to stop writing would be to stop breathing. King has natural talent, absolutely. But he has also worked at his profession as hard as anyone ever has. He has paid his dues, and then some.

Check out the list of books and stories he has published, from his web page (and then come back.) When I scrolled through this list, I got the strong urge to giggle, because the quantity of work he’s produced is insane. And bear in mind, he was writing long, long before he was ever published.

Anyway, by halfway through On Writing, I was a die-hard Stephen King fan.

Then in 2007, King was chosen as the guest editor for that year’s Best American Short Stories compilation. (This is a marvelous series in which every year, a different distinguished author selects the 20 or so best short stories from the most prestigious American magazines, and they are re-printed in a paperback book.) I bought the book and eagerly read Stephen’s choices, and I loved every one them, even though they all bore a slightly macabre King stamp. My opinion was cemented – Stephen King simply knows great writing. After that, I found and purchased another of his books on writing that my brother had told me about, the little known, out-of-print Secret Windows, which was published in 2000 as a Book-of-the-Month Club collection of essays, interviews, and articles.


PART TWO

By this point, there was no way I could continue to avoid King’s fiction. I had to read one of his novels. And I wanted it to be one of his best.

In late 2009, King published the 1074-page Under the Dome. I have always found it hard to resist the siren song of a Really Big Book, and I sensed that this novel would be my first foray into King fiction territory. The New York Times book review clinched it – the review begins with these words: “Under the Dome gravely threatens Stephen King’s status as a mere chart-busting pop cultural phenomenon. It has the scope and flavor of literary Americana, even if Mr. King’s particular patch of American turf is located smack in the middle of the Twilight Zone.”

A few months later, I checked out Under the Dome from my local library. Our state was having a streak of beautiful, warm weather last Spring, and in the afternoons, while my boys napped, I sat in the sun and read King’s book. And could not put it down.

King would probably be the first person to tell you that he is not the greatest writer alive. But he is far and away the best I’ve ever read at one thing: keeping the reader turning the pages. Under the Dome is, as I’ve mentioned, 1074 pages long – and if there was a dull page in that book, I never found it. I cannot tell you how much that blows my mind. It should be impossible to write 1000+ consecutive pages, and not get mired down in a bit of rambling. But I did not run across a single page where I thought, Oh, this would be a good place to take a break and go make myself a turkey sandwich, or put the clothes in the dryer.

That, my friends, is genius. And that is someone who has faithfully toiled away at his craft for untold hours, spanning untold years. Of course, one could credibly argue that King has an advantage over most writers, in that he deals with the supernatural. Since anything can (and does) happen to his characters, there is always some fantastic or unbelievable event going on, which creates tension and keeps the story moving forward briskly. But 1000 pages? In which the story never flags? That is the product of remarkable self-editing, and an incredibly finely-tuned ear.

(I won’t explain the plot of Under the Dome. If you’re not going to read the book, the plot doesn’t matter. If you can stomach some gore, then read the book – but I must mention: King’s writing is NOT for the faint of heart. Evidently, there is no subject that he considers taboo, and I mean NO subject. You have been warned.)

As much as I enjoyed that novel, I don’t plan to read any more King fiction. I do better when I don’t fill my head with dark and scary stuff. But I will go on being a big fan, from afar. If I ever publish a book (could happen), and Stephen King were to read it (never gonna happen), his approval would mean more to me than just about anyone else’s. Because he knows, better than anyone, what makes a great story.

Long live (and write) the King.

Writing that rocks – E.B. White

Cathy LaGrow 2 Comments

Classification: Letters, non-fiction

For the last several months, I have been working my way through Letters of E.B. White – “working” only in the sense that the book is 660 pages long, and (as I may have previously mentioned) I have two small boys to chase after. In every other sense, reading this book is the absolute opposite of a chore. People just do not write like White any more, and that’s a pity.

E.B. White is, of course, one of the grand-daddies of American literature. He is most famous for penning his children’s classics: Stuart Little, Charlotte’s Web, and The Trumpet of the Swan. (We owned copies of each of these books when I was a child, and I wore them out.) White also contributed to the prestigious The New Yorker magazine for roughly 60 years, and he co-authored a little book that has become the “bible” for writers – The Elements of Style (it is also commonly called “Strunk & White,” after its authors.)

The Elements of Style should be required reading for would-be writers (and you need your own copy, because you’ll be highlighting and underlining, and writing in the margins.) The book covers grammar and word usage, but it also explains principles of style and composition, giving such golden instructions as “Omit needless words.” Messrs. Strunk and White believed in making writing as clear and concise as possible, by slashing all extraneous words from one’s prose, and I cannot tell you how often that chant echoes through my head (“Omit needless words! Omit needless words!”) Whenever I obey, my writing becomes better. (An example, from the book: “He is a man who” can be simply written as “he,” without losing any of the meaning – and with a savings of four words!)

Back to Letters of E.B. White. I found this thick book at my favorite used bookstore, and it is just about the best $2.00 I have ever spent. White never wrote an autobiography; instead, in 1976, he collected and published this book of his life-long personal correspondence. Letter compilations often make great memoirs – IF the author is a talented and prolific writer – because people tend not to self-censor when they’re writing personal letters, and also because you are reading details and feelings exactly as they happened, not as they were remembered decades after the fact. I’m afraid this kind of book is a dying breed. No one writes letters by hand any more – certainly not to the tune of hundreds or thousands of them.

Letters of E.B. White begins with a few childhood letters, but the collection really “kicks in” after college, when White and a friend hit the open road in a model-T, in 1922. While driving across the country (working odd jobs when he needed to), White wrote long letters home, to friends and family. At 23 years old, White had not yet developed the beautiful conciseness he would later display, but his writing skills were already impressive. Portions of his letters are so descriptive, they actually sound like great fiction.

Once White had married, he settled into life on a farm in Maine, and he enjoyed puttering around with his animals almost more than he enjoyed writing. (One has only to refer to the subjects of his children’s books, to see how fond he was of small creatures.) Although White was always courted by the most elite literary publications in New York City, he seemed constantly on the verge of giving up writing jobs altogether, in order to devote more time to his country pursuits, and his descriptions of early 20th-century rural life are charming.

White was a gentleman, as men of that era were, and his writing was elegant, but he also had a marvelously droll sense of humor that really made his words sparkle. He was self-deprecating without sounding either grouchy or cynical. You cannot teach that kind of clever wit, and you can’t fake it.

Two years after publishing his book of letters, White won an honorary Pulitzer for his lifetime of work (he had previously received the Presidential Medal of Freedom.)

Reading through White’s letters is like having a chat with a delightful companion, and it’s an excellent way to spend a warm summer evening, with a cool drink in hand. Or a crisp Fall morning, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Or a rainy afternoon, with an afghan over your lap and a fire crackling next to you. Okay, yes. I find reading to be a lovely and appropriate way to pass any time of day, in any season. And if you couldn’t relate, you probably wouldn’t be reading this blog in the first place.

I raise my coffee mug to you.

Writing that rocks – The Sparrow

Cathy LaGrow 6 Comments

Classification: Fiction

In December of 1998, my husband and I, who were living in Atlanta at the time, flew back to the west coast to attend a family wedding. One evening, my oldest and dearest friend from high school chauffeured me into downtown Portland. We’d been running errands – perhaps we’d been shopping, perhaps we’d had dinner; I don’t really remember – and on our way back to the car we saw a bookstore and decided to pop in.

In some ways, my friend and I were an odd couple. She was physically tiny, and was the most gregarious person I’d ever met – I towered almost a foot over her, and was painfully shy. But we had important things in common: we both played the piano, and sang; we loved to laugh; we were devoted to church; we both loved to read. She and I had often spent entire vacation days side by side on chaise lounges, soaking up the sun and silently working our way through stacks of books and magazines.

By the time we reached the store that winter evening, it had been dark for hours, and it was raining. I remember our wet shoes squeaking on the wood floor as we walked over to the “new releases” table and started browsing. After shaking out my umbrella, I jammed it under my arm, leaving one hand free to flip through books. My friend looked at a couple of titles and then glanced up.

“Oh!” she said. “I just read this great book, called The Sparrow – have you read it?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Never heard of it.”

“Oh, you’ve got to read it. I’m going to find it for you.” She disappeared. I kept wandering around the tables near the front. I was getting hot in my heavy wool coat, but taking it off would have meant having one more thing to stuff under my arm. I kept it on. A minute or two later my friend was back, holding a paperback book, which she thrust at me. “Here. This is so good.”

The Sparrow was written by Mary Doria Russell. The cover was prettily illustrated with what looked like an old painting. Across the top was printed a blurb from The New York Times Book Review that said, “A startling, engrossing, and moral work of fiction.” The New York Times is almost always a sure bet. They employ the best reviewers in the business.

“What’s it about?” I asked, turning it over to look at the back cover.

“Well, it’s about a priest, and he goes, well, he goes up to…” She broke off, then started again. “Well, it’s science fiction, but…”

I interrupted, shaking my head. “I don’t read science fiction.”

“But, no, I know, but just listen, it’s…”

I tried to hand the book back to her. “No, I don’t read science fiction. I don’t. I’m not interested.”

She wouldn’t take the book, so I laid it on the table. We then embarked upon a bit of stubborn back-and-forthing: she’d shove the book at me and insist, using her most charming whine (and if you don’t think a whine can be charming, then you never heard her do it); I’d cheerfully shove it back and started walking the other way.

I should explain. My friend and I, as two hard-headed girls who’d spent a lot of time together, often amused ourselves with this sort of fake-arguing. But in truth, I never had read science fiction, not since I’d enjoyed Madeleine L’Engle’s famous books as a child. I had no real quarrel with the genre; I simply had no adult interest in it.

My friend finally snatched the book up from where I’d laid it on the table. “Fine,” she said. “I’m buying it for you, then. You will love it.” And with that, she marched off to the cashier.

Since I really did trust my friend’s taste, I was now curious; and of course, I would never refuse a free book. She returned and handed over her purchase. I started reading it that night…and couldn’t put it down. I read it in snatches between wedding activities; I read it on the plane ride home.

Mary Doria Russell’s writing is so good, it’s almost shocking. It is nearly impossible to believe that before writing this novel, Russell had only published scientific articles and technical manuals. Russell, you see, holds a PhD in Biological Anthropology. She was a highly-trained scientist, and she brings that level of discipline and detail to her writing. But she also writes with the lyricism of a poet. By the time I read The Sparrow, it had already won a slew of awards.

I don’t want to give away the plot, because it’s a doozy, and part of the great pleasure of reading this book is in the I-can’t-imagine-what’s-coming-next-and-can’t-stop-turning-the-pages sensation. I will say this: the “hero” is a Jesuit priest, Emilio Sandoz, and the book begins after he has returned, alone, from a mission that he and a group of colleagues made to a newly discovered planet. He is disfigured and emotionally shattered. The rest of the book explains what went so terribly wrong, as it alternates between a “present-day” interrogation of the priest by the Jesuit order, and the actual narrative of the mission.

At the heart of the book is the spiritual struggle of Father Sandoz. Before he went on the mission, his faith was so strong that his superiors were thinking of canonizing him. When he returned, battered and alone, his faith was as damaged as his hands (about which I will say no more.) The title of the book refers to a biblical passage. Here, three fellow priests talk together, immediately after hearing Sandoz’s story.

“So God just leaves?” John asked, angry where Emilio had been desolate. “Abandons creation? You’re on your own, apes. Good luck!”
“No. He watches. He rejoices. He weeps. He observes the moral drama of human life and gives meaning to it by caring passionately about us, and remembering.”
“Matthew ten, verse twenty-nine,” Vincenzo Giuliani said quietly. “’Not one sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.’”
“But the sparrow still falls,” Felipe said.

After publication, some critics argued that the book should not have been classified as science fiction, largely because the plot does not focus on futuristic technology – the technology in the book is beside the point. The book revolves around the characters, and their relationships and spiritual journeys. It is full of intelligent philosophical arguments, beautifully framed. It is fantastically smart. (As, I have come to learn, the best science fiction is.)

Russell wrote a sequel to this book, titled Children of God. Since then, she has only published two other books, one of which was nominated for a Pulitzer. Her fourth book was published while I was busy having my second baby – I am reading it now. To me, her subsequent books have not quite reached the quality of The Sparrow; but she is still good enough to make me automatically read whatever she writes.

Postscript. My great friend passed away unexpectedly last year. Every time I finish a good book I think of her, and wish I had the chance to call and tell her about it. We shared a love of literature, and a long history, and it is fitting that this wonderful book, which holds a top spot among my personal favorites, was her gift to me. I treasure it, and her.

Writing that rocks – The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Cathy LaGrow 4 Comments

Classification: Fiction

Is there anything better than being delightfully surprised by a book that you weren’t expecting to like?

I had never heard of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society when I picked up a paperback copy of the novel last spring, from the display table at my favorite used bookstore. The title nearly put me off – it sounds so silly, worse than The Friday Night Knitting Club (which I had also recently read, and about which I will not be posting.) Also, the book has two authors – Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows – which is often a red flag for clunkiness.

I read the “critical acclaim” blurbs on the covers and the first few pages, and they were very good. What clinched it, for me, was a front cover blurb by Elizabeth Gilbert, in which she said “Treat yourself to this book, please…” I had recently read Eat, Pray, Love by Gilbert, and since her own writing is superb, I figured she knew what she was talking about. After dithering for only a few minutes, I bought the book.

The entire story is told in the form of letters written from various characters to other characters. There are no editorial explanations, other than a notation at the top of each letter, stating whom the letter was from, and to. This tactic could easily have become gimmicky, or worse, it could have made the narrative sound choppy or confusing. None of these things happened, thanks to the beauty and strength of the writing.

The book, published in 2008, is set in 1946 – but it sounds timeless, not dated.
(It is also one of the very few “squeaky-clean” novels I will be recommending. Approved for all audiences.) It is, at heart, a love story, filled with witty people I wish I knew – by the end of the book, they don’t seem fictional.

Nutshell: the main character, Juliet, a writer who lives in England, becomes pen pals with a man who belongs to a reading group on the small island of Guernsey. He first writes to her because he has acquired a book that once belonged to her (her name and address are penciled inside) – it is a collection of essays by an author they both admire. Juliet, who is searching for a topic for her next book, begins corresponding with him and with several members of his reading group. Eventually, she visits the island for an extended period of time.

The book is light-hearted and fun – sort of like a literary beach-read. What I cannot get over, is how much technical skill the authors displayed. Imagine how tricky it would be to develop all sorts of diverse characters without using the editorializing of either a first-person or third-person narrator. When you create an entire story using fictional letters, you have to describe people and actions with extreme subtlety. The moment you start abusing the system, by trying to cram in extra description that you just really need the reader to know, it will blare out like a foghorn. There’s a reason more writers don’t try to use this format – it’s dang hard.

The poignant back-story of the book is explained in an Afterward. The main author, Mary Ann Shaffer, fell ill and died just before the book was published, so she never got to see the wide acclaim it received. This was her first book. Her niece, Annie Barrows, did the final rewrites on the book, when Mary Ann was too sick to finish. Whatever work the niece did, it fits in seamlessly.

I honestly can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t like this book. I’m sure they exist, I just can’t come up with any, off the top of my head. The story, and the people in it, are simply that charming.

The death of Mary Ann Shaffer is our loss; I would have very much liked to read other work by her. Instead, we are left with this nearly perfect little novel. I guess that’s not a bad legacy to have.

Writing that rocks – Fermat’s Enigma

Cathy LaGrow 4 Comments

Classification: Science, non-fiction

You cannot imagine how excited I am right now. I get to tell you about one of my very favorite non-fiction books of all time, Fermat’s Enigma by Simon Singh.

I often find myself recommending this book to anyone who will listen. I try to shoehorn it into conversations whenever I can – which sometimes requires great topical leaps. You visited Guatemala last month and went cliff-diving and ate snake kabobs and met a long-lost cousin? That sounds exciting! You know what else is exciting? Fermat’s Enigma!

And so on.

I first heard of the book when I read a glowing review about it in the New York Times, some eight years ago. The next day I went out and bought a copy. It didn’t take much longer than one sitting to read; it’s that mesmerizing. The book follows the quest to solve a centuries-old mystery, and is full of suspense, and wonderfully eccentric and whip-smart characters, and prize money; there are dead-ends and setbacks and close calls.

Oh, I might as well tell you right now. Please remain in your seat and keep the aisles clear.

Fermat’s Enigma is about advanced mathematics.

I’m sorry, are you looking for your mouse so you can click yourself elsewhere? Well, I hid it, and I’m not giving it back until you’ve finished reading this. Trust me – the story is a thriller, and you don’t have to be a great mathematician to love it (I’m certainly not one.) This is no textbook; it’s one of the most exciting adventure stories I’ve ever read.

Here’s a summary:

In the early part of the 17th century, a delightful and mischievous Frenchman named Pierre de Fermat started fiddling around with mathematics as a hobby. He had no formal training, but he quickly proved to have a natural genius for the subject and made some interesting discoveries. For example: he figured out that 26 is the only number in existence that comes between a square (25) and a cube (27.)

In 1637, Fermat came up with the following theorem: “It is impossible for any number which is a power greater than the second power to be written as a sum of two like powers.” In other words, the equation “X(n power) + Y(n power) = Z(n power)” has no solution when n>2.

Pretty straightforward – but mathematics is all about proof. Fermat wrote his theorem in the margins of his math textbook, and then he scribbled something that would haunt generations of scientists:

I have a truly marvelous demonstration of this proposition which this margin is too narrow to contain.

He was claiming that he’d found the proof to his theory. And that was his last, enigmatic word on the subject.

For the next 360 years, Fermat’s theorem was the most famous unsolved math puzzle in the world. The theorem was believed to be true, but when nearly every top-tier scientist in the field tried to find the proof that Fermat had dangled in front of them, they all failed.

Three hundred and sixty years, people. And then, in the 1990’s, along came Andrew Wiles.

Wiles looks exactly how you expect a brilliant mathematician to appear (if you don’t mind employing wild stereotypes): enormous glasses, crooked teeth, distracted smile, far-away look in the eyes, hair flying up in every direction. And man oh man, what a beautiful mind.

As a ten-year-old child, Wiles had been captivated by the world’s most famous math riddle, and dreamed of solving it. While he was growing up and starting his career, momentum had been building toward a proof of Fermat’s theorem – indeed, at various times, people had announced they had a solution, only to have other researchers discover flaws in their work. Wiles was determined to succeed where everyone else had failed.

After seven years of mostly solitary effort, he finally believed he had found his proof, and in June of 1993 he gave a lecture to a packed house at Cambridge University, detailing his solution. When he finished, he laid down his chalk and said simply, “I think I’ll stop here.” Two hundred of the world’s finest mathematicians erupted in applause. Publications the world over celebrated his accomplishment

Of course, as in all good thrillers, there was one final set-back before ultimate triumph. When research “referees” pored over Wiles’s 200-page proof, they found an error. Although crushed, Wiles doggedly went back to the drawing board, and after another year of labor, he found a way to fix the hole in his work. This time, the proof was flawless, and it was accepted as one of the most significant achievements in modern-day science.

In Simon Singh’s hands, throughout the book, the most complicated math equations and theory all make beautiful sense. You cannot stop turning the pages. Imagine, for a moment, just how much talent a writer has to have, to pull off that trick. Singh (himself a physicist) turns the story into a cross between Number Theory for Dummies and The Bourne Identity – he makes the hunt for a mathematical proof read like the hunt for Carlos the Jackal. (Who is still alive, by the way, which I did not know. You learn something new every day.)

Singh’s little book, like the event it details, is stunning. In fact, writing about it has made me want to read it all over again. Just for kicks.

(If you remain unconvinced, take heart. My next book post will cover a fun work of fiction. I’m trying to decide between several, right now.)