So Says The Mouse In My Hair

The Publishing Gods V. Sarah Eliza

Warning To The Reader: This entry is long, and quite possibly boring. I'm not a fan of writing long, boring blog entries, but when I get on the topic of books, as in books that I like, I get rambly. And this particular post has been building inside me ever since that first trip to Borders in West lebanon, NH last June. So I'm sorry. But this blog is my therapy. At least that's what the mouse in my hair tells me it should be. And so therapizing myself has given life to this long boring blog entry about books and more books. And me and books. But at least if you finish, you'l know what to get me for Christmas this year.

So I’ve been going a tad crazy lately because every time I visit a bookstore, I find something else that I need to read.

It all started this summer when I innocently popped into Borders one day and discovered that their buy-2-get-the-3rd-free now included every single author I ever adored. This may be an exaggeration, but if it is, it’s not by much. Wait! I’ve got it. There was no James Ellroy.

But there was some of everyone else, from Bill Bryson to Kurt Vonnegut, they all made appearances. I saw Catch Me If You Can and Catch-22 and Catcher In The Rye. Ayn Rand and Ernest Hemingway and Daniel Quinn all made appearances. Or if you were more tuned in to childrens’ literature, look for a little Madeline L’Engle, or C.S. Lewis. Do I even need to mention Harry Potter? No, but I will anyway. I saw Ray Bradbury and David Sedaris. William Burroughs even showed up. I swear, they made sure that every single piece of the literary history of Sarah Eliza was on display within 50 feet of everything else. A little spooky, but mostly just drool inducing.

That was just the kickoff. Of course it was. The gods of publishing were smirking down at me giggling to themselves about the future torture that I was to endure. Because I saw enough books by authors-that-make-me-gaga to put me in a coma. And then I walked around the corner and saw A Long Way Down. Nick Hornby’s new book. I love Nick Hornby. I think I love all English comedic writers. They just know what to say to make me laugh. So it was with a lump in my throat that I put the book down and backed slowly out of the building. Borders was not safe for me anymore.

Not that I stopped visiting. Could that really be epected? One day my brain just stuck up the white flag. By now the sale had been a little watered down (buy 3 get the 4th free) but did this stop me? Heavens no! Hell’s Angels by Hunter Thompson (who is easier to find now that he's dead, but easy is stil a relative term), In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (odd timing, considering the movie coming out any minute now), Diary by Chuck Palahnuk (why oh why can't that man write longer books? They're so addicting, and yet so quickly over), and A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (adorable, but dense... very dense), Drop City by T.C. Boyle, Dora: An Analysis of A Case of Hysteria by Sigmund Freud (I can explain, it was only $1.)

And still the trial was in it’s initial stages. At some point, I did swear off Borders, and promised to keep my literary spending under control. Not so much because of how much it cost (there are so many more expensive hobbies, when you think about it) but because I kept asking myself, "where am I going to find the time to read all these when I work at a summer camp?"

So I stuck to the Dartmouth Bookstore, and a second hand book shop on the same street. The sales were nowhere near as enticing, but we're talking about an entire basement full of bargain books. I wouldn't call this safe. So what do I see one day when I walk in the door? Guess. What could be more trying to my resolve than a novel by Nick Hornby? A new novel by John Irving, of course. Until I Find You was splashed everywhere for the rest of the summer. If what I feel for Nick Hornby is love, then what I feel for John Irving is a form of worship. At this point in the summer I had already finished The Water-Method Man and bought The World According To Garp ($3 at the second hand store) and The Fourth Hand ($5 hardcover in the basement). But John Irving or not, I have trouble getting myself to pay full price for a hardcover novel. I resisted.

It turns out, I am pathetically bad at not buying books. As the summer progressed, I found books that needed less and less brain, because I had less and less brain to spare. The first book I read when I got to Vermont last summer was Wonderboys by Michael Chabon, another author I idolize… (wait, I don’t think I saw a single Michael Chabon book on sale at Borders this year. Wow.) And I ended it with a pathetic historically fictitious romance novel. That’s how far my brain had decomposed. I tried to Get into Drop City after the romance novel, but my head was pea soup, so I turned instead to crochet, a look-ma-no-brain activity.

In the end, I came back with 19 more books than I owned when I left. Over the summer, I had read 12. The overlap between those two categories: 3. Of the 19 books I bought, I got around to reading three of them before I got home. One was the romance novel, and I didn't even bother bringing that back with me.

And what of course should I find waiting for me when I got back? Books of course. Kurt Vonnegut has a new book out. Neil Gaiman has to be high up my priority list and his new novel Anansi Boys promises lots in the way of everything I like to read. Terry Pratchett’s also got another book in stores, and Chuck Palahnuk’s book Haunted is out and about. These’re back burner compared to the rest of my dire reading situation, though. I'll just let them be. Maybe if I find them in the library.

I wrote someone recently, ranting about all this temptation, this torture, wondering who was going to be the next to smother me with the oldest known weapon: the book jacket. . It turns out that it’s someone from whom I thought I was safe. "Carl Hiaasen," I had said to myself but a week ago, "just had something new last summer." (I know, because I bought Skinny Dip just this summer.) But of course, the publishing gods are keeping me on my toes. And here is Flush.

A kid’s book yes. But when has that ever stopped me from reading someone I love? Did it stand in the way of Hoot, his other children's book? What about Summerland? (Now that’s the kind of book you read to your kids annually, like my mom did with The Best Christmas Pagent Ever.) Don’t even get me started on Roald Dahl (who was all over Borders. To be expected with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory being released). Talk about readable. And there’s the classic A Wrinkle In Time.

There’s more to come, I can feel it. The next phase is going to involve dead people. Douglas Adams will implant himself in someone’s brain and write another book. I haven’t heard from Ray Bradbury for a few years. And what about Dave Barry? His last novel was 2002. He’s due. Or Nomar Garciaparra will find that it’s time for his autobiography. The Christmas season is not yet upon is. The storm is not over. I just don’t know where it’s going to come from. And that's jsut how they want it.

posted by Sarah Eliza @ 2:32 PM