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My 2012 in Reading: Lists

January 22, 2013 Leave a comment

The 25 Novels I Read in 2010, From Favorite to Least

  1. City of Bohane by Kevin Barry
  2. Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward
  3. State of Wonder by Ann Patchett
  4. Canada by Richard Ford
  5. The Devil in Silver by Victor LaValle
  6. The Dead Do Not Improve by Jay Caspian Kang
  7. Some Kind of Fairy Tale by Graham Joyce
  8. The Stupidest Angel: A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror by Christopher Moore
  9. Deadwood by Pete Dexter
  10. Storm Front by Jim Butcher
  11. Kill the Dead by Richard Kadrey
  12. The Cold Dish by Craig Johnson
  13. Sandman Slim by Richard Kadrey
  14. Open City by Teju Cole
  15. A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs
  16. Skagboys by Irvine Welsh
  17. Mockingbird by Chuck Wendig
  18. Blackbirds by Chuck Wendig
  19. Carpathia by Matt Forbeck
  20. The Testament of Jessie Lamb by Jane Rogers
  21. Little Fuzzy by H. Beam Piper
  22. Empire State by Adam Christopher
  23. ?
  24. ?
  25. Lightning Rods by Helen DeWitt

So…I guess I read only 23 novels. I probably counted a Sherman Alexie short-story collection the first go. I’ve no idea where the other one went. Maybe something I started and refused to finish. No, maybe the twitter thing Jennifer Egan did? Whatever the case, I think it’s funnier to have a list of 25 with only 23 elements to it, so I’m not editing it now.

Actually, I’m adding place-holders in two spots because I want to call “Lightning Rods” out for being the 25th best book of the 23 I read. THAT at least begins to touch on how awful I find that particular piece.

I don’t know I need to explain more than that. It’s a list. Obviously, everything is relative, but I think I could find something to recommend in at least 19 of these books. If you need more than that, for some reason, holler at me.

Categories: Books, Literature Tags: ,

My Open ‘Dear John’ Letter to the Tournament of Books

January 15, 2013 Leave a comment

It’s not me; it’s you.

Like all hot-and-heavy romances, ours was fated to burn brightly, if only briefly.

But now, I fear it is over.

When I first saw you, I was stunned by the sheer audacity of combining something I adore about sports—the head-to-head, single-elimination tournament—with discussion about books. It would not be too much to say I was simply awestruck and immediately knew we were a perfect match.

As one does in such situations, I dived in without reservation or consideration, wildly throwing 16 titles into my Seattle Public Library queue with bold disregard for whatever any information available about the books themselves, allowing infatuation to set-aside book-selection processes that had served me relatively well over the course of a reading lifetime. If you loved it, then I wanted to love it, too. 

It’s easy to see now how this was bound to lead to this, but isn’t it always thus?

Then, you put “Lightning Rods” in my hands. 

I admit, I wondered whether something wasn’t up right then and there. There was no waiting for the book from the library, which is never a good sign. Nor is it favorable when I’ve not somehow read about or heard of the book, considering how much book-centric media I absorb on a daily basis. 

BUT! We only work if we trust each other, yeah? 

So I read.

It were as if, on the first time you cooked dinner for me, I thought I saw you not wash your hands after handling raw poultry and, rather than thinking that maybe I need to slow it down for my own benefit, I tried to dismiss it as over-thinking the situation and happily eat.

We know now, of course, that I got really, really sick after that meal. Can I blame the hand-washing incident explicitly? Maybe not, but…here we are.

Don’t get me wrong; we had some great times. “The Sisters Brothers,” “The Art of Fielding,”  “The Tiger’s Wife,” and, of course, the lovely March romp of book-battle discussion.

We’ll always have March!

Eventually, I wrote-off the “Lightning Rods” incident and the slightly less-offensive failure of “Open City” to meet my tastes to the point where it all still seemed as fresh and exciting as day one by the time I was faced with a long stretch apart from my new crush.

This year, you came along a little earlier than last with even more titles than before. I didn’t ask myself “Why?” you felt the need to tart it up a bit. Rather, I was simply happy to see you here, and it was January 2012 all over again. 

And, truly, it was the same thing all over again, except that, this time, maybe my eyes were open just a wee bit more.

Like “Lightning Rods” last year, I managed to get one of the entries this year almost immediately due to it being sold at a deep-discount as an ebook on the day I heard the titles announced. Again, I jumped to the “buy” button, not reading the description of “Song of Achilles,” nor any reviews or discussion around it. 

This time, however, it felt like true deceit, even with all the disclaimers about how the final list of competitors are not ever meant to be definitive of the best 16 (this year, 18) books from the previous year. I wanted desperately to be wrong about the novel, but no matter how I looked at it, I felt I had been conned into reading a glorified romance novel, once you looked past the obvious appeal of a retelling some great Greek mythology with a contemporary prosaic style. 

And the realization stung.

Stung enough that I went back to re-examine things more deeply.

Suddenly, the new play-in round in which three novels will compete for a place among the final 16 didn’t seem like such an innocent little quirk, when considering the unlikelihood of the three novels in question all being set around the same topic (war in the Middle East) having been the three novels between which a panel could not decide for the final seat at the table.

Then I take a quick count of author gender and see a nearly even split between women and men, and, rather than thinking it sheer happenstance, wonder whether the panel didn’t tinker to make sure the tournament didn’t find itself yet another target of those who’ve questioned loudly the last few years the dominance of male-written pieces in some forums. 

And, if such politically correct tinkering is taking place, how on Earth did you end up with such a predominantly white collection of authors?!

Maybe it IS my fault for not looking beyond the surface before charging in, but I’m always going to resent feeling manipulated. While trying to remember only the good times, I probably don’t really want to know what you were doing, what your real motivations were. 

But, it’s over. I have been shocked back into remembering who I am. 

We can still be friends, though. Cool?