Remember Me?

Yeah, so, about that whole blog-once-a-week thing... I've decided it's okay to recognize I'm not going to get a blog post out every 7 days. I'm keeping the reminder on my calendar as an accountability thing, but I'm not losing sleep about not being hyper-diligent about it.

So, where am I at? (And why did I just end that with a preposition? And why do I use the ask-yourself-a-question-then-answer-it device? Or the hyphenate-a-bunch-of-words-like-they're-a-singular-adjective thing? Because I am a lazy writer.) Let's take stock of what I've read since I started this endeavor.

1. Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game by Michael Lews (W.W. Norton & Company Inc, ISBN 0-393-05765-8)
2. Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell (Secker and Warburg, ISBN 978-0-452-28423-4)
3. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (Penguin, OCLC 16100396)
4. The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway (Charles Scribner's Sons, ISBN 9780684801223)

Not bad for a guy who hates to read. The first was one of those books I had been meaning to read, or at least pretended I meant to. The next three are books I probably should've read in either high school or college, but didn't. But I've told you what I thought about Moneyball, I haven't yet said a word about the others.

I really enjoyed Nineteen Eight-Four even though it depressed the heck outta me. I knew it was dystopic; I had no idea it'd leave me without an ounce of hope. I don't always need a happy ending, but, man! Orwell really sets you up to believe or have a sense of optimism, even while painting a society complete devoid of anything enjoyable. I also kept thinking of A Clockwork Orange while reading it, for obvious reasons. That reminds me, I should watch that movie again. Actually, I suppose I probably ought to read the book...

Heart of Darkness... now there's a heart warmer. Not exactly the pick-me-up I needed after the Orwellian depression I had sunk into. Honestly, I was a little disappointed in this one. I didn't feel the, well, darkness I expected. It more just felt empty and vague. Who was Kurtz, really and what did his dying words mean? I did appreciate the way Conrad makes Marlow his surrogate but still makes him a character and not just a narrator. And the fact the real-time world interjected occasionally (which I likened to the Fred Savage and Peter Faulk cut-ins in Princess Bride. Man, I am a literary master!) was actually appreciated.

The Old Man and the Sea was also a bit depressing, but it at least left me some other feeling than utter dismay. I think that's the function Manolin serves; he gives you some sense the old man's struggle with the marlin wasn't entirely in vain. Plus, it felt timely considering my recent vacation to Key West and the fact that's where Hemingway lived when he wrote the book. Unlike Hemingway, I did not encounter any marlin on my trip, but I did come across grouper, sting rays, eagle rays, a tarpon, and two nurse sharks while snorkeling. That was something. But I digress...

Next up, as I mentioned in my very first post, is Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. It truly is a coincidence that I'm starting this on the same day news broke of Mr. Bradbury's passing. Although this blog is named after one of his short stories, I have to admit I'm not overly familiar with the man's work. I'm really looking forward to this one, even though I've just been complaining about the realization I made a reading list full of dystopian novels. From the stories I've heard today on NPR, I'm at least led to believe this one ends with a little more hope. I'm crossing my fingers I'm not disappointed, but I'm also not holding my breath.

Side note: Is there a word that means something like serendipitous when circumstances aren't necessarily pleasant? I'm not what I'd call happy that Bradbury's death coincides with me starting his book, but there was some sense of satisfaction I'm doing the right thing. I don't know...

I think after this it's time for a break from novels completely. I have Upton Sinclair's The Jungle that was supposed to be next in the queue, but I have a feeling that'll bum me out too. Perhaps I'll move on to Darwin's On the Origin. I guess we'll see how long this takes me and what my mood is when I'm done. Yeah, that might be best for all involved.

Man, I'm really getting lazy

So, I said this blog wasn't going to be about reviewing the books themselves, but rather either rants loosely based on the subject matter I'm reading or posts about the process. I don't really have anything particular on my mind, but I do have a confession about the process. It's hard. And not because I don't like the books, but really just because I'm out of practice. My attention span has really withered and I get easily distracted particularly with the nice weather. If I were smart, I would've made this a winter project. Although, I'm sure I'd be able to find as many excuses to not read then as well.

I've honestly toyed with giving this whole thing up, but I keep feeling a tremendous amount of guilt. I hate guilt. I wish I could avoid it entirely. I also hate obligations. But at the same time, I understand that having obligations, being accountable to someone or something, and doing things that are hard are part of being a productive adult (although I could probably rationalize a life-is-short-so-why-spend-it-in-shame philosophy). I don't want to drown in guilt, but I think a certain level keeps you honest while preventing stagnation.

I wouldn't call myself an incredibly content person. Some have accused me of being highly motivated, but I doubt that. Most of the time I think I'd be perfectly pleased with just doing nothing. At all. At the same time, I don't feel fulfilled. I think I need a challenge that makes me feel better about myself. I'll be frank; I have a hard time finding that satisfaction in a job. It's why I spend so much time taking random classes at the U even though I'm not in any particular degree program. I guess it's because I can do things on my terms, which is a situation a job rarely presents.

So, with all that, I soldier on. It's not always easy, and I can't say I particularly enjoy it, but I do feel good about myself for trying this. And I'm happy I added this blogging component. I hate when my wife reminds me to do something I committed to, but I need something to do it, and I think writing about my experience fills that void without making me resent anybody but myself.

Maybe it'd be easier if I tried homeopathic reading.

Blog. Now with Media!

This week I'm jumping back briefly into the topic of movies based on books. I have seen neither the 1956 movie adaptation of 1984 starring Michael Redgrave (Or is it Nineteen Eighty-four? My copy uses them interchangeably.) nor the 1984 version (fitting) with John Hurt, so this isn't meant to be about comparison. I imagine I'll eventually get around to seeing one of them after I finish, though. (Side note: yes, I'm still on 1984, and yes, I know this isn't a great start. I'll get there.) And because this is a bit redundant (I'm lazy), I'll keep it brief.

A friend sent me a note taking issue with my declaration that people who always claim "the book was better" are pompous. It's worth clarifying that I didn't intend that people who say that are necessarily self-congratulatory, but rather it occasionally (ok, frequently) sounds like someone who is trying to impress others would say. It was a throw away comment that, even though I didn't mean to offend, I don't regret because it spurred some good conversation that helped me clarify my opinion for myself. Plus, it got me thinking more about the pros and cons of both movies and books. And since I put classics on my reading list there's a good chance all of them have had some sort of movie adaptation made for them at some point or another.

And then this weekend while killing time (and not by reading, unfortunately) I came across this bit by one of my favorite comedians, Jim Gaffigan. I'd heard it before but appreciated how relevant it was, and decided I'd incorporate it into this week's post. Additionally, it saves me from having to intellectualize right now. Sorry, I know this is a bit like a lackluster elementary school teacher who fishes the "movie day" well a little too often in lieu of actual curriculum, but it's my blog, so... I got nothin'.

Enjoy.

Once a week, huh?

Yeah, I know. I said I'd update this once a week, yet I've let 11 days slip by without an update. Not that any of you have noticed. An absolutely clamoring silence tells me I don't have much of a regular readership. But we'll test this by not even posting a link to this post on Facebook or Twitter. I have a suspicion that not all of my 158 page views thus far (astounding, to be sure) come from my friends and followers; that the sheer act of posting shows up somewhere in the noise of the internet.

My absence is purely out of laziness and shame. I finished Moneyball on Easter Sunday, then read approximately 3 pages of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea before deciding I was done reading for the day. That book seems like it's best suited to knock out on a rainy afternoon. So, I gave it a day's rest then started in on George Orwell's "modern" classic dystopic view of what was, at that time, a nightmare to be; 1984.

That was a week ago, and I'm sad to report I haven't gotten very far. When I started in on this challenge, I considered the fact that it would seem very much like homework and would require a certain level of intrinsic discipline for which I'm not well known. And, while that has contributed, the lion's share of the blame rests on my lack of forethought regarding the changing seasons and my increased social schedule. Between visitors from out of town, events I purchased tickets to in advance, my wife's new and improved on-call schedule, and Twins games, I have found myself with less time on my hands that I previously estimated. I use phrases like "lack of forethought" not because these schedule impediments couldn't have been anticipated, but because I just occasionally opt to disregard the prospect of thinking ahead.

The coming week doesn't look terribly promising to make a great deal of headway. I have a professional exam on Friday morning that I desperately need to study for, a friend to visit on Friday evening, family to visit on Saturday, and a certain amount of driving between. I could make progress tonight, I supposed, but I already promised my wife a date night (see the mew and improved schedule). It's just as well, as I'd also likely get sucked into watching the Twins game. I mentioned that before--I actually went to the game on Saturday--but it's worth calling out. I should have known I'd prefer to watch baseball than read. I can skip my favorite shows frequently, probably because I know they'll be repeated. But sporting events need to be watched in real or near real time. Why? No real reason. They just have to.

So, with that all in mind, don't expect a full recap of 1984 at this time next Monday. I will still try to get a blog post up for more of my in-progress impressions. This blog is intended to hold me accountable to reading, much in the same way the books give me something to write about. Obligations are a good thing. They keep you from stagnating. But I hate them. I really do. But I'll stay the course and quit procrastinating.

...Eventually.

Progress has been, well... slow.

But at least there's been progress. And I have a goal to keep moving me forward. I'll see my dad again in two weeks, so I want to both a) be done with Money Ball so I can return it, and b) be in the middle of another so I can politely decline his next offer. My dad reads at a pretty good clip and I have a lot of other books on my list (including the recommendations after my first post...darn you Heather) so, while the obligation of returning a book is a great motivator, I'll hold off on adding any new assignments just yet.

Speaking of goals, I think I plan on updating this bad boy roughly once a week. I put a calendar reminder on my Outlook to prod me along. I don't know what I'd do without Outlook. I'm not a particularly organized or regimented person, but I've committed to one to many events conflicting with an Iowa State football game and have learned to make myself stick to a schedule. So, once a week it is, at least for now. I'm not sure what the sweet spot for blogging is. Too frequent and you're just annoying. Too rare and people quit paying attention. Not that I'm really looking for regular readership, but I am hoping this experience makes me a more effective writer as well. I've already learned I do too many asides, which I think is a tad hackneyed (and I justify it by putting it in parentheses, as if that's better... crap, I'm doing it again!). I also don't know if I should be sharing links to every blog post on Twitter and Facebook or if I just consider that annoying. I'm confident I'll figure it out, but please bear with me.

But enough about that. This isn't supposed to be a blog about blogging (how meta); this is supposed to be about reading. So... Money Ball... how 'bout it? Like I said before, I do feel like I'm cheating as I saw the movie prior to reading the book. I believe the last time I did that was back in 1989 when a novelization of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was released the same summer as the movie, which is weird, as I'm not sure how that happens and what accounts for the material differences between the movie and the book (do they base it off an early version of the script? I don't recall a circus sideshow in any Indiana Jones movie. If anyone in my readership has a clue, I'd love to hear). So, I've been thinking about how reading a book after seeing a movie differs from reading a book prior. I'm generally annoyed with people who say, "it wasn't as good as the book," as that comes across as pompous. At the same time, I loved Michael Crichton's Timeline and have refused to see the movie as I fear Paul Walker will ruin it for me. Nothing against Mr. Walker--my dog loved him in Eight Below. But I've decided the biggest difference comes down to expectation. I'll explain.

When I first saw Lord of the Rings, I had a already created a vivid image in my mind for what everything looked, sounded, smelled and felt like. So, when Peter Jackson attempted to bring that to life, he had something to compete against, and, luckily for him, he exceeded my expectations. Of course, it helps that Tolkien is pretty darn detailed, though not to a fault (*cough* Rand *cough*). [Edit: Rand isn't really too detailed, I guess. It's more that she beats you over the head with her point.] But often what a director creates when making a movie is very different than what the reader conjures up on their own. Maybe the writer was vague, maybe the book didn't translate well to film, or maybe the perspectives are too diverse. Whatever the reasons, the book and the readers expectations differ which leads to disappointment. Disappointment is less about standalone quality than it is about variance from expectation.

But how about the other way around? I think people usually want to read the book first because they don't want to be limited to only the way the director saw the story, which is a very valid concern. I'm fighting very hard to picture the real Billy Beane and not Brad Pitt. (Sorry, here comes another tangent. Get used to them, I don't focus well: What do you suppose was Billy Beane's reaction when a movie was proposed? How do you possibly keep your cool when you find out Brad Pitt is going to play you? Only Brad Pitt could leave Jennifer Aniston and not be universally despised. We know why women love him, and between Seven and Fight Club, he won over 83% of guys. I'd be such a sucker I'd turn down royalties without thinking. Okay, where was I? Ah, yes, movies based on books...)

Even while fighting the urge to figure out which aspects of various real people became the composite played by Jonah Hill, I have to say I am actually enjoying reading this in "reverse" order, if only because of my performing arts background. Again, it goes back to expectation. Usually, if I've read the book, I'm only comparing acting to my expectation. But when I read the book, I realize how much more challenging it is to convey the pathos in film. Sometimes, I think it's actually easier to relate emotions in written words. While analogies still require decryption in either form, they're a tad more obvious when laid out in words. Reading this book now is actually enhancing my appreciation for the screenwriting, directing and acting in the film. I'm having several, "Holy crap! That's what I interpreted that to suggest when I watched it! I'm usually not that intuitive!" moments.

That's not to say that reading a book after having watched the movie is my preferred method. I still find great value in reading a book unfettered by the restraints of an imposed vision. But I'm learning to not paint with as broad a brush when it comes to the movie-or-book-first choice. We'll see if I still feel that way when I'm finished. I really hope to avoid the surprised/disappointed dichotomy when I reach the end. If I get there. Before the 20th. Maybe I should get to reading...

All Summer...

I'm not what I would call literate. I mean, I'm educated, have a reasonable vocabulary, and can demonstrate at least a surface-level knowledge on a wide range of topics from science to the arts. But I'm not terribly well-read. On the one hand, I sometimes think that reading is given an undue privilege (among adults, anyway... I don't include children with developing language centers in the brain). That is, people who read are thought of as intellectual whereas people who consume information through other forms (TV, movies, the internet, etc) are less so. This discounts that a) sometimes other forms of media are actually more effective methods of delivery, and b) the fact that the phrase "best-selling author" can be used to accurately describe Snooki should be seen as an indicator that not all books are created equal.

On the other hand, despite my justification that the amount of time spent reading is not always proportional to the amount of personal edification a person achieves, I still feel guilty about the lack of time spent nose-in-book. Sure, I can come up with plenty of excuses. I'm busy with school and get so burnt out from text books and journal articles that reading is no longer pleasurable (which is true, to an extent). But at the end of the day, I do wish I read more. I hate not getting literary references, and that insecurity usually forces me to fake my way through conversation rather than just owning up to my pedestrian personal library. And, I have to admit, I do feel like I'm missing out. My family is full of readers. Why can't I get myself to do it?

A few weeks back, I noticed a book on the shelf that I had borrowed from my dad over a year ago. It was Can I Keep My Jersey? by former Iowa Stater Paul Shirley. He (my dad of course, not Paul Shirley) had lent it to me, suggesting I would enjoy it. At the time, I accepted, knowing full well I probably wouldn't get around to it. But it had now been in my house too long, so I pulled it off the case as a reminder that I ought to return it. I had, after all, given it to him as a gift, and, even though he was done reading it long ago, I figured he should possess it. But, after my wife plowed through the book in a couple of days, I began to feel the nag. I really ought to read this thing before I return it, I pondered. And since I was going to see my father in less than a week, I had a goal. It was surprisingly easy and enjoyable to read. And I was rather proud of myself once I got done, so proud that when I returned it, I eagerly accepted my father's offer to loan me Money Ball (which kind of feels like cheating, since I saw the movie already).

So, now I'm about to sit down and crack into my second book of the year. Actually, it's the second book I've read in several years. The last one I read before CIKMJ was Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged which I borrowed from a coworker 3 years ago (3 years?! It's been that long?!). Which, now that I think about it, might be a contributing factor to my lack of reading for that long a span. (Ugh. Just thinking about that book--the John Galt speech alone--makes my head hurt. Don't get me wrong, I actually enjoyed it, but... whew.)

I've already decided that after I finish this, I ought to make the proverbial "summer reading list" comprised of classics I should've read a long time ago. And, to hold me accountable, I've decided to blog about my experience as a YouTube information consumer reintroducing himself to the written word. I've been meaning to start writing more as well, so this anchors me to a theme as I tend to be all over the map otherwise (in case you couldn't tell from all the parenthetical asides). The posts won't be so much about reviewing the books, but rather about my experience in reading. I'll document the struggles and joys I find in reading, as well as what the books themselves make me think and feel. And since this is starting out as a summer reading list, I've given this blog a title based on one of my favorite short stories from my childhood: Ray Bradbury's All Summer in a Day.

Speaking of Mr. Bradbury, I've already added his Fahrenheit 451 to my reading list. I'm planning on including some classic novels by Hemingway, Sinclair, Conrad and Orwell, as well as non-fiction work like Darwin's On the Origin of Species. Since I was a theatre student in college, I'll likely even include a script or two. Right now, I think my ambition might surpass reality, but it's good to be aggressive, no? If you so choose to join me along the way, I'd love to hear feedback, thoughts or even recommendations (although I'll temper expectations up front; I'm not necessarily a fast reader, which you might quickly surmise by the frequency of my posts).

But enough with the writing, on with the reading. First up, Michael Lewis' take on how Brad Pitt--sorry, I mean on how Billy Beane transformed baseball: Money Ball.