I saw Richard Russo read from his new book, “That Old Cape Magic,” last week as part of the New York State Writers Institute’s ongoing writers' series. I haven’t read “That Old Cape Magic,” and so I listened intently to Russo’s plot summary. I learned that the protagonist’s parents are both bitter Midwestern academics who spend most of the year defending the literary canon, but retreat to Cape Cod each summer with the sorts of books they’d never admit to reading. The wife, Russo said, preferred “dark, twisty thrillers,” while the husband enjoyed “literary pornography and P.G. Wodehouse.”
Anyway, Russo’s comments reminded me of a conversation I had with a couple of friends from high school last winter. I mentioned that a girl I remembered being really brilliant in high school had listed Jodi Picoult as her favorite author on her Facebook page, and that seeing this had caused me to reassess whether she was really as brilliant as I remembered. Now, there’s nothing wrong with Jodi Picoult — in the interest of full disclosure, I’ve never even read one of her books — but she’s just not the sort of writer brilliant people swoon over. Like, you’re not going to impress the college admissions staff by telling them your favorite writer is Jodi Picoult. “Oh, I like Jodi Picoult,” my friend Jenny said. “Her books are involving. And they’re fun. But she’s not the type of writer who should be your favorite writer.” “Who’s your favorite writer?” I asked. “F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Jenny replied. F. Scott Fitzgerald — now there’s a favorite writer I can get behind.
Anyway, Jenny also copped to reading and enjoying the Twilight books, while acknowledging that they’re terrible, and that Stephanie Meyer shouldn’t be your favorite writer, either. My friend Sam had a similar observation, saying that once he started reading “Twilight” he couldn’t put it down, even though it was a terrible book, unworthy of his time. “Stephanie Meyer is an awful writer,” he said. There are lots of other writers who shouldn’t be your favorite writer, and we started listing them: Danielle Steele, James Patterson and Dan Brown.
Of all these writers, Brown is the only one I’ve actually read, because people raved about how interesting “The Da Vinci Code” was. I managed to get through “The Da Vinci Code” — quite possibly the dumbest book I’ve ever read — but it was hard. The more I read, the angrier I became. It was poorly written, and the mystery at the heart of the book was poorly constructed. Even more irritating was the fact that I kept running into people who took “The Da Vinci Code” seriously. As a mindless thriller, “The Da Vinci Code” doesn’t measure up. But as religious history? No way.
Brown’s latest book, “The Lost Symbol,” also appears to be hugely successful, having sold millions of copies. But I don’t care how popular he is. He’ll never be my favorite writer, and he shouldn’t be yours, either. If he is, just say John Steinbeck if anyone asks.
You know, I don’t like to bash writers, and I feel like I’ve been a little mean. Writing a book — even a bad book — is actually quite difficult, and if you can get millions of people to read your books, well, more power to you. The truth is, everyone indulges their trashier literary tastes from time to time. I certainly don’t spend all my time reading great books and defending the literary canon. I seldom read Stephen King anymore, but I’m still a huge fan, and I really like the Harry Potter books, although they’re too long and not as well written as they should be. After slogging my way through Thomas Pynchon’s “V,” I turned to “The Amber Spyglass,” the final book in Philip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” trilogy. And I’ve got some Elmore Leonard I’m dying to get into. So there’s nothing wrong with a little diversion, or a little genre fiction. But “The Lost Symbol?” Thanks, but I’ll pass.
So who are my favorite writers? I can never answer this question. It changes all the time. Some of my favorite books: “Atonement,” by Ian McEwan, “Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha,” by Roddy Doyle, “Moby Dick,” by Herman Melville, “The World According to Garp,” by John Irving, “The Catcher in the Rye,” by J.D. Salinger, “The Chocolate War,” by Robert Cormier, “Catch 22,” by Joseph Heller.
AND I’M SORRY, BUT CREED STILL ... IS, WELL, NOT SO GOOD
I like Slate, but sometimes I think they’re a little too contrarian. I became more convinced of this yesterday, after reading this ridiculous piece (click here) arguing that the awful band Creed is actually good.
“And it’s not that the band didn’t deliver,” writer Jonah Weiner explains. “To the contrary, Creed seemed to irritate people precisely because its music was so unabashedly calibrated towards pleasure: Every surging riff, skyscraping chorus, and cathartic chord progression telegraphed the band’s intention to rock us, wow us, move us.”
Oh, so that was the problem — Creed’s music was just too pleasurable. Um, no. Creed’s music was the opposite of pleasurable — it was the unholy detritus of the grunge movement, a discordant, moaning racket that sounded like something Eddie Vedder coughed up and flushed down the toilet. What’s next? An article about how Hootie and the Blowfish is really the great band of the ‘90s?
SPEAKING OF MY WRIST
It’s been a little while since I provided a wrist update. How is my wrist doing? Well, it’s a lot better, although today it’s really sore, probably because I’m working with heavier weights. But the good news is that I’m probably going to get discharged from occupational therapy early, because I’m doing so well.
I’ve enjoyed the therapy, but I pay a $30 co-pay every time I go in, which is twice a week, and I’m ready to find other uses for that money. Like maybe Brian Wilson tickets.
In another encouraging sign, nothing bad happened over the weekend when I tripped on a pile of seaweed while flying a kite in Maine and fell on my hand. It hurt a little, but not too much — I guess my bones are completely healed.
Got a comment? E-mail me at sfoss@dailygazette.net.
