Winner, what I am

With hours to go, I clocked in at 50,044.

Such horrible prose, such a wandering plot.

Such a pretty, pretty picture.

Things that shouldn't surprise me, but do:

Philip Pullman, the author of His Dark Materials, has written his own
version of the New Testament in which the story of Jesus is given a
'different ending'

More than 1,000 people queued for up to 24 hours to have their books
signed on the first stop of Sarah Palin's tour to promote her new book

Because NaNo is consuming all of my time

Links!

Orphaned books: the sad casualty of publishing layoffs

Connecting children worldwide, through books


Animal noir: and you thought people could be dangerous

Wistful

Every month Colleen posts another list of books at Bookslut for teens and every month I wish (again) for more free time so I could just read them already.

So it's November

And I think that no matter how much I want to post fun, interesting things, it's not going to happen this month.

I literally don't have enough hours in the day.

So instead: Teaser Tuesday

From The Light in High Places by Joe Hutto, page 89:

At Kathy's, a biologist can pull a plastic container from her refrigerator, casually sit down at the dinning room table, and spend two hours sorting through a hundred ziplock bags filled with fecal samples from bighorn sheep, mountain lions, and bears, and she will never bat an eye. "Make sure my cats don't get into that."

I know, a nonfiction book about biologists in Wyoming studying the Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep; so not my usual taste. But I'm branching out, or trying to anyway.




Disclaimer: No one asked me to read and review. And it's my book.

Reviews

Dear Mr. Unabomber by Ray Cavanaugh wasn't quite what I expected it to be, but in some ways I think that made it better.

From the publisher's website:

In the best classical tradition, this epistolary novel strives to make sense of the world in which the letter-writer finds himself, alone and misunderstood by everyone.

Whom is a young man to call upon to share his yearning for a simpler, more natural life? The narrator appeals to the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, whose deranged Santa Claus image transfixed him as a boy and whose terminal anti-tech vendetta now captivates him in these ever-more-simulated days.

Having procured the Unabomber’s inmate address from the Internet, the narrator uncaps his pen and starts writing letters. Lots of them. Letters about college that feels like glorified obedience training; about the prospect of mediocre careerism sitting on his head like an obese girlfriend; about relationships guided by fashion-magazine tips; about the conservation land where he puffed his first joint being paved over for luxury housing; about his best friend gradually opting for more cyber-chat and less real-life interaction . . .

With humor, self-deprecation, and irony that are only intensified by despair, Dear Mr. Unabomber explores the barrenness and lavish conformity running ghostlike in circles of the MySpace hell. When you have no one else to turn to, Ted Kaczynski must become your BFF.

Although each letter starts off by "talking" with Kaczynski about how he can relate to his end goal, or reminiscing about how long it's been since he--Kaczynski--has touched a bomb (fourteen years), each chapter quickly moves from there to a whole range of subjects, including imagined IM conversations between Paris Hilton and Kaczynski, musings about what night classes are the easiest, failed attempts to find someone via Match.com, the letter writer's attempts at dating, and a whole host of other wild tangents. Choosing the Unabomber because he too yearns for a simpler, easier way of life (note: he really doesn't), he relates his adventures, missteps, and frustrations, seeing in himself someone who can relate to Kaczynski... (although he has no plans to do anything quite so drastic.)

Despite my misgivings about his character--and I mean the character's character, not Cavanaugh's creation--I liked him. He pointed out flaws that are readily apparent in modern society, although he couldn't seem to spot them in himself. He's lost, confused, but so sure he's on the right path--and that he's the only person who is. How can you not enjoy a character like that?

Content aside, it's a thought-provoking book about what happens when someone who can't relate to the modern world latches on to someone else who can't--or won't--relate. I have to say that I'm not quite sure where the letter writer is going at the end of the book, having graduated college but feeling like he failed anyway; it's got one of those ambiguous endings that get me thinking.

But then I sign onto Twitter. Things always become clearer then.

Disclaimer: I had to look up "epistolary."