I’ve previously written about my old-school, paper and bound books. When I first owned an iPad in the early 2010s, I read a lot of Kindle books. But patterns emerged; I retained little and wasn’t sure where I was in the book or chapter. Twenty pages or two hundred to the end? I almost never buy Kindle books anymore, opting for the tactile experience of proper books.

Actual books are fun to mark up with marginalia to note techniques I admire. I did this in my most recent version of The Stinging Fly, (“The Wrong Thing” by Keith Ridgway). I liked how Ridgway started the story and used it as a guide for my WIP. There are ways to do this with Kindle but it doesn’t resonate like words excitedly scribbled in the margins.

But not all physical books are good. I’ve been fooled multiple times now into ordering very low quality publications. The most recent one is this version of White Nights by Dostoevsky. I knew it was an issue the second I opened the Amazon package. It has this cheap cover and is oddly sized. Feels more like a pamphlet than an actual book.

Worse are the pages themselves. Oddly long with massive margins (1/3 of the page). Tiny print. I know little about the art and science of laying out print on the page, so I can’t fully express why this is done poorly… but neither can the people who cobbled this edition together.

And, similar to my experience reading on Kindle, the poor presentation carries over to the reading experience. I couldn’t get past 5 pages. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time this cheap knockoff printing has fooled me. I’ve ordered (online, of course) at least 4 other books like this. Most of them have quickly ended up in the donation pile.

Part of my disappointment is the actual story, though. I was looking for another Russian classic, but didn’t want to invest months into a 1000 pager. White Nights and its svelte 51 pages. I thought I had read Dostoevsky before, but I don’t think I have. His writing, or this translation, didn’t land with me. So! Many! Exclamations! And the plot of a lovestruck fool doesn’t resonate with me like it does with others.

It’s amazing how the physical presentation of the story matters. My enjoyment of both Shopkeeping and The Creative Act were enhanced because of the care and quality of the physical book. Both have material covers, artfully arranged text, and thick pages, giving the words more weight. You can literally feel the care and craftsmanship put into each page.

I don’t know if White Nights would land with me if read in a different format. But the cheap packaging and terrible typography guaranteed I would not finish the novel. I wish I didn’t need multiple lessons on this topic, but perhaps this is what I need to make it stick. And internalize, as I get closer to putting out a book myself, how important the physical and typographic decisions matter.

I’ve previously mentioned my in-progress short story collection. The idea for “After the Second Wave” evolved from writing two short stories set in similar worlds, re-reading Ghostwritten, and the need to have a tangible target for my writing.

The project has had challenges. I knew, as a fledgling author, I needed help with the stories. Not creating them, but turning them into pieces others would enjoy. Hundreds of rejections (with nary a positive comment) forced me to get real help. I thought I could do it through peer sites (Scribophile) and one-off edits on Reedsy. But the continued rejections said otherwise.

After a frustrating false start, I found Jamie, my writing coach and Andrea, editor. And now the project has real momentum. Two narratives are complete; two additional ones will follow by March.

Next up are the handful of stories I wrote before working with Jamie. They need mass revisions. But, I know the characters and plot and can focus on the writing. Maybe 2 more by end of spring?

Then, onto the best part. The existing stories are set in the first few years of the Second Wave. I’m eager to explore a longer timeline and how our characters fare.

And this only covers the writing part. Tons of work ahead to assemble and publish a book. I’ll start work on publishing when a few more pieces are complete. Until then, the plan is to assemble 8-10 good stories, get 2-3 published on their own, and put together this bad boy.

In Part 1, I described my current Irish jag. Earlier in the year, I did an immersion in Japanese books and streams (also unintentional). The Japanese list:

-Shogun

-Pachinko (Korean, but set largely in Japan)

-1Q84

-More Days at the Morisaki Bookshop

-Hard Boiled Wonderland and End of the World

-Tokyo Vice

Similar to the Irish immersion, the primary effect was a wish to visit Japan, a place I’ve never been. Crowded yet orderly Tokyo streets bathed in neon, misty shrines, long hikes up mountains and through prefectures, everything.

I am disoriented, though, after hearing and reading (translated) Japanese dialogue. While I love Murakami books I always found his dialogue strange. Like something out of bad 1950s movie. Lots of “Hey man,” or “… in a way of thinking”. This discussion on Reddit picks up examines the issue.

I know little regarding translation, but understand the translator matters. The odd or flat dialogue may be translator choices or the inherent difficulty in porting Japanese dialogue. This dialogue is evident in most Murakami novels (with different translators) as well as stories from Kazuo Ishiguro. The strangeness of the dialogue is magnified when compared to spoken Japanese in any of the above listed shows and movies. Japanese is lyrical, full of inflections, and a beautiful listen. The flatness must come from the translation.

The lack of translation from Irish literature (excluding any written in Irish) lets Irish dialogue jump off the page. I can hear and revel in the lyricism. As a native English speaker, the same doesn’t happen with written Japanese dialogue. Hearing it makes the gap feel wider.

The best way to learn is to immerse yourself in a subject. Tyler describes a deep reading process. I’ve followed this path over the past few months in a deep Irish “content” jag. I’ve either read or watched

• Normal People
• There are Little Kingdoms
• The Stinging Fly
• Say Nothing
• Cheap Irish Houses
• In the Land of Saints and Sinners
• The Great House Revival
• Bad Sisters

The primary effect of this immersion is a desire to hole up in a cottage in Donegal with my iPad, printer, and notepads and churn out great literature. Soak in the landscapes and split G’s every night at the local pub.

On a more practical level, I notice the lyricism in dialogue. Not Shakespearean iambic pentameter or Mamet’s famed dialogue, but an Irish way of speaking. Even my flat ear can hear the music jump off the page with wonderful jumps and inflections. The dialogue sings in my head.

Sadly, this hasn’t touched my writing. Too many years of living in NJ with our fast-paced, rhotic speech pattern. A lengthy corporate career. My dialogue is realistic but not interesting. Maybe I need a cottage. Or a Guinness.

blows dust off the console for the website Apologies for the long delay since the last update for Chawner Writes. Thankfully, it’s not been for lack of writing. I’ve been cranking our short stories for my upcoming collection “After the Second Wave”. I have a healthy backlog of books to discuss. This is a combined review because of the relationship between the books and how they affect the reader.

Neither of these books are mainstream and probably not available in the local Barnes and Noble. I came across Shopkeeping on the Material Review. A bookseller in Seattle, Peter Miller, collected stories, lessons and anecdotes from a long career as a brick-and-mortar retailer. Fast and easy to read. Highly recommended, even if you (like me) never considered the art of shopkeeping.

While the content of the Shopkeeping is engaging, it’s only part of an overall experience. Miller writes like an American Zen master of his craft, inviting the reader to put the book down repeatedly, stare off into space and think what the words mean to them. Every part book’s layout, from its textured cover, author-drawn sketches of the shop, font, etc. engages the reader. Clearly Miller put the same care into the physical book as he does his shop. I’ve read a lot of books about creativity over the last few years, but only Rick Rubin’s invoked a similar reaction.

Miller mentions other books in Shopkeeping; books on art, design, rare books, etc. But one description caught my eye:

“(In Praise of Shadows) is a fascinating study of light and shadow and culture”. (Pg 54)

A book that relates light, shadows and culture? In Praise of Shadows did not disappoint. Written by Tanizaki, a famous Japanese author from the early 20th century, In Praise of Shadows is a short, concise, stream-of-consciousness examination of the elements that make the Japanese unique, especially when compared to the west.

As the title implies, many of his observations and theories revolve around shadows in Japanese architecture and life. For instance, he explores how traditional Japanese buildings limit the amount of light entering them, shaping the character of rooms, utensils, and the faces of actors with specific makeup. Jarringly (at least to this westerner) he discusses how the Western obsession with bringing as much light as possible into rooms has downsides. And this really highlights the true intent of the piece, contrasting between traditional Japanese use of shadows against westernization/modernization. Including a most interesting discussion of bathroom design.

Not only does Shopkeeping discuss In Praise of Shadows, the entire book is in conversation with Tanizaki’s treatise. By using aesthetics, both engage in a larger conversation on culture and community, exploring what is lost when physical shops and Japanese traditions are replaced. And both provoke deep contemplation about the world around the reader.

My to-read pile was anemic. For years, my to-read pile was overwhelming and, instead of generating excitement, created dread. I’ve recently enjoyed only having 1-2 books at the ready but this became a problem as I finished books and the queue had unexpected stinkers (novels I gave up on).

Off to my local BN for an emergency search. I beelined to the sci-fi section, where I had previously considered Neal Stephenson’s most recent two books. I knew they were a commitment having read six of his older books. Neal likes to go into incredible depth on, well, everything. This can be enjoyable when in the right mood. As someone who is trying to write concise short stories, his books read long.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. I picked up Termination Shock, at a (for Stephenson) a svelte 700 pages. And, halfway through, it’s deep, technical, and well-written. Immediate problem solved, but the to-read pile was empty.

Enter a road trip to Portland. First stop was Powells with friends. One of them, another reader, recommended a few books while we were perusing the shelves. And now my to-read pile is seven deep. The only problem is they look more interesting than Termination Shock.

I’m reading 2 books going at once (following my fiction/non-fiction scheme). I might pause Termination Shock to read a book about a Tokyo bookstore that interests me. But I’ve not fully engrossed myself in TS and worry if I drop now won’t return… paradoxically, I have to get myself invested and interested in TS before I can safely put it down.

I’ve often referenced After the Second Wave, an in-progress collection of post-apocalyptic short stories. The project is moving along, albeit slowly with a writing coach and editor. Progress is slow because my original versions of these stories weren’t very good. The feedback process, combined with a full workload and family, takes time.

I’m not only getting feedback on the individual stories. Not only am I getting feedback on the individual stories, but I am also being challenged to consider how the collection should present as an overall piece. I’ve thought of it as a bunch of stories held together by a common world and common characters, with callbacks and references. But there should be more; the collection needs a through-line. There is a loose through-line as a function of the genre. Any post-apocalyptic story is about our modern world and how we’re destroying it, the true nature of man when confronted with a new world, overcoming hardships, etc.

Ghostwritten by David Mitchell is my guiding light on this project. In his first novel, he assembled a collection of seemingly independent stories interrelated by characters and the world. The stories hang together loosely on first read; each subsequent read reveals tighter and tighter cause and effect. Any reference to an event or character outside of the current story is invariably a callback or reference. But I can’t find a through-line. The last two stories directly reference the Iraq war and an almost global nuclear war controlled by an out-of-control AI (developed by a character from a previous story, of course).

There are a cluster of themes within Ghostwritten; stories about love and isolation and overcoming. And I need to consider the same; readers need a sense of an arc. The initial stories could focus on the shock of a new word, causing pain and suffering. Then, the middle stories reflect change to the new world. The final set could offer a glimpse into successfully, or unsuccessfully, overcoming obstacles and finding a better way.

It’s helpful to consider through lines after most of the stories have first drafts. Much the same way, applying the classic story structures is more effective after the first draft. Starting with a story structure first or set of themes would hinder the natural progression and feel forced (more on this in a future post). Now is the time for me to see the through-line.

In a previous post I mentioned a Netflix documentary on Tom Wolfe , an author I’d heard of but never read. Shortly after watching the doc, I was in B&N and The Bonfire of the Vanities was on display. I knew little about Bonfire other than a Tom Hank’s movie based on the book and it was set in the 1980s.

I enjoyed the first third of the book. It’s always fun to read about rich bankers doing rich banker things, like living in extravagant Park Avenue apartments, attending exclusive parties, wearing $1200 (1980’s money) shoes. Sherman McCoy, the protagonist, is a bonds guy who considers himself a Master of the Universe, a term Wolfe either created or popularized. We also meet a struggling assistant DA, a failed reporter, politically minded preachers and DAs, wives and girlfriends, and cops. It’s a fun introduction, save long-winded.

Once the main plot gets rolling, though, Bonfire becomes a slog. Scenes go on forever; I lost count of how many times I thought “I get it, let’s move on,” From a style standpoint, reading Sherman’s internal dialogue was brutal; literally pages of him just repeating he was worried. I had to skip the long paragraphs… luckily the worried thoughts were italicized and easy to pick out.

The other major flaw the lack of anyone to root for. Not one character, certainly not the selfish, cheating, MOTU Sherman, the scheming political DA’s or clergy, the perpetually drunk and lucky reporter, the socialite wives only concerned with status and becoming skeletally thin, nor the cops and defense lawyers who exist in a corrupted and broken system. Assumedly this is the point; all these groups are self-motivated and grind on each other to everyone’s detriment. But as a reader, I’m not interested.

Overall, I was disappointed in Bonfire, especially after a strong start. Wolfe was talented but needed a stronger editor to reign in the rambling inner dialogues and never-ending scenes. I’d like to read his feature articles from Vogue or GQ as a comparative as the constraints of a magazine could help him.

On this site, I’ve discussed how to find new reads, my pile of unread books and libraries. But not bookstores.

Most of my purchases (for everything) are on Amazon for price, convenience, and selection. When I get a recommendation, nothing is easier than ordering on Amazon. But there is a discovery problem. Sure, Amazon recommends books based on purchase and browsing history. But these recommendations are simplistic and favor popular titles. New books have to prove themselves before I invest the time and energy; the millions of titles from the last few hundred years deserve equal consideration.

Which brings me to bookstores. Touching books, the smell of coffee and binding, racks full of speciality magazines. Whenever I travel, I stop at local, independent stores. Powell’s in Portland, Oregon, was a religious experience. Locally, I was limited to an old-school Barnes and Noble. Spending time in that store wasn’t appealing; it was loud and focused as much on selling toys and trinkets as books.

But our local BN left their classic building last year and took a smaller space. And the redesign is great. Very book centric. This is part of a trend from BN.

This re-thinking of BN works. I enjoy picking up a coffee and wandering through the stacks. The layout is much airier and inviting.

It’s not perfect. They desperately need a used-book section. And the new store still dedicates too much shelf space to crappy celebrity cookbooks and current events titles with flashy titles. But these are small things.

On my most recent visit, I experienced the magic of the in-person bookstore. I needed a new read so I wandered the fiction section. And one name jumped out: Tom Wolfe. The day before, I watched a short documentary on Netflix called Radical Wolfe. I didn’t know (before the movie) he wrote The Right Stuff or Bonfire of the Vanities. And there it was, a gold-covered copy of Bonfire smiling up at me, eye-level. This wouldn’t have happened via Amazon (yes, cookies and tracking, but I am so jaded by any sort of ads online I ignore the recs).

The new BN format is a welcome change. I’ll still order from Amazon for quick, definitive purchases, but I’m in BN at least monthly now.