Last year, I built a new bookshelf for my office. When I redid my office a few years ago, we picked up these wonderful, plain, perfectly sized bookshelves my wife painted. I’d assumed I could buy more when needed. As my book collection grew and we got rid of shelves from downstairs, I required more space. Unfortunately, the retailer I bought them from doesn’t stock them anymore and I can’t find them online, anywhere. Amazing how hard to find unadorned, seven-foot shelves.

So I built my own. I previously built my desk and side tables using fantastic butcher block and black pipes. Rather than trying to match the other shelves, I matched this furniture.

Pretty simple to make. It’s two and a half feet high and the stacks on top are eye-level while at my desk. I pay attention to these books more than the books on my older, more traditional shelves. The bigger, bolder spines keep leaping back into my attention. And most of them don’t deserve the headspace. In fact, most of my favorite books are smaller paperbacks. This got me thinking about organization.

Aesthetically, organizing by size or color makes sense. I’ve seen this method used in a few bookshelves, in an online picture in a hyper-stylish room. I’m not wired that way. I’m not color blind, but colors and their combinations don’t jump out at me like they do for others. Arranging by size, however, would let me see smaller titles. For instance, I’m trying to find Dubliners by James Joyce… I believe my copy is a thin, white paperback. But I can’t find it amongst the larger books.

Organizing by size seems sterile. One of the nice things about a shelf of books is the lack of uniformity. There are two schools of thought. One is dusty, leather-bound volumes neatly arranged in a row. The other is the overcrowded NYC apartment with bookshelves crammed with different shaped and colored books. I don’t have any collections, we will default to the second choice.

A logical way to organize them is by author or topic. I have clusters of Hemingway’s, Mitchell’s, Gibson’s, Murakami’s, etc. … but they are exceptions. Most books and authors are one and done. And topics seem hazy and very open to interpretation… does a book of Poe short-stories go in a collection of literature, or short story collections, or horror (I don’t read horror, so probably not. But still)

We will default to grouping by type. Authors clustered together, books on writing, books on health and fitness, stoicism and meditation, etc, etc. Still , it should be fun. And help me find the books I want, and highlight better books. No need to look at cheap Tony Robbins books when I can think about Nabokov.

Addendum: should I continue to hold on to books I either didn’t like or didn’t read? There are three categories of books that I haven’t read on my shelves: books that were aspirational reads (like The Odyssey or The Origin of Species), books that I wasn’t ready to read but are probably quite good (Master and Margarita, Molloy), and books that are just bad (Million Dollar business, The Alchemist). The first two categories I might read or reference one day, but there is no excuse for holding on to the third category.

I really enjoy reading short stories collections. They allow you to enter the author’s world and style, but with quicker, sometimes weirder, payoffs. Some of my favorites are multiple collections by David Mitchell, Neil Gaiman’s, Hemingway, Poe, and Nabokov.
The masters (Hemingway, Poe, Nabokov) collections are stories that appeared in magazines or other disparate sources, a fun and accessible way to read the works of the greats. I’ve never read a novel by Nabokov, but I have a sense of him and his writing from the short stories.
It’s the clever and inter-related short story collections that grab my attention. Mitchell is the best example; Ghostwritten, his first work, has common elements, like characters crossing from one story to another, or the actions and outcomes of one story directly influencing the other. Subtly, of course… the first time I read it, when it first came out in paperback, I missed most of the references. But it’s delightful to re-read, looking for the connections and the common threads. Cloud Atlas is similar, but the relationship between the stories is much more obvious and key to understanding the book, with its nesting-doll structure. As mentioned a few weeks ago, Neon Leviathan does something similar, stories set in the same post-apocalyptic world and character crossover.
These stories inspired me to consider a collection of mine. By accident, or lack of imagination, I had set a few stories in a similar world. None of them got any traction on their own, but together they may carry more weight. I enjoy having a common thread run through these stories.
In a perfect world, I’d get one or two of these stories published elsewhere, then release them as a self-published collection. I don’t have any illusions about finding a publisher for a set of short stories by an unknown author… it’s well known that short story collections don’t sell. I think it’d allow me to scratch an itch, work on something I thought was interesting (regardless of how viable it is, see early thoughts on how my tastes don’t align with what the industry likes) and learn self-publishing. Worry more about the writing than publishing.

I rotate through favorite authors. Readers of this website notice I mention often certain authors. Murakami and Mitchell in current reading, Stephen King for writing advice, and Hugh Howey and Neil Gaiman in both categories. Lately I’ve read a lot of George Saunders, especially his amazing book A Swim in the Pond in the Rain. He created a follow-up Substack to continue teaching.

Saunders, both in the book and Story Time with George Saunders, takes a short piece of literature and breaks it down. Not in a what-is-the-deeper-meaning sense, but more concretely. Why did the author do this thing? What are the questions he’s asking? The book and the continuing course are for writers, but they really make better readers. I’m blissfully unaware of the subtle things an author will do, like re-use images, subtly create a mood or an impression. Or, at least I was. One of GS’s methods is to read each piece at least twice; the first time just pay attention to your reaction. When were you curious? Interested? Bored? Then re-read and notice why you had these reactions. I’m thoroughly enjoying this approach.

As I mentioned before, GS is a huge fan of the editing process. His instructions are specific; edit and notice the parts that don’t work, and keep re-working them. Maybe dozens of times. While editing, notice themes and deeper meaning of the piece. The themes or takeaways are up to the reader, of course, but having a sense of what you are trying to say gives the piece direction.

Another key are what GS describes as pulses.

“A pulse might be a scene, but, really, it’s a unit of meaning. What makes a story a story is the way one pulse leads to the next, which produces that lovely story-feeling. ”

Each segment of the story should lead to the next… something like the “And then.. or of course, this happened” approach.

The biggest lesson is his examination of how much consideration goes into the descriptions and setup of each scene. An excellent author doesn’t just describe a character as they see them in their mind. Each detail either reveals something about the character, foreshadows, or ties elements of the story together. For example,

“He rose and—with the purple of his breeches, with his crimson cap tilted to one side, with the decorations hammered into his chest—cut the hut in half, as a banner cuts the sky. He smelt of perfume and the overwhelmingly sweet coolness of soap. His long legs looked like a pair of girls clad in shiny shoulder-length jackboots.” -Babel, My First Goose.

Every time I read and work through the exercises in GS’s posts, I feel a little closer to where I want to be. It certainly has made me a better reader; now I ask, what is the question the story is asking? Why do I care? What is the intent of this scene? Is it needed? Is this detail needed? Does it push the story forward? Hopefully, my output will reflect these lessons.

The Lion Tracker’s Guide to Life sat in my Amazon wishlist queue (fodder for another post) for a few years. I had heard the author, Boyd Varty on a lesser known podcast, put it on the wishlist but never purchased. Like many items in my wishlist, I forgot why it appealed to me. More recently, Boyd was on the Tim Ferriss show and I bought the book.

The first remarkable thing about the book is the size. It’s small, maybe only 3/4 the size of a regular book (5X7”, compared to the standard hardcover at 6X9”). And short at only 130 pages with generous spacing. I read it over three days, but one can read it cover to cover in a good afternoon. Interspersed are hand-drawn renderings of jungle animals and tracks, along with hand-written captions. Lion Tracker feels like a labor of love, something put together out of desire and need rather than commercial success. Unlike many books from well-known authors who drag one idea or concept out for 300 pages when a 2000 word web post would suffice.

Varty uses a classic device for the book. He describes, in loving detail, aspects of a track with two expert trackers. As different things happen along the trail, Varty reflects on how those lessons translate to his life. As an author, I enjoyed his seamless transition between telling the exciting and engaging story of the track with his larger life lessons. The track and his emotional journey crescendoed at the same point. One of my other favorite books, Born to Run, follows a similar path (a running race with the Tarahumara of Mexico – McDougall uses it to tell the story of natural running, the shoe industry, etc.). But Varty never wanders too far from the tracking story and keeps the reader engaged.

The two expert trackers in the story, Renias and Alex, are larger than life. Much like how a fiction author needs to create a backstory and pick scenes and dialogue to create a character, Varty gives his these two men a similar treatment. Renias is the wise leader with generations of tracker blood and knowledge. We learn his backstory but see his qualities as he actively tracks. It creates a vivid image of the two men. Varty’s respect and admiration for the two and of their profession is clear.

The Lion Tracker’s Guide to Life reminded me of another book, Death in the Tall Grass, also about tracking animals in the African jungle… yet wildly different. Death in the Tall Grass was about a big-game hunter as he tracks and kills different now-protected game, like lions and tigers and leopards. Tall Grass reflected a different age with different morals, and the authors are certainly very different. But they both lovingly and reverentially describe a world of the jungle and its inhabitants.

The Lion Tracker’s Guide to Life is a quick and engaging read. I thought about it long after I put it down. Varty tells a compact story with just enough background and exposition to hook the reader. I’d read only the active tracker story by itself. One of my favorite books of the last few years.

Noticing how stories work is like developing a nose for wine. When I first started drinking wine, I didn’t know how to describe the taste. Then, I learned about the finish (the last taste in your mouth), how to taste the sweetness, body, mouthfeel, smell. And recognized how my earlier meal or drink affected my taste and appreciation of the wine.

This allowed me to talk about wine to people in wine shops and sommeliers. When asked, I can tell them what we will eat with the wine, previous likes and dislikes, and characteristics that are show stoppers (dry wine with a less-than-smooth finish). I can describe what I prefer and why (Pinot grapes, smooth finish, not too sweet).

When I read the first few pages of Neon Leviathan, I couldn’t believe how different the writing seemed. Like wine, what I consumed previously mattered. As part of A Swim in the Pond in the Rain and accompanying online class, we read selections of the Russian masters and Hemingway. Prior, I read Murakami… literature. And, like having a drier wine after a sweeter one, Neon Leviathan seemed rough. For example, T.R. Napper commits a Scribophile sin of epic proportions; he tells instead of shows (gasp)

“Mister Nguyen… looking down at her with a studied grimness. Lynn stifled a sigh at the posturing.”

I can imagine the comments and redlines from my co-amateur editors for “studied grimness”. But… what is the objection? The mantra of show don’t tell is universally repeated, but I can picture Mister Nguyen and how he looked at Lynn (we learned earlier he was an older, fat, old-school crime boss). Can’t you see the how he looks at her? As I read, I constantly found lines and approaches that set off alarm bells… but they worked. In the correct context.

“Matter-of-factly, Eulalie said…”

Another example. This was from a tense exchange between a new employee and her boss. Another cardinal rule from the literature world is only to describe speaking with “said”, “asked” or “shouted”. But I can hear exactly how someone sounds in a matter-of-factly voice. Used sparingly, it enhances the visualization and reading experience.

You doesn’t need a deep knowledge of wine or understand its vocabulary to enjoy a nice Willamette Pinot Noir. But it helps when trying to find the right wine. Same with reading. I’ve struggled lately with finding the right writing style. If nothing else, I’m better at identifying what makes genre vs literature, or when the two overlap (Atwood, etc.). Which should help with submissions to publications.

*I enjoyed Neon Leviathan. Cool characters, good sense of the world, fun read.

What type writer am I? I can’t be a schlocky, low-quality pulpy guy or a literary writer, because of a lack of training, interests and personality. I have come back to the Hugh Howey space… interesting genre stories with subtle themes and messages. My head’s had gotten so twisted and turned, through experimentation with different writing and types of writing and endless advice that I lost sight of who I am.

The first two stories I wrote and published followed this idea. Unfair Advantage is a modern-realist story about fighting back and The Inspector’s Legacy is a post-apocalyptic story about making a tough choices. Hugh Howey’s writing, and his comments and thoughts on writing… he’s doing what I want to accomplish. His writing isn’t George Saunders or Margaret Atwood and his internal dialogue makes me wince. But he tells a compelling story with interesting characters. And he subtly infused the stories with themes and political opinions.

So where does this leave me? I’m having trouble finding a home for my completed stories (3 different pieces out to different publications). And I need to acknowledge where I am and what I can do, namely short genre stories. Which means I don’t have to adhere to all of literary writing’s rules… maybe an adverb or two isn’t the worst thing in the world. Make the stories and characters interesting, give them problems to overcome. And work on a set of stories in the same universe, much like David Mitchell. Have characters and world rules cross. Have a particular theme or idea for each story.

This path is warm and inviting. A collection of short stories. The stories will hang together… and each story can reveal a little more about the world, but still be a self-contained story.

And I’ll write it because I want to read it.