I published a children’s book earlier this year, and I’m giving away the ebook version as the year winds down. The idea for the book came to me while I was working on The Dancing Fish. The illustrations in that poetry book were in gray, and I wondered if a kid’s book done in gray illustrations and plain white backgrounds would work.
And so we have Nobody Will Like This Book.
The ebook is free on Amazon today through Christmas day.
Here’s the description:
Plainly put, this book is worried that nobody will like it. This book has seen other books with beautiful pictures and colors on their covers. And some other books have pictures and colors on their inside pages. In contrast, this book has only grays on it. The book has drawings on the inside pages. Some of those drawings are a bit silly, so they can be fun. What’s also fun (and very nice) is when a friendly book comes by and tells this book that being different isn’t bad. Instead, it makes books special.
If you’d like to take a stroll through the book — complete with narration — check out the video. Click here if you’d rather watch it on YouTube.
I’ve heard — and said — “weird” used to describe something in a negative sense. As a put-down. But there’s a flip side, where “weird” can be a descriptor for oddities that cause fascination.
Miéville has crafted a collection of oddities, in a sort of Ripley’s Believe or Not museum. A selection of what you’ll find on display in his book: players of card games are sometimes dealt unusual cards in “The Dowager of Bees,” icebergs float and crash above London in “Polynia,” a sack with animals that was a medieval torture device comes back to haunt in “Säcken,” oil rigs walk out of the ocean and onto land in “Covehithe,” and a medical student discovers scrimshaw on the bones of a cadaver in “The Design.”
That’s just 5 stories of the 28 in this book. Other strangeness awaits.
This was my first read of Miéville’s works, and I enjoyed the bulk of the stories. They are presented as glimpses of scenes, so the strangeness is portioned out to you. Gaps between the scenes allow for the reader’s imagination to reach beyond the words. And I appreciated that. It lends to the mysteries of the stories, so they remain a bit mysterious. Floodlights are not pointed at them, to bring them fully in the open.
Some of the stories fell flat for me. Three are set up to explain trailers (for fictional movies, I suppose) — the stories proceed through time segments and tell what is happening. So we get a timeline of the trailers. Clever to use a different format for these stories, but I didn’t find them entertaining. Same with “Rules” — it felt more like notes of an idea than a story.
Still, there are some exhibits in Ripley’s Believe or Not that capture your eye and interest more than others. I found my visit to Three Moments of an Explosion well worth the time. If you’re a fan of stories by Jorge Louis Borges, Donald Barthelme, and Karen Russell, you would probably enjoy the trip as well.
A power of stories is their ability to transport readers to other places and times. Murakami does this very well for me — his stories are mesmerizing. And Kafka on the Shore is his latest book to have that effect on me.
An overview of the book …
At 15 years old, one of the main characters disguises his first name (to be called Kafka Tamura) and runs away from home. He wants to get away from his father and tries to escape the Oedipus Rex prophecy that his father put on him. Talk about a heavy burden to carry. Kafka wants to find his mother and sister, who left the family when Kafka was four.
Kafka’s chapters alternate with those of Satoru Nakata, who is quite an interesting character. During World War II, Nakata was in school when strange event happened. He and his schoolmates were hunting for mushrooms in the woods. All the kids lost consciousness and fell to the ground. However, the teacher was not affected. After the teacher ran to get help and returned to the kids, they started waking up. But not Nakata. He remained in a comatose state for a while. And when he eventually woke up, he could neither read nor write.
From that background, leap to the time of the book’s main action. Nakata is in his sixties and still can’t read or write. But he can talk to cats. Which helps him find lost cats for people in his neighborhood.
Back to Kafka Tamura: he journeys to the island of Shikoku, to the city of Takmatsu, where he finds a private library. He enjoys reading in the peaceful place and befriends the librarian Oshima. Miss Saeki runs the library and spends much of her time in her office. Miss Saeki also has an interesting background, which Oshima tells to Kafka.
Murakami’s stories typically contain oddities. In this book: fish and leeches fall from the sky … spirits appear in the form of Johnnie Walker and Colonel Sanders … soldiers from World War II haven’t aged … another world/alternate reality opens up.
Also, this book contains portions that may cause some to not pick up this book: incest by the main character, and another character eats still-beating hearts of cats. As for the second action, that character has a reason for doing it. Still, it’s a rough chapter. Murakami doesn’t gloss over gruesome parts.
Kafka on the Shore has many portions that are food for thought. The quote below is from Kafka’s alter ego (“the boy named Crow”), who gives advice to Kafka in the beginning of the book. I thought the message was moving. To me, the message is about growth after enduring a struggle — it’s when you are either forced out of a comfortable place or you choose to venture out of that comfort.
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
Quote from: Murakami, Haruki. Kafka on the Shore. Alfred A. Knopf. 2005. pp. 5-6.
Let’s say you’ve walked through a few houses with blank walls. Maybe these are show houses in a new development in town. The blankness of the houses reminds you of routines: doing the same things every day, eating the same foods.
Then you enter a house with tapestries hanging on the walls. The tapestries are filled with vibrant images and suggestions of senses. That’s the kind of feeling given by Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings. Each poem is like a tapestry.
You walk up to each tapestry and absorb the images woven into the fabric. Some images give the suggestion of aromas (cinnamon, “braid my hair with smells of lavender and roses”). Some images invite touch sensations (wind, “running barefoot on cobblestone streets”). Others conjure sounds (purring cat, whispers, “you make pianos sneeze old rhapsodies”). Others serve up tastes (passion fruit, “destinies melt in the taste of coffee and mistrust”). Others give glimpses of places around the world (Florence, Granada, Rio de la Plata).
The poems are celebrations of language, locations, emotions, and senses. These are Flamenco dancers, characters from myths, kisses, flowers, wooden beds, a woman being called Beatrice and wishing that was her name, “pigeons guide ships lost at sea,” wine, dreams, and a lot more.
The poems invite you to take in the images from those tapestries. Remove each tapestry from the wall and wrap it around you. For these bright emotions and senses enrich our lives. These keep our lives from become stale, monotonous.
Most of the book is comprised of Ms. Milton’s poems, but there are two other sections. One includes poems by Flavio Almerighi, and these are split into columns: English translation on the left and the Italian version on the right.
The final section includes prose poems and flash fiction. The rich language continues in these, now with more narrative to sew together more concrete scenes. I enjoyed the poems in the book, and I enjoyed these fiction pieces more. I felt the fictional pieces were easier for me to enter the scenes and take in what was happening there.
This is a lovely book that’s like taking a vacation from the ordinary.
If you like dystopian fiction, I highly recommend this novel.
The state of the union of America is chaos. Like Cormac McCarthy in The Road, Ms. Butler doesn’t dwell long on reasons why American society collapsed. Although, climate change and expanding wealth gap are mentioned here and there in this powerful novel. Unlike McCarthy’s novel, Parable of the Sower includes much information about the effects of that collapse.
Life is dangerous in unprotected places. People are apt to rob, kidnap, rape, and/or kill those who are seen as easy targets. When called, police might not show up. If they do, it could be the next day. You’ll need to pay a fee to the police for them to look into a crime. And there’s no guarantee they will follow through with an investigation.
The book’s main character, Lauren Olamina, lives in a walled community with her family—along with several neighbors—in a suburb of Los Angeles. Their life is safer than outside the wall, yet danger can arrive. Sometimes, thieves scale the wall and steal items the houses. And they steal vegetables from gardens and fruits from trees. In this future, food is scarce—unless you grow your own. Drinkable water is scarce, too.
Lauren’s father is a Baptist minister who who gives sermons in their house. And he teaches his children about guns and takes them for regular target practice. I mention this because of Lauren’s actions. She fires a gun several times in the hostile world to survive and protect people around her.
Also, Lauren develops her own religion: Earthseed. The overall book is comprised of Lauren’s journal entries. Before each chapter is an excerpt of the book within the book—Eathseed: The Books of the Living. One of those excerpts:
All that you touch You Change.
All that you Change Changes you.
The only lasting truth Is Change.
God Is Change.
— Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Sower
Another of Lauren’s inheritances: “hyper-empathy” because her mother used a drug during pregnancy. With this condition, Lauren acutely feels pain and pleasure of other people.
Lauren Olamina makes for an intriguing main character. The book’s beginning has Lauren as a teenager and drama with her neighbors inside the walled community. Then Lauren takes a journey, and she navigates the lawless landscape of California.
This is a gripping book, for the wildness of its near-future world. The story begins in July 2024, a mere three years from when I’m writing this review. The world in the story is very different than now. Much of society has regressed: slavery, purchase of people, company towns. There’s a new drug called pyro, which makes people stare at fires in fascination, and addicts go on killing rampages.
Octavia Butler has crafted a scary world here. Yet there’s light. That’s a lot of weight on Lauren’s shoulders. Thankfully, she has strong shoulders.
And now here’s the section where Bradley Boothby calls the writer George Foulkes to chat about a character in one of George’s stories…
Dialing the phone number on the screen, Bradley hoped George Foulkes wouldn’t ignore the call. If George had caller ID (and didn’t most people?), he wouldn’t recognize this number and might assume it was a telemarketer. George could let the call go to voicemail.
“Hi. Is this George Foulkes?”
“That’s me. Who’s this?”
Bradley didn’t have a flair for the dramatic. If he did, he could’ve deepened his voice, wishing to sound like a theatrical voice from beyond. Bradley said his own name in his normal voice.
Silence that could’ve lasted an hour but was merely a handful of seconds.
“Is this the editor again?” George asked. “No, I guess not. The number’s different. So’s the voice. Who is this, really?”
“I’m really Bradley Boothby. The editor called you because I went to his office this morning. I asked him to look up my name in his company’s books, and he discovered it in yours.”
“But my book isn’t published by his company,” George said. “I’m sending it around.”
“Okay, so that part’s wrong. But the book was at his company. And my name’s in your book.”
“Oh my God.” The writer’s caution dropped its luggage and jumped into excitement. “My own character is calling me. Do you have a quest for me? Or do you want me to chronicle more of your adventures?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Is this like in The Dark Tower?”
“A book series by Stephen King,” George said. “The characters visit King, and they convince him to continue writing the series. Well, they hypnotize him to keep going. He was afraid of being killed by the Crimson King. And with good reason. It’s a fantastic series. King’s a master of his craft, and I like stories about parallel realities.”
Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose, and the pressure helped to center his thoughts. “I’m wondering if I’m in a parallel reality.”
“Is it like ours? Or is it a post-apocalyptic wasteland?”
“It’s not a wasteland. Not yet.”
“Too bad,” George said. “It would’ve had more opportunities for characters to act like savages. But you calling me is huge. Never in a million years did I think one of my characters would call me.”
“I’m not your character,” Bradley said.
“Oh yeah? Do you own a storage facility?”
“No, and I didn’t find a time machine.”
“Then how do you know about the time machine?” George asked.
“Jack Schneider told me. We just had drinks, and he told me about your novel, how you got the idea for the name of the characters.”
“I know you’re not the people from the booth. They’re not my characters.”
“And I’m not, either!” Bradley’s volume was louder than he had meant.
Danielle looked worried at her husband, leaning against the kitchen counter, growing more agitated, his arm held across his chest propping up his other arm holding the phone at his ear. The past couple weeks had put a strain on Bradley, and today’s revelations made it worse. They should’ve improved the situation, by providing answers. However, not all answers gave relief, instead causing troubles of their own.
“This is disappointing,” George said. “Especially since you don’t have a time machine. That’d be more incredible than incredible.”
“Believe me, if I owned a time machine, I’d be rich,” Bradley said. “I’d go back in time and buy the stocks that would make me rich. And I’d live in a much bigger place.”
Bradley didn’t have to look around the kitchen to remember its dimensions and middle-of-the-line appliances. He and Danielle fantasized about owning a rowhouse, rather than renting this apartment. They were saving money for that dream.
“Okay, okay,” George said, enthusiasm drained from his voice. “So you’re not my character. It would be cool if you were, though.”
“Gosh, thanks for acknowledging me as a real person.”
“I deserve the sarcasm,” the writer said. “Why’d you ask the editor to look up your name?”
As Bradley gave the background of the persistent déjà vu outside of Randolph-Turley, it was easier to talk about. Growing accustomed to it with practice. George asked if the feeling was one that Bradley often had, and Bradley said he rarely felt it before the recent happening with the publishing company. Before, the feeling was minor, going to a place and having the sense he had been there but was unable remember the specific memory.
Bradley pictured George sitting cross-legged on a rug, peering through eyeglasses, a notepad resting on his lap, pen jotting down nuggets of information. The writer turned into therapist. Wanting to delve into the inner workings of this situation, discover what made it tick.
“We find ourselves in a fascinating place, don’t we?” George asked. “Here’s how I see it. You could hang up, and this whole thing is over. You found your answer about my character. You can chalk it up to random shit in a random world.”
“Sounds about right,” Bradley said.
“But this doesn’t have to end here. We can keep going.”
“Meaning the universe aligned to put us together,” George said. “I don’t know why, but it did. We should get together in person.”
“You want to come to New York and meet up?”
“Or you could come here. I’ve got it.” Excitement returned to the writer’s voice. “How about we meet the people in the booth? My wife and I are regulars at the diner. We’ve seen those people there before. Wouldn’t that blow your mind? Boothby could meet the Boothbys.”
Bradley pondered such a meeting. “I think it would blow your mind more than it would blow mine. They’re just regular people to me.”
“You’re sort of connected to them. Think it over. It would be a shame to end things with this phone call.”
Bradley said he would consider the idea, then he hung up and told Danielle about George’s invitation. She didn’t share the writer’s thrill about meeting strangers who happened to be eating in the booth behind George Foulkes and his wife on a particular night. Kansas City, Missouri wasn’t a subway ride from Brooklyn.
I dipped my toe into the audiobook world by narrating four poems from my book The Dancing Fish.
This is something I’ve wanted to try and see how it goes. A different way of experiencing the poems. At first recording (using my cell phone), I sounded dorky and stilted. Then practice, practice, practice. Until I sounded more natural. And narrating became more fun as I relaxed more.
The four poems that I read on the video are:
“The Dancing Fish”
“Quirky Miss Q”
“Xob of Chocolates”
If you’d rather see the video on YouTube, click here. If you watch it, please remember that I’m not a professional audiobook narrator 🙂
Here’s a little background about the book: I was inspired by Shel Silverstein’s books to write silly poems in the hopes of causing my two daughters to giggle. They’re now in their late teens, and I’ve put together a book of many of those poems, along with drawings.
And here’s a bit from the book’s blurb:
Buds on a tree grow into popcorn… a cheese danish escapes… Pomegranate Janet visits a city… a pirate captain changes his life… a ghost tries to scare Maya.
These happenings happen in this collection of poems and drawings. If you count the haiku as a group, there are 100 poems in the book. But if you count the haiku individually, there are 106 poems. Most are accompanied by a black-and-white drawing, some in lovely tones of gray.
You could say these poems are for children, but they’re also for adults with youthful sides that come out for recess.
Still not ready to take the plunge and get the book?
Not only are you a snappy dresser, you’re also a discerning shopper when it comes to free merchandise!
Check out samples of some of the poems in the book:
Two story tellers are in this book, as the overall story is told by Barak, who has survived a war. He is haunted by watching his friends die in that war.
In his PTSD, Barak isolates himself in the small village and doesn’t spend much time with the other villagers. He prefers fishing on the river alone and creating wooden carvings alone in his hut. Barak weaves a bitter story in his opinion of the villagers, as he judges them for moving on from the war and putting the memory behind them.
The object of Barak’s harshest judgement is Almaz, the story teller who has come to the village. Stories can have the ability to draw us into their worlds, and Barak dislikes Almaz for doing that to the villagers. Yet Almaz offers to help Barak try to find peace from his war memories.
Sara Kjeldsen has crafted a powerful voice in Barak, and that makes for an interesting story. Because Barak is not a one-speed character. Along with his haunted memories, he enjoys looking at beauty in the natural world around him. And he’s conflicted about what decisions to make.
“All of us are little more than stories ourselves,” Almaz says. And the kind of stories we tell ourselves is important, shaping how we see ourselves and the world. This book is a great example of that.
Many people may not feel the urge to have an outlet that helps them process life’s struggles. Others feel that urge. And some of them use poetry to try to convey the landscape within themselves.
In the first stanza of the first poem (“Anything but Sane”), N.F. Mirza likens herself to a “restless lioness.” A powerful image. And the description comes through the poems in this book, particularly in the restlessness of emotions and thoughts.
Some of these poems are difficult to read — “Celebrating the Curse” describes self-harm behavior. I can only begin to imagine the difficulty of writing them. Not only that, but drawing the portraits in the book. Each section of poems begins with a drawing and a quotation. The drawing for “Anything but Sane” shows a face with wide, expressive eyes — perhaps filled with anxiety.
Through the poems and drawings comes a vulnerability of Ms. Mirza being open about her feelings. And with that vulnerability, a courage of making them available to the public. That courage creates the possibility of readers realizing they are not alone in experiencing similar emotions.
Some poems include contemplations with touching descriptions. Like the poet blending with water in “Ocean and I Become One.” Then her soul sitting on a bench, its back positioned toward the world, in “The Day I Sat by My Soul.” These descriptions are moving. Also, they offer inspirations for having our own contemplations about where we might find a bit of understanding and moments of peace.