Best Books of 2018

I know this title is a bit misleading, but this is the same as I’ve done for the past ten years. These are my favorite books I read in 2018. Most of them were not published in 2018.

Best Literary Fiction:

Less by Andrew Sean Greer

The novel opens with Less as a failed novelist, whose lover of nine years has just invited him to his wedding to a different man. The way Less tries to avoid the wedding is to accept invitations to speak around the world at events no prominent novelist would be caught dead at.

The problems of Less have to do with heartbreak and aging and figuring out what makes a life worth living and being remembered and finding love. These are timeless issues found in great art throughout history.

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

The Name of the Rose isn’t a historical work or pure fiction or a mystery novel or postmodernist metafiction or theology. It draws on a bunch of sources and amalgamates them to a strange hybrid a reader from any of these backgrounds could appreciate on a different level.

Runner up:

The Gunners by Rebecca Kauffman

This was quite good. It’s nothing new or groundbreaking, but it’s a theme well worth revisiting. A life is more than the sum of its parts.

We all feel guiltier than we are. We all think we play a bigger role in other lives than we do. We can never know another self fully. Some things will forever be a mystery, and that’s okay. Secrets almost always cause more problems than you think they will. People are cruel. People are unbelievably kind.

The most interesting aspect was how the novel kept circling back to a few key events from different points of view to reveal more and more.

Best Mystery:

Mystic River by Dennis Lehane

Mystic River has incredible depth to it. The atmosphere of the neighborhood plays a big role. Each of the characters have a history with the others. In the first few pages, we get a horrific scene that carries on thirty years later to create guilt and pain between two of the main characters.

The characters are all deeply flawed, and one of the best parts of the novel is to see how small mistakes can escalate quickly into terrible, life-changing moments through perfectly understandable overreactions.

Best Book on Writing:

The Anatomy of Story by John Truby

I’ve always thought of books like The Story Grid to be the gold standard on macroscopic elements of story. I’ve reconsidered my opinion.

This is the book all people should use in constructing an organic and compelling story. This teaches the essential elements without using a strict formula like other methods that follow the hero’s journey a bit closer.

Truby’s method is the way to go for original construction of a story with a character-centric focus.

Best Sci-Fi:

Remembrance of Earth’s Past (full trilogy) by Liu Cixin

The trilogy is truly an “ideas” book. It’s kind of fascinating how strong the ideas alone were to keep me wanting to read. The plot definitely waned at points and character motivations were weak, but I didn’t really care.

The Three-Body Problem by Liu Cixin is unlike anything I’ve read before. It’s pretty difficult to explain why, because I don’t want to spoil anything. Part of the fun of this trilogy is that there are M. Night Shyamalan type twists (things that make you rethink everything that happened before and make it all make sense).

When these types of plot twists happen once at the end of a book or movie, it feels like a cheap gimmick and can be off-putting. When they happened dozens of times across this book trilogy, they left me in awe of the structure of the narrative.

You’ll think you’ve finally got a grasp on things near the end of Book 2, and then you learn that you had no idea what was really going on. Like I said, there are dozens of these, and each time you think it can’t happen again, it somehow does.

I can’t recommend this trilogy enough if you’re into hard sci-fi.

Best Fantasy:

Deadhouse Gates by Steven Erikson

This is a tough one. There were times I couldn’t put it down; there were times I couldn’t pick it up.

Overall, Erikson is one of the best writers I’ve ever read. This universe is richly detailed, the characters well-drawn, and so much about it is completely original (none of the standard copying Tolkien but then change a few things to pretend like you didn’t).

The best novels take effort to read, but this has so many characters, many of whom don’t intersect the first book in the series.

But I’ve put it on this list for a reason. I think it’s worth the effort now that I’ve spent several months away from it. I will definitely be reading the third book in the series next year.

Runner up:

The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher

I read at least three in this series this year. They somehow keep getting better. The formula has become a bit predictable: take traditional story monster like zombies or vampires or necromancers or whatever.

Each novel has a different one. Place this in modern-day Chicago. Hilarious chaos ensues.

What makes them so compelling is the premise of a modern-day wizard detective with all the hard-boiled tropes. Magical occurrences cause deaths in the real world. Most people don’t believe the magical part. The tension and fascinating worldbuilding Butcher creates to keep this alive is great.

They are also genuinely funny with recurring gags. They are light, fast reads. This makes you want to keep going from one to the next.

Certainly, the first few weren’t great, but all of the ones I read this year deserve a mention on this list.

 

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Year of Required Reading, Part 0

As I said in a previous post, I’m going to make 2019 the “Year of Required Reading.” I want to take books that I was required to read in school and read them again to get a fresh perspective and to evaluate whether I think they are good choices.

I’m posting my list this early so people have time to give some input before I begin. I have some rules for how I’m choosing books. I don’t want to pick something I’ve read in the past ten years.

I’ve gone back to The Great Gatsby, Ethan Frome, A Separate Peace, and many others since school. These won’t make the list.

I also want to put a few “new” books on the list. Many schools have tried to encourage reading with modern YA books. These didn’t exist as required reading back when I was a kid. I’m also curious how these are.

My list so far.

Re-read:

The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck. I decided fear shouldn’t be the reason I avoid a book. And let me tell you, I don’t have good memories of trudging through this as a kid. But I’m optimistic that I’ll appreciate it this time.

To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee. It’s a little embarrassing that I’ve never gone back to this. I’m expecting good things.

The Hunchback of Notre-Dame (Notre-Dame de Paris) – Victor Hugo. Yes, I actually read the full, unabridged version of this book in high school for summer reading. I remember being completely blown away by it. I’d never read anything with such narrative depth and tragedy. It changed how I thought about books. And yet, I never re-read it for some reason.

Newfangled stuff:

Speak – Laurie Halse Anderson. I can’t actually tell if this is “high school” level or lower, but I found this to be the most common contemporary book on the lists I looked up.

Looking for Alaska – John Green. I’m not sure there’s a more famous YA author out there right now. Let’s judge this! (Sorry, I promise to keep an open mind.)

Monster – Walter Dean Myers. This one is on here for me. It sounds seriously dark. It’s one of the only contemporary books on these lists that I found appealing based on the premise.

And that’s it so far. I only plan on probably one more in each category.

My knowledge of Shakespeare is quite weak. I’m tempted to add one of his plays. Let me know what you think. There’s still plenty of time to change any of these and add stuff.

Previous years:

Year of Giant Novels (2016)

Year of Short Fiction (2017)

Year of Mystery Novels (2018)

Year of Giant Novels Part 8: The Eye of the World

This is probably my last giant novel for the year. I really wanted to do something complicated and serious like Gaddis’ JR, but it was getting kind of annoying to find a reasonable copy. Anyway, I already covered the epic fantasy giant novel, so this will cover a lot of the same stuff.

I think I read at least part of Robert Jordan’s The Eye of the World around fifteen years ago, but I recalled none of it at the time of starting it this time. I’ll tread lightly, because I know a lot of people really love this series, and despite how this post comes across, I didn’t hate the book.

I’d probably never recommend it, but I don’t regret reading it. There were a lot of “problems,” but none were major. I’m going to tear into the details, because that’s how we discover what works in our own styles. That’s how we get better at writing. But these are mostly style things, and if I had read the book shifted by six months either direction, I might not have seen these as problems.

The structure of the novel is pretty simple. The main character’s village is attacked. This causes a group of people to be on the run from these enemies. They stop at villages on the way, and inevitably something always comes up to force them to run again. Travel – village – travel – village – etc.

On the one hand, it’s a clear Hero’s Journey narrative, but it’s also a travel narrative. These are both perfectly fine choices in general, but something was off in the execution. It took me a long time to figure it out. It lacked direction and positive motivation.

In the Hero’s Journey, the hero is called to action to go defeat the evil. There is motivation. We understand his/her progress in terms of this motivation. I didn’t see any of this in TEOTW. The hero was never called to action. In fact, it isn’t even clear who the hero is, because the bad guy can’t seem to figure out which is the chosen one.

All the heroes do is run away. This is negative motivation. They continually thwart the bad guys from achieving their goals, but they don’t seem to have independent goals of their own. This means the reader has no idea if they’re making progress.

Ah. I hear the retort already. The sense of progress in a travel narrative is if they’re getting closer to their destination. This also fails. Where are they headed? I have no idea. I don’t think I missed this, but it’s entirely possible I did.

At one point, I thought their goal was maybe Tar Valon so Egwene could start her Aes Sedai training, but then they arrived at Caemlyn and I started to think maybe their goal was to get to the false dragon there. As it turns out, neither of there end up being their destination, and it’s not clear to me the characters even knew where they were headed.

This might seem like nitpicking, but without goals or positive motivation, I found the story stagnant. I had a hard time picking the book up to keep reading. If the goal was to defeat the main villain, this could have been more clear. The main villain doesn’t even appear until the last 50 pages (out of 800+). It came out of nowhere. I sort of assumed he would remain this mysterious background force for the next 10 books in the series.

My next complaint has to do with stakes. I never felt like the characters were in any real danger. This has to do with how the book opens. The Aes Sedai easily handles the Trolloc attack on the village single handed. So later, no matter how many times she says they are in danger, it’s hard to take her seriously. I kept thinking: Eh, if it came down to it, she could use those same powers to save them again. Actions speak louder than words.

This is one of those things that’s mostly a product of its time. Fantasy has been worked out and studied a lot since 1990. Writers now know that it’s more important for the reader to understand the limitations than the power of the magic system. Also, instead of continuing to be chased by Trollocs for 75% of the book, throwing something in to raise the stakes would have added the uncertainty needed for a real threat.

There are a lot of “obligatory” scenes that would have helped out here. There’s a reason Gandalf “dies” in The Lord of the Rings. The stakes get raised when the most powerful person can’t keep bailing you out. There’s also the “hero at the mercy of the villain” scene where the reader must fully believe it’s all over. The villain could end it all with no problem. The hero narrowly escapes due to a surprising (yet believable) ingenuity.

Those are the two main flaws of the book: lack of positive motivation and the stakes didn’t continually rise to create tension. As with most giant novels I’ve read this year, I think it’s too long. Trimming this by 10% might remove both of these problems. When a book feels stagnant, increasing the pace by trimming the length can do a lot to help.

The real test is if I’ll keep reading the series. I think I’ll at least give the second book a chance, because I have no idea how it will continue from here.

Year of Giant Novels, Part 3: Moby-Dick

I went in to Moby-Dick with very few preconceptions. The only thing I had heard about it was that there is some chapter on cetology, and everyone finds it too tedious to keep reading. I think this is a poor excuse, because it doesn’t occur until Chapter 32 and it isn’t that long.

Since I’ve been focusing on description on this blog recently, I thought I’d give a particularly interesting description. Early on, we get this description of a painting:

On one side hung a very large oil-painting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal cross-lights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbhours, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavoured to delineate chaos betwiched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

The description actually continues after this. It is quite wordy, but much of this can be attributed to an older style. One of the joys of reading this novel is to revel in how inventive the descriptions are. Melville could have described every detail of this painting, giving us a perfect image of it in our minds.

Instead, we get this nebulous, vague sense. We have to imagine a painting for which an ambitious artist tries to capture chaos. This contributes much more toward the unsettling feeling we’re supposed to have of the place than if we had some clear idea. The description also does a good job of having more than one purpose. It incorporates some of the surroundings: “unequal cross-lights” and “little window towards the back of the entry.”

The painting has an ominous whale figure in it, and so it serves a deeper function than pure ambiance. It is a foreshadowing of the chaos that is to come. It sets the mood for whaling.

I’m only about half-way through the novel so far, but here’s my general impression. In some senses, it’s not as hard as I thought. The language is dense and there are tangents, but the first half has a lot of good suspense and the story is never lost for long.

In other senses, it’s harder than I thought. I have to be in the right mood to enjoy it. I have to have a particular attitude and willingness to go along with it. This is different than most novels. If you like to read, you probably can pick up almost anything at almost any time and enjoy it.

This novel must be embraced for what it is. If you’re going to get annoyed at reading detailed categorizations of whales, you can’t pick it up (or you have to skip those parts). But if you embrace it, even these sections are enjoyable.

All these sections taken together contribute to a full immersion into the culture of New England whaling in the 1800’s. There’s newspaper clippings, poems, songs, paintings, personas, textbook-style cetology, historical bits, sermons, etc. These are all woven beautifully into the story itself. It’s really brilliant and fun when you are willing to go with it but feels impenetrable when not in the mood.

I think anyone interested in writing should read this novel, because it is written with such magnificent style (unlike Don Quixote where understanding its historical significance is more important than actually reading it). Melville is a master at sliding between registers: from high lyricism to gruff whaler dialect. If you only stick to modern novels, you’ll never encounter brilliant passages like:

There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gentle rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever.

I’ve read this passage twenty times in the writing and editing of this post, and it never ceases to amaze me with its beauty. This type of thing could never get published today, even in obscure literary fiction (actually, maybe Mark Helprin comes close). Anyway, I definitely recommend this one, which surprises me. I expected it to be a terrible experience.

P.S. Most of you probably wouldn’t notice if I didn’t point it out, but I’m switching to Friday posts after over a year of doing Wednesdays.

The Second Section of Purity as Franzen’s “Westward the Course of Empire Takes Its Way”

That title is quite the mouthful. Here’s what it means. A year and a half ago I wrote a post explaining how David Foster Wallace’s short story/novella “Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way” was a parody of Barth’s “Lost in the Funhouse” in order to describe his philosophy of literature. What I want to write here is an interpretation of Franzen’s second section of his latest book, Purity, arguing that this describes Franzen’s philosophy of literature.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any significant amount of time, you probably know I subscribe to the idea of valid interpretations of literature. If we consider any well-supported interpretation as valid, then all interpretations are valid making all interpretation meaningless. So I want to give some background context before I start in order to make my case stronger. I really believe this was Franzen’s intent with the section.

Franzen has been describing his philosophy for quite some time in essays and interviews (see this article for more background on this). I’ve either become more aware of it or he has become more vocal or a shift has occurred. In any case, his views seem mostly in line with what DFW described in “Westward” which had to do with love, the relationship between writer and reader, and how to build that relationship. As far as I can tell, he’s never actually included this philosophy in his fiction like DFW did with “Westward.” This makes it plausible that the time has come for such an undertaking.

One of the key points is the similarity in material from Barth and DFW for this section. The most common interpretation of “Lost in the Funhouse” is that the funhouse is about Ambrose’s first sexual encounter. The second section of Purity is framed around various sexual experiences of youths be they lusftful, loving, abusive, and so on. If not taken as metaphor, the whole section comes across as strange and out of place. The wording and detail provided seem excessive and unnecessary as backstory (presumably most readers will read it that way). As metaphor, all these details make sense and certain bizarrely specific sentences point to the interpretation I’m going to give.

Lastly, the section is titled “Republic of Bad Taste.” One learns in the section what this refers to, but as a primer to the section it seems to indicate that the section is about taste, bad taste, and maybe what would make good taste. In other words, the section as metaphor for literature itself. I understand that each of the pieces of context are weak in and of themselves, but I think taken as a whole along with how tight this interpretation is gives sufficient evidence for this as an intended interpretation.

Warning: The content below contains minor spoilers. It will not cover beyond the second section, so if you are planning on reading the book, no major plot points are revealed that aren’t alluded to in the inside flap description. Also, this content is NSFW due to sexually explicit material.

For those who haven’t read the novel, we need a starting point. Here’s a synopsis of the section. Andreas lives in Stasi controlled Germany (probably East Berlin, I can’t recall if this was specified). His father is a somewhat high ranking Stasi officer. His mother sleeps around and Andreas finds out someone else might be his father. He writes subversive poetry which shames his parents, and he breaks off relations. He goes and lives in a church and runs sessions to help at-risk youth. He sleeps with tons of them (none underage). Here he meets Annagret. She tells him about being abused in the past, and he falls in love with her. They carry out the murder of the abuser and then separate for years to not get caught.

First, there is a clear “Anxiety of Influence” dynamic established with the parents. Andreas’s mother and father exert great influence over him, yet he wants to do his own thing. He also meets a person who claims to be his real father. Andreas tries to deny this out of embarrassment, but deep down he knows it’s true. Within this interpretation, we should read this as when someone points out influences in your writing you aren’t proud of.

The other main idea presented in the section is of what art is for. Andreas as a child drew pictures of naked women to masturbate to. This couldn’t be less subtle. He literally creates masturbatory drawings; a way to say we all go through a youthful phase where we only create art for our own pleasure.

Most current aesthetic theory shuns this form of creation. As with DFW, the post-modernists like Barth provided useful fodder, but ultimately got it wrong. The language games of these writers were neat, but didn’t connect with people. Franzen even has his character Andreas write a poem, “Muttersprache/Mother Tongue,” which is a language game itself about influence.

Franzen’s character states this frankly as, “I’m worried there’s something wrong with me. All I want to do is masturbate.” The reply he gets suggests that we are to view this type of art as immature and all great artists eventually grow out of it: “You’re only fifteen. That’s very young to be having sex with another person.” This whole exchange makes very little sense as a defining moment of backstory, but framed in this interpretation as a metaphor for artistic creation, it comes across as necessary to drive the point home.

Andreas then tries to strike out on his own and leave his influences behind. The feeling is so strong, he wants to kill his parents. “It didn’t speak well of his sanity that he actually had to squelch the impulse to run after her and kill her with whatever came to hand.”

He finally evolves into a better person when he meets Annagret. He falls in love with her as she tells him a story that he can intimately identify with. This brings us exactly to DFW’s idea that literature is important because it teaches us we are not alone. Just as Andreas hears a story familiar to his own experiences which causes him to fall in love with the author, we are to read Purity and find traces of our own weird and terrible lives that bring us comfort and fall in love with the author.

Annagret is under the control of her abuser, and Andreas decides to free her by killing him. This is like the author/reader relationship that DFW idealized. After the deed is done, Andreas admits his love for Annagret and she replies, “I barely even know you.” Well of course! We as readers are Andreas who have fallen in love with Franzen/Annagret who is telling the story. We may feel something, but he certainly doesn’t know us.

In a moment where the metaphor goes so far that I have to wonder how anyone could overlook it, Andreas has to bury the body while it is raining outside. This makes the ground wet, and he keeps leaving his footprints all over the muddy ground. To put it as a blunt cliché, he leaves his footprints all over the work he is doing for her.

The author/reader relationship is summarized in another line that must seem strange if the story is read as realistic, but fits perfectly into this interpretation. “He had a confusing twinned sense of her closeness and complete otherness. Together they’d killed a man, but she had her own thoughts, her own motives, so close to him and yet so separate.” This is exactly how great literature works. You feel close to the characters and author, yet you remain completely separate.

[Sorry if there are more typos than normal. I had a teething puppy nipping at me while editing.]

Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye Reviewed

I’ve heard such good things about Atwood for years, but never managed to get around to reading one of her novels. I mostly do my reviews on Goodreads these days, but this being one of the best novels I’ve read this year made me want to devote a blog post to it.

Cat’s Eye uses a non-traditional narrative structure which suits the novel perfectly. It does one chapter of “present” time and three or four chapters of “past” time between (I never counted to see if this was consistent). The whole thing is in present-tense though. The effect is powerful. The disproportional pacing allows Elaine’s (the main character) entire life to play out and catch up to the story.

The childhood scenes are done particularly well. Atwood focuses on the harshness and cruelty ever-present in childhood relationships. Many other people say she got girl relationships right, but I think everyone will recognize a bit of truth to the situations she portrays. It is a refreshing take on a coming of age story that often idealizes the innocence of youth beyond recognition.

The present story line is about Elaine coming to terms with a gallery doing a retrospective on her art. The interplay between the past and present is fascinating, because it highlights interpretive issues I’ve written a lot about. You get to see the scenes that her paintings are inspired by and the people she painted to appreciate how out-of-touch many people’s interpretations are. It also delves into the psychological issues that arise from other people criticizing your art (maybe Atwood drew upon experience here?).

Some of the most poignant misinterpretations have to do with her work being attached to feminism. Although the main character can probably be considered a feminist, her work was not meant to have much to say about it. She has a mature and complicated understanding of the label, and many of the people writing about her work want simple headline grabbing messages. It rings truer today than back in 1988 when it was published, because you see in these people the early form of click-bait articles that devalue their movement’s message.

It hits upon these complicated and less common themes as well as ones as old as literature itself. These include the value of friendship and solitude; what makes a meaningful life; and the anxiety of getting older. These more universal themes are uncovered with remarkable depth and subtlety, and the answers/questions the book points to might surprise you.

I would highly recommend the novel. I always thought of Atwood as a genre or sci-fi author (not that those can’t be excellent as well; my other favorite book this year so far is Hyperion). This novel is literary fiction at its finest.

Best Books Halfway Through 2015

It’s halfway through the year, so it’s time to update you on the best stuff I’ve been reading. This year I’m doing the Goodreads reading challenge and trying to read 50 books. I’m on pace so far, but there’s a lot of time to mess it up. As usual, this is not a “best books that came out in 2015” list (I’ve only read four or so books from this year). This is a list of the best books I’ve read this year.

In no particular order:

Philip Roth’s American Pastoral. You can see some thoughts I had on it back here.

Dan Simmon’s Hyperion and The Fall of Hyperion.

Hyperion cannot easily be described. It pulls together several sci-fi elements that made me skeptical at first. Anything that deals with time manipulation, particularly time moving backwards, usually makes me groan. This cleverly makes it work.

The mystery is brought up early, and the narration is done through a sequence of stories. Each story hints at different pieces, but are wildly different in tone, style, time frame, and reference point. Each story is excellent in its own right. Together they form a beautiful non-traditional narrative.

Simmons is not only a master at suspense and mystery, but proves he can create a timeless work of art that still feels fresh and original 25 years later.

I was a little concerned when The Fall of Hyperion felt so different. Simmons is amazing with non-traditional point-of-view. He seamlessly works in a way to have both first person and third person (the first person character dreams the story of other characters in third person). It is quite a brilliant trick.

The story is just as gripping and page turning as the first. It gets weirder but in a good way. The sci-fi elements still feel fresh, unlike many novels from 1990. This is turning into one of my favorite sci-fi series, though I’m definitely concerned about continuing. This second book has a clear ending.

Ethan Canin’s Carry Me Across the Water.

This novel has exquisite pacing. It is very short, but spans three generations and never feels too quick. Each of the threads builds into a tragic, inevitable ending. The built suspense is perfectly executed.

I had serious doubts at first that this could work, because I spent the first third grappling with who was who and how they were related. It is a lot to take in, but by the half-way point, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

I liked For Kings and Planets, because it asked the big questions. It showed how others dealt with those questions and the consequences of being flawed in answering them. This was the opposite. I liked it because each character had something familiar, but the novel as a whole remained focused on specific, non-universal questions worth pondering. This is a beautifully written and compelling story.

Ann-Marie MacDonald’s Adult Onset.

Adult Onset is a modern return to a novel form that has been relegated to history: the character study. You’ll find reviews that complain about “too much detail” or “nothing happens” or “slow” or other such nonsense.

This is a result of the age we live in. Everyone wants instant gratification. The plot has to move at this pace, in this way, with cliffhangers here and here, with a perfect Freytag pyramid structure, and on and on just so the reader can coast along with minimal effort.

Sorry to disappoint, but this book causes you frustration for a reason. It is an in-depth study of a single character through a few days of her life. Despite the focus, we end up getting a huge backstory masterfully woven into description.

The book stays highly focused on getting to the bottom of a character flaw. We all desperately want neat and tidy explanations for our psychology, yet we rarely get them. It is human nature, and it is explored with touching humanity here.

As outsiders, we want to shout at the character that sometimes life is messy. Stop trying to make it something it isn’t. Yet we can look to our own lives and find ourselves behaving just as the main character. This is the essence of a great character study.

The excessive description people complain about is done for a reason. The main character feels trapped in tedium. The description emulates these emotions by making the reader feel claustrophobic. You can sense every tiny moment of your day fill up with this stuff, and you want to escape to a moment of personal agency.

Welcome to the main character’s life. If you want plot, go read The Da Vinci Code. If you want art, you’ll find it here.

The worst book I’ve read this year has been Nell Zink’s Mislaid. This book is such a strangely overrated novel. We’ve somehow put ourselves in an emperor-has-no-clothes situation. This woman writes novels in a matter of weeks and then goes on to publish without really editing (according to her own interviews).

The effect is bad writing, but it is so different from the excellent, polished writing we are used to that people praise it for its quirkiness. It’s not. It’s just bad, and there aren’t enough people speaking out against this. This has to do with being bad for their careers to go against what many famous people are saying. Or maybe the groupthink is so strong they really believe it is good. Both scenarios represent a failure in the upper echelons of book reviewers.