24 Hour Library

A Library Blog by Abby Hargreaves

Tag: reviews (page 1 of 11)

Abby Reads: The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton

The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton
Viking Press, 1967, 192 pages
Young Adult Fiction

As one of the local greasers, Ponyboy Curtis finds trouble with the privileged Socs often enough. After befriending a soc name Cherry Valance, things come to a head. Cherry’s group isn’t so keen on Ponyboy and the others spending time with her, so they attack Ponyboy and Johnny viciously. When this Image result for the outsiders hintonevent becomes bigger than Ponyboy could have anticipated, everything spins out of control and nothing will ever be the same in S. E. Hinton’s young adult classic The Outsiders.

If you didn’t already know, Hinton wrote The Outsiders when she was fifteen. The book was published when she was eighteen. This is especially impressive when evaluating the book critically. Structurally and thematically, The Outsiders is a mature and nuanced look at things like cycles and privilege. The way Hinton ties the ending of the novel to the beginning may seem overused at first glance, but the grace with which she handles the transition is excellent. Even as the final pages started rolling by and I realized what Hinton was going to do structurally, I worried — but there was no need. Despite the trope she uses, it feels entirely fresh thanks to adept handling.

Meanwhile, themes of the novel are clear but not heavy-handed. Issues of privilege, albeit with minimal intersection (it’s of its time and so on — there is a Native American slur used and the plights of the characters are, at the end of the day, mostly white-people problems), show up in various ways with nuance and great understanding without making the issues too complicated to grasp. All of this is underscored by Ponyboy’s first-person narration, which is delivered in a well-defined voice. As it turns out, the social commentary Hinton lays down is timeless, too. As some supplementary material points out in the Speak edition I read, the terms “greasers” and “socs” may change over the years, but the fundamental concepts behind the groups and their conflict remain.

Part of Ponyboy’s voice is his attention to detail. This sometimes means the plot seems to be moving slowly, but the reality is the plot is simply a more subtle one and not bogged down with side plots. The Outsiders is short, at 192 pages, but a delicious thing to digest with all of Ponyboy’s observations. A few literary allusions, too, help to define Ponyboy as a character and add value to the book as a whole. Though I often find literary allusions to be on the cheap side, Hinton once again surprised me here.

I don’t think I believe in perfect books, and there were a few moments of The Outsiders where dialog or phrasing was awkward. The single side plot of Sodapop and his relationship with a girl named Sandy certainly had symbolic significance, but I could have done without so much of it. But The Outsiders has stood strong for fifty years for a reason. It’s a strong example of structure and theme woven well together without being an intimidating piece of capital-L Literature and I’m not surprised it’s been used in schools for years.

❤❤❤💔 out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Difficult Women by Roxane Gay

Difficult Women by Roxane Gay
Grove Press, 2017, 272 pages
Short Stories

Famed feminist writer Roxane Gay collects several short stories in Difficult Women. From a woman who is essentially married to twins to sisters who suffered sexual abuse at the hands of a stranger for a period of weeks during their childhood, these stories explore primarily women and their Image result for difficult women roxane gayrelationships with the men in their lives.

This is the first work of Gay’s that I’ve encountered. My expectations were pretty high: plenty of people have recommended and buzzed about the collection and Gay has a reputation for being an excellent writer with a strong feminist angle. While short stories are not usually my thing — I find it hard to invest in plot and characters in such a short period — this collection was especially challenging.

Though each story tells of different women, the collection ends up feeling incredibly repetitive. At the heart of each story is this message, at least based on my reading: sex with men means bad things for women and in order for a woman to enjoy sex, it must be painful or punishing for her. Perhaps this is what Gay wished to get across. Based on her history of feminism, I somehow doubt it, or else I am misunderstanding how this depiction of heterosexual relationships is feminist. Or, perhaps Gay was purposefully anti-feminist in this collection. I’m not sure. Regardless, I was troubled by the depictions at all, but especially troubled by the fact that this was the same story again and again.

Most of the women in Gay’s stories seem to be thin, light-skinned (if not white) women. This gives me pause only in that she perhaps uses sex as the forced circumstances of life for white women and it becomes a metaphor for living as a black woman in America. The women in these stories abuse themselves either directly or through asking or allowing others to abuse them in various ways, often for things that are out of their own control. Is this a comment on life as a black woman in America? The constant barrage of abuse in one form or another, certainly undeserved, that they face? This is the only thing I can think of that makes any sense.

Beyond the content of the stories, I was disappointed in the prose and writing style, which often felt forced. Gay frequently refers to venison and hunting — perhaps this is something highly present in her own life, perhaps she’s drawing another metaphor here — which felt like overkill. And in many instances, I felt the story ended just where it was getting started, and not in the way many authors want.

While I mostly enjoyed one story titled “The Sacrifice of Darkness” — and it was a science fiction story, so perhaps that makes the difference for me with her — Difficult Women was a total letdown for me otherwise. Where I expected to read about a huge variety of women being difficult against others, I got the world being hard on mostly thin, white, heterosexual, cisgender women. Maybe I’m missing something here, but Difficult Women wasn’t for me.

I read this book as part of Book Riot’s 2017 Read Harder Challenge, fulfilling challenge #22, “Read a collection of short stories by a woman,” and I leave it behind with one-and-a-half hearts.

❤💔 out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: The Year of Reading Dangerously: How Fifty Great Books (and Two Not-So-Great Ones) Saved My Life by Andy Miller

The Year of Reading Dangerously: How Fifty Great Books (and Two Not-So-Great Ones) Saved My Life by Andy Miller
Harper Perenniel, 2014, 352 pages
Nonfiction

When he realized he had effectively stopped reading for pleasure, Andy Miller knew he had to do something about it. He began a short list of novels he’d always wanted to read, from classics to popular fiction, and started in on it. Before long, he’d caught the reading bug again and added to his list, deeming it 20910034the List of Betterment. In The Year of Reading Dangerously: How Fifty Great Books (and Two Not-So-Great Ones) Saved My Life, Andy Miller discusses his journey through literature, espousing his feelings on classics such as Moby Dick and War and Peace alongside his disdain for The Da Vinci Code and Middlemarch.

The Year of Reading Dangerously is, sadly, poorly titled. Miller’s stories about books are hardly tales of how they saved his life and he refrains from visiting each of the fifty-two books promised in the title. While the discussion of how Miller came to read the books featured is engaging enough, Miller doesn’t deliver on the title, if that’s what you’re looking for.

But moving on. In terms of the actual content of the book, it’s decidedly British. Full of dry humor, Miller’s anecdotes are sometimes self-deprecating, sometimes depreciative of the material he reads. That he’s able to maintain the humor throughout the book — which is fairly lengthy, given how he chooses to go about the topic — is impressive. Both in-text and in footnotes, Miller injects dry, and often sarcastic humor throughout, both at his own expense and at the expense of the books he reads. While I’m not one to usually pick up on humor in books — to give you a sense of how bad it is, I really didn’t get The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy — it was well-placed and written here, allowing even me to laugh at passages.

Speaking of the footnotes, they did become a bit much. Though some of them certainly add to the book as a whole, many of them felt egregious and superfluous. Plus, two chapters themselves felt like footnotes. The first of these is a fan letter to an author Miller admires. He admits in this chapter that, were he the editor of the book, he would cut it. It’s long and rambling and doesn’t seem to connect well with the rest of the material and I have to say I agree that it didn’t belong in this work. Another chapter — the last — is an epilogue about Miller’s relationship with Douglas Adams and his most famous work, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. While the content of this chapter was a lovely tribute to Adams and his novel, it ultimately felt out of place and far more specific than all the other sections of the book.

Overall, reading about books with which you’re already familiar is more fun — at least, this was what I found in The Year of Reading Dangerously. Chapters about books I hadn’t read myself felt tedious and long, as I couldn’t pick up on much of what Miller described. Although he does a decent job at providing what information the reader needs to get through those chapters where they haven’t read that book, there still seems to be something missing that can only be gained by reading the original material.

The Year of Reading Dangerously might not deliver on its title, but it’s a reasonably fun read for book-lovers who will see themselves reflected in Miller’s descriptions of himself, even as he laments the challenges of reading. Though it’s a bit on the long side, it generally reads quickly and might give you some inspiration to pick up a book that’s been hanging over your head for years or avoid ones you thought you’d always want to get your hands on.

❤❤❤ out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Tears We Cannot Stop: A Sermon to White America by Michael Eric Dyson

Tears We Cannot Stop: A Sermon to White America by Michael Eric Dyson
St. Martin’s Press, 2017, 240 pages
Nonfiction

Michael Eric Dyson’s Tears We Cannot Stop: A Sermon to White America takes a decided stance on racism in America in 2017, particularly within the context of the election of Donald J. Trump as President of the United States of America in the 2016 presidential election. Drawing from personal experience, 31421117anecdotal research, and data, Dyson illustrates the situation of the black man in America with poise, empathy, and clarity. Written as sections of a sermon, the book is directed at white readers but offers a great deal of material for American citizens and, indeed, beyond.

With regular references to the reader (often, “beloved,” as you might expect in church), Dyson effectively draws the reader in prior to beginning his argument for better treatment of African Americans. Much like officials including Trump’s name frequently in reports meant for his consumption in order to maintain his attention, Dyson’s frequent addresses to the reader does a powerful thing in actively engaging and interacting with the reader who might, without proper empathy instilled, wonder what this has to do with them. To get to the debate of what this has to do with them (assuming the reader does not see the poor treatment of other humans as relevant to their own lives — a reality, to be sure, for many), Dyson must first get the readers on his side. He does this beautifully with these gentle call-outs — calling readers in by name. Beloved. Paired with the history of the word beloved in black culture (think Toni Morrison), this method is hugely impactful to cultivating the reader’s attention.

It is this language, however, that also contributes to a softening of Dyson’s call-out. He is empathetic to a fault, acknowledging directly that confronting racism within yourself and your peers is challenging. At times, Dyson seems to imply that confronting this racism is just as difficult and emotionally traumatic as it is being on the receiving end of racism — whether it’s personal or systemic. He concedes having white guilt is difficult and how white folks in America do have it hard. In doing so, he distracts from the central issue of racism and what people of privilege can and should be doing about it.

In many cases, Dyson’s arguments are strong for those of us who are already on-board. But aside from stating that white folks have it hard as a result of their own racism and using inclusive terms like “beloved,” his arguments are rarely anything new or particularly persuasive for someone who might disagree or is undecided. This is a tough thing to achieve. Certainly those who need convincing are the least likely to pick up the book in the first place, so this may be a misinterpretation of the purpose or target audience of the majority of the book on my part.

That said, the book is highly relevant for modern times. Dyson regularly refers to Trump, Ferguson, and other current events that make the book an immediate call to action. With — well, I don’t know what, luck? Hard work? — with any of whatever it is that we need, we’ll not need this book for too long. And, even more-so, news moves fast. Trump, we’ve seen, moves fast. Tears We Cannot Stop is a static piece of writing that, though perhaps able to be updated in reprints or new editions, will not remain relevant in its current form for long. These are ongoing problems, certainly, but the specificity sometimes takes away from overall goal.

Still, Dyson wraps up his work with an immeasurably useful chapter on real, practical actions readers can take to mitigate the strain of racism. Ranging from tipping people of color extra in their work to reading dozens of more writers on racism in America, these suggestions are some of the strongest I’ve seen in terms of making activism actionable in real people’s lives. Not everyone has the capability to organize a rally, but a good deal more people can effectively choose to patronize establishments owned by black people over white, and thus help even the playing field. The list of writers Dyson offers in terms of further reading is also impressive and helpful, though another format might have made the list more accessible.

Tears We Cannot Stop is readable and interesting, but won’t do much to bring new folks over to Dyson’s side. The actionable items at the end are invaluable and well-organized for those who stick to the end and feel inspired by Dyson’s sermon. As a piece of literature on racism, though it might not lend a lot of new material to the subject, it’s an important one and likely to become part of the canon.

❤❤❤❤ out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Borderline by Mishell Baker

TW: suicide, mental illness

 

Borderline by Mishell Baker
Saga Press, 2016, 400 pages
Urban Fantasy

A twenty-something Los Angeles filmmaker, Millie doesn’t have a lot going for her in the first of the Arcadia Project series, Borderline. Recovering from a severe suicidal episode that cost her her legs, Millie suffers from borderline personality disorder and has, for quite some time, lived in a facility in which 25692886she has access to healthcare professionals. But when a mysterious woman shows up and offers her independence in the form of employment, Millie jumps at the chance. She soon discovers her work will include plenty of detective work as she works to hunt down a missing fey person and work out how his connections are involved with the help of her partner and the rest of those working for the Arcadia Project.

I came into this novel after asking the folks at Book Riot for a recommendation based on the elements of my all-time favorite book, War for the Oaks. I requested something in the urban fantasy vein that had a great female lead, faeries, grittiness, a little urban feel, a stark feeling of realism within the fantasy, and music. Based on those qualifications, Borderline had a pretty strong start. The female lead was interesting and by no means nice, Baker had her own take on faeries, Millie’s reality as a double-amputee and someone with a serious mental health diagnosis was certainly gritty, there was a reasonably strong sense of realism, and, while there was no music, there was a heavy presence of art in the form of movies. After a quarter to a half of the novel, most of those things had fallen away in one way or another from their strong start.

Millie, though originally with a refreshing, biting personality that is often reserved for men in procedural dramas (think Gregory House of House, MD) — to include hypersexuality driven by symptoms of her borderline personality disorder — became a bore after not too long. While it was fun to watch a woman inhabit this character for a while, Millie’s existence as a woman dissolves and the reader might as well be reading about a man. Because her gender felt so specific in the opening, the lack of its influence in the rest of the novel doesn’t fit well. Additionally, while Millie doesn’t need to be likable to be interesting — and I’ll again state that I don’t feel protagonists need to be likable to be worth reading about, nor do they need to be redeemed for a novel to be of value — there’s a strange disconnect in which Millie is often quite socially aware and politically correct, excepting for a few moments, one of which features her having an unkind, racially-charged thought to the detriment of an Asian American character. Her generally harsh personality combined with this propensity to be social-justice conscious seems at odds, and is never quite explained or developed enough to make sense, unless readers suppose it’s some feature of her personal experience with mental illness and stigma.

Grittiness remains throughout with Millie’s challenges as a double-amputee and someone with BPD, but the industrial grittiness I admittedly looked for in comparison to War for the Oaks was mostly absent in the shiny land of Los Angeles. And, I think the form of art featured (again, instead of the cool and dirty rock ‘n’ roll of Oaks) took away from any potential grittiness, especially as film is used as a sort of metaphor for illusions and glamor (a faerie concept, if you’re familiar with the genre, meaning magical visual illusions, primarily). So these things ultimately let me down.

Also frustrating for my tastes was that Borderline sits more comfortably as a detective or mystery novel, much like a procedural show like CSI might. It seems that Borderline is one of these, first, before it is a fantasy novel. This is partly evidenced in that, aside from the heavy procedural and detective influences on the plot, Baker seems to know more about her fantasy world than she lets on. This is somewhat natural, given Millie is new to it and she is the reader’s eyes for the purposes of this story. But the fact remains that Borderline doesn’t quite feel as advertised. Plus, Baker has a new take on faerie lore — fine, maybe, for others, but not for me.

Borderline has a sequel, but it’s not something I feel compelled to read. Though the novel might not be bad, it simply wasn’t what I was looking for and felt miscategorized and poorly marketed based on the dust jacket description and cover image. Baker’s world needed more explanation and less of a detective lean for my tastes.

❤❤💔 out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Dear Ijeawele, Or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Dear Ijeawele, Or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Knopf, 2017, 80 pages
Essays

Drawing from her personal life and what she’s learned as a scholar, popular author and essayist (and famed TEDxTalk speaker) Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie writes a letter to her friend who has newly given birth to a daughter in response to a request on advice in raising a child in a feminist manner. With fifteen short parts, Dear Ijeawele, Or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions offers practical and evidence-based ideas to her friend and the world Image result for dear ijeawelebeyond, using examples from their shared experiences and beyond.

In one of the most succinct introductions to Gender and Women’s Studies I’ve ever encountered, Dear Ijeawele is absolutely a useful text for the novice feminist or pre-feminist. Certainly the collection of essays (most no more than a few paragraphs) lays out the very basics of feminism as it addresses things such as wage inequality between men and women, domestic abuse, gendered clothing, and workplace discrimination among other topics.

Adichie writes in a fashion that is superbly accessible and keeps from getting too into the weeds and thus keeps from scaring off potential new feminists with jargon and assertions which require an understanding of intersectionality and interconnectedness (for example, this is not the book for examining how poverty or a disregard for the environment also contributes to misogyny and vice versa). The unwillingness to dive into the depths of feminist theory — fine, of course, for Adiche’s stated purpose is a basic guide for a friend raising a daughter — does mean, however, that there is nothing new here. Adichie revisits old ideas that might just as well be found in Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, perhaps with the added context of the Internet and other modern influences.

While Dear Ijeawele is one of the most simple feminist texts I’ve encountered, its prose does little to sway those who are not already feminists. And, frankly, if a reader already is a feminist, they won’t find anything here that is new to them. This can only mean, for me, that the work — while concise, simple, easy to read, well-written and organized, and all of that — is somewhat extraneous at the end of the day, and supplementary at best. Though perhaps useful in a classroom setting for an Introduction to Gender and Women’s Studies class, the book has little other use. Those seeking the advice Ijeawele seeks are not likely to see anything in the text they have not already realized for themselves. And while Adichie has a great opportunity here to explore intersectional feminism, she outright rejects it, and states in no uncertain terms that she believes sexism is a bigger problem in the world than is racism. She doesn’t explore the particulars on that opinion, even, so I am unconvinced there as well.

So, truly, Dear Ijeawele is hardly more than an introduction, if that. There’s no doubt Adichie makes important points and feminism is both relevant and crucial in modern times, but Adichie brings nothing new to the table in Dear Ijeawele, opting instead to reissue old favorites. The essays have value as ones that are well-written and as pieces that cover the basics, but there’s no incentive to read this over any other established feminist text. Many readers may well be better off with bell hooks or any other number of canon feminist writers.

❤❤❤ out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Shoeless Joe by W. P. Kinsella

Shoeless Joe by W. P. Kinsella
Houghton Mifflin, 1982, 265 pages
Fantasy

After a bodiless voice tells him to do it, Ray Kinsella turns his farmland into a baseball diamond, where he awaits the appearance of long-dead Shoeless Joe Jackson in W. P. Kinsella’s Shoeless Joe. When Jackson shows up, Ray knows this is not the end of this wild spiritual journey. Instead, he is compelledImage result for shoeless joe wp kinsella to drive from Iowa to New Hampshire in search of the recluse J. D. Salinger, at which point he will take Salinger to a Red Sox game and — well, who knows. Driven by complicated feelings about his upbringing and a desire to be a part of something bigger than himself, Ray travels halfway across the country and finds there’s more to baseball than he ever imagined.

I realize naming a character Ray Kinsella has narrative value in that it’s relevant to the J. D. Salinger connection (read the book for more information on that), but it felt pretty ridiculous reading a novel in which the author shared the main character’s last name. I think most of us can agree that male writers tend to do a lot of self-insertion (and, true, writers of all genders do, but it seems the men deny it to an extra degree), but this felt especially egregious. In any case, the name was distracting, especially as it appeared as a Point again and again.

The danger of putting Ray on a quest for Salinger and him rolling over in his doubts for hundreds of miles of driving is that the story can be monotonous at times. Typically by himself, Ray has little cause for dialog and primarily ruminates on his baseball field, its implications, sometimes his family (both the one he was born into and the one he’s created). He makes sweeping observations about American life and leisure, which can be interesting, if a bit pretentious at times. And, perhaps predictably, Ray falls into the unfortunate state of racism and sexism on occasion. One particular scene troubled me, in which Ray purchases a gun. In an exchange with a gun shop clerk, Ray and the clerk discuss how the neighborhood has changed “if you know what I mean.” Kinsella — both author and narrator — need say no more for modern readers, at least, to pick up on the fact that the reference, here, is to people of color moving into the neighborhood, particularly with the context around this scene. It’s a shame. Although I’m not one to believe a book must eschew racism outright, I do believe it ought to have a purpose if it is going to appear. In this case, the conversation was nothing but filler, rendering it as just a vehicle for racism. In many other scenes, Ray’s focus is on his wife’s body, her little girlishness, his daughter’s similar innocence, and other dehumanizing aspects of the few women present in the story — again, to no real point.

Though these moments might do little to illustrate any consequential character traits (at least insofar as they’re related to the narrative), Kinsella does an otherwise fine job of developing the inhabitants of Shoeless Joe. Both J. D. Salinger and Moonlight Graham are especially good examples of characterization well done. They are complex individuals with motivations and desires, developed to the point of realism. While I don’t know enough about Salinger’s personal life story (beyond the usual facts of reclusiveness and rumors) to imagine this characterization was either well-researched or accurate, it certainly comes across as reasonably real.

Shoeless Joe has been, in my experience, surprisingly overlooked as a piece of good literature. Capital-L Literature, even. The novel is slow-paced, to be sure, and not a whole lot happens. But the prose is delicious to turn over in most passages, and there’s no doubt Kinsella-the-author does a fantastic job at weaving magic and realism into a seamless example of magical realism. None of it seemed so outlandish that it couldn’t be, particularly in the very sacred context of baseball. Like lots of Literature, it does at times seem pretentious and lofty, but it’s the tolerable kind that adds to the story, rather than detracting from it. Even if you’re not a fan of baseball, Shoeless Joe provides another look at the American Dream, wanting to be a part of something bigger than yourself, and the concept of spiritualism — and, it’s worth reading just to compare to the movie adaptation, Field of Dreams.

 

❤❤❤❤ out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Talking as Fast as I Can: From Gilmore Girls to Gilmore Girls by Lauren Graham

Talking as Fast as I Can: From Gilmore Girls to Gilmore Girls by Lauren Graham
Ballantine Books, 2016, 224 pages
Celebrity Memoir

During my latest celebrity memoir kick, I blew through Lauren Graham’s Talking as Fast as I Can: From Gilmore Girls to Gilmore Girls. Graham begins at the start of her life and runs through the events of her childhood to her current life as, at the time of writing, she was in the process of finishing up the Netflix 40411206reboot of Gilmore Girls. A super-fast read at 224 pages, Graham’s memoir is fun and funny, much like readers might expect Graham to be.

Despite, or maybe exactly like, the title depending on how you look at it, Graham’s focus on her work with Gilmore Girls is pretty minimal. Graham discusses how she came to be on the show and a bit of her experience with the first couple of seasons, but her willingness to go into detail falters. Even in writing about her work on the reboot, Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life, Graham avoids a tell-all, which is disappointing, given the marketing and timing of the book, which arrived shortly after the series became available on Netflix and, to my mind, was advertised as something that might be read as a companion to the show with information for the fans.

Interestingly, Graham provides quite a bit of characterization, relatively speaking, of Kelly Bishop who plays  her mother in Gilmore Girls. Meanwhile, Alexis Bledel, who Graham mentions being quite close to throughout filming, makes few appearances and has little in the way of description from Graham. Other co-actors, such as Melissa McCarthy and Yanic Truesdale, like Bledel, are so absent from Graham’s memoir that it makes the reader wonder if their relationships with Graham are so unhappy that Graham avoided telling more to bow to professionalism. If that’s the case, it’s rightly so, but what little Graham does offer suggests perfectly happy working relationships. Where many other celebrity memoirs are willing to share detail on how actors work and play together, Graham is hesitant. And even further, Graham largely avoids talking about the greater atmosphere and the process of making either iteration of Gilmore Girls in favor of describing her personal routines. While these are interesting on their own, it feels like a short sale for folks who are interested in reading specifically about how she works within the context of Gilmore Girls and her own understanding of her character, Lorelai Gilmore, particularly given the book’s subtitle.

Still, readers can enjoy Graham’s sense of humor. She never takes herself too seriously and frequently pokes fun at Hollywood culture and her peers. One particularly funny moment was a crack at celebrities who use ghostwriters, which she insists she has not done for this memoir, providing evidence via the novel she also wrote, Someday, Someday, Maybe — why, she asks, would she write a novel on her own and not this? In further detail about her writing process, Graham lets readers in on an immeasurably helpful tool: the kitchen timer method. Developed by a friend of a friend, the method is adapted from the Pomodoro Technique, which aids in productivity particularly in the craft of writing. Graham lays out all the rules of the method and encourages readers to try it — I tried it myself in a loose form and have already found quite a bit of success with it. Thanks, Lauren!

Graham could use more detail in most of her anecdotes and writing as well as a bit more clarity — though she regularly refers to family members, her family tree isn’t quite fully explained anywhere, which makes some of her stories and the characters in her life unclear. Because of what information she did share, the particulars of these connections felt relevant, and I ended up seeking out her family tree on my own which helped fill in some gaps of understanding and made her narratives altogether more clear.

Like many other celebrity memoirs, Talking as Fast as I Can is fast-paced and easy to read. Graham tells fun stories, but this is by no means an all-out reveal of her life, Gilmore Girls, or her co-stars. Still, Graham is intelligent and funny throughout, even managing to provide some excellent practical advice for readers looking for something a little more.

❤❤❤💔 out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Scrappy Little Nobody by Anna Kendrick

Scrappy Little Nobody by Anna Kendrick
Touchstone, 2016, 304 pages
Celebrity Memoir

You might know Anna Kendrick from Pitch Perfect, or maybe you recall her role in Twilight, or perhaps you were even following her back when she was on Broadway. In 2016, actress and American sweetheart Anna Kendrick put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, more likely) to write her memoir Scrappy Little Nobody. Beginning with her early life growing up in Maine, Kendrick takes her readers through her life so far, up to the 29868610embarrassing culture shock of continuing to have little income despite major award nominations and what it’s like to work with everyone from Kristen Stewart to George Clooney. With surprising insights to her own personality, Kendrick surprises and delights in her first book.

I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent scrolling through Facebook and YouTube watching interviews with Anna Kendrick. Jennifer Lawrence might be considered the queen of relatability by many, but Kendrick seems to take it even a step further with her seeming willingness to be open about her home life and general awkwardness. Her endearing personality, she reveals, is largely misleading, as her memoir describes and demonstrates. Although she often plays the hilarious and awkward introvert in interviews, Kendrick admits this is often an act because it works so well for her. However, is it an act of controlled awkwardness that covers real awkwardness? Kendrick doesn’t say, and this adds an unexpected layer to ponder throughout the work.

Scrappy Little Nobody is fast-paced, despite the amount of time that passes throughout. Though earlier chapters describing her first acting jobs feel heavier than the remainder of the book (the remainder detailing her life once she gets into Hollywood circles, and, let’s be honest, the reason we’re all reading), her insight to working as a child actor and commuting between New York City and Maine provides an interesting look at how a child can both truly want to work as a professional actor and be overwhelmed by the task. Kendrick’s maturity is impressive in these anecdotes, which details an entirely other side many fans aren’t aware of.

It bears mentioning that Kendrick’s recollections of working Twilight are the highlight of the book, if short-lived. Based on Robert Pattinson’s brutally honest discussions of his time on the films, Kendrick might be working extra hard here to maintain professionalism, but what she does reveal is teasing and full of unexpected pieces of information. Again, Kendrick’s descriptions of her work are insightful and thoughtful, injected with doses of humor that make these passages particularly enjoyable.

Missing from her memoir is a full-circle moment. Although Kendrick focuses heavily on her relationship with her brother in earlier chapters — and the title of the book, in fact, is a reference to something he said to her — his presence nearly completely disappears after Kendrick gets to the West Coast. Kendrick is not obligated to divulge anything about her family life, naturally, but the influence her brother had in her childhood and her focus on it makes his lack of presence later feel unnatural. Why include those earlier moments if there’s little to know about the relationship now?

Kendrick provides lots of detail about her childhood and quite a bit about her adult life, but her late teens and early twenties are more glossed-over. This is perhaps little seemed to be happening in her career at this time, but the minimal information here, too, feels unnatural. Perhaps leaving this off is to the book’s benefit, however: fundamentally, Scrappy Little Nobody is a fun and quick read for fans of celebrity memoirs and fans of Anna Kendrick. One of the more insightful and seemingly honest celebrity memoirs I’ve read, this one felt a touch more unique than others and absolutely worth the few hours I took with it.

❤❤❤💔 out of ❤❤❤❤❤

Abby Reads: Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man’s Fundamentals for Delicious Living by Nick Offerman

Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man’s Fundamentals for Delicious Living by Nick Offerman
Dutton, 2013, 352 pages
Essays

Famed for his work on Parks and Recreation, Nick Offerman pulls together his top life advice for readers in his series of essays, Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man’s Fundamentals for Delicious Living. With advice that runs from the religious, to the handiwork, to the legal, Offerman’s writing often veers into Ron 17674991Swanson (his character on Parks and Recreation) territory. If you’re wondering what you’re getting into here, Offerman’s book can be boiled down to a few (mildly profane) words: don’t be an ass.

Pushing against this philosophy, however, is the book itself. Often, despite his protests to the contrary, Offerman comes off as pretentious and holier-than-thou, particularly as he discusses religion. He borders on the idea that those who appreciate religion are inherently stupid. Though he argues against this concept and states he can feel the opposite, given those of faith are not pushing their faith on others, many moments had me rolling my eyes at the hypocrisy. If you’re not a fan of folks like Richard Dawkins, who is known for his vitriol against religion, tread carefully.

Offerman’s attitude doesn’t stop at religion, of course. At times, his essays are nothing more than obnoxious manifesto, as if the book’s entire purpose was to give Offerman a space to let off steam. This might work well for readers who already wholeheartedly agree with Offerman on anything and everything, but Offerman isn’t doing much to persuade anyone here. Unfortunately, the topics Offerman touches on are repetitive. Again and again, it’s anti-religion (in some form) and pro-recreational drug use. While I have no concerns about visiting these topics at all, the constant revisiting made Offerman’s book somewhat hollow and bland.

Because Offerman mixes personal stories with opinion essays, he has a tough job of balancing the two in a way that reads naturally and makes sense. Unfortunately, this throws off the pacing of the book as a whole, making it feel entirely longer and slower than is necessary. Still, despite the title of the book, it ends up being more of a memoir than tips and advice on “delicious living.” And still, still, the instruction that does appear is starkly in the vein of Ron Swanson in many ways. This is further highlighted by a prose style that eerily matches Swanson’s speaking patterns, suggesting Offerman either does a significant amount of improv in his acting work or that he’s otherwise influenced by his most famous work in this book. The prose style, then, is okay — but not great.

Paddle Your Own Canoe was marketed for fans of Ron Swanson — the cover alone makes that abundantly clear; yet Offerman fights against the connection throughout his work while pulling together his thoughts on things in a way that isn’t terribly cohesive and is ultimately tiresome. A few moments of humor pop up and Offerman certainly can go on about this and that, but at the end of it, I felt let down.

❤❤💔 out of ❤❤❤❤❤

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