This post started with The Cursing Mommy’s Book of Days. Every time I sit down to read the book, I’m inspired to write a post the way she does (including, but not limited to, speaking of myself in the third preson). The book is structured as a series of blog posts, and she posts every day that she’s not throwing a party for her husband’s shady boss and then subsequently trying to forget how much she drank and cursed said boss. She begins with her daily situation, talks about her ideals, and then descends into all-caps cursing, followed by blaming George Bush or his minions for everything. I have never wanted to turn Fangs and Clause into a book, but if I did, it would look like this one.
Still Points North is scene, scene, scene. As such, I am madly jealous. Newman goes back and forth from a tough “dig that fish hook out of your eye yourself, kid, when I was your age, I was fighting off grizzlies single handedly” Alaska childhood to a “which fork do you use when eating a crabcake?” Baltimore upbringing. I love it.
The Reenactments. It isn’t just that I want my memoir made into a movie (starring Sarah Silverman or Claudia Black, please), it’s that Nick Flynn goes fluidly from movie to fact to implication. Freaking poets.
Wild. Goes without saying. Next!
Tracy K. Smith, in Life on Mars, writes about her engineer father and pop culture and Mars in a way that would make you cry. Fine, it made me cry. She is that good.
The Faraway Nearby. Fairy tales, mothers, fruit, illness, metaphor, and a trip to Iceland. (And to the realists out there: the author was given a trip to Iceland to write and she was a little bit miserable and felt terrible about it.)
I’m sure there were others, but I have a terrible memory and I spent six hours in a car yesterday. I survived Christmas; did you?