Book Review: The Help

I can't believe this is her debut novel.

Seriously, it's not fair how talented some people are. I'm not saying this book didn't take a lot of work. I'm sure it did. But a best-selling, major-movie-inspiring, phenomenally written debut novel?

I'm jealous. Lurk in her bushes to see if she's actually an alien kind of jealous.

For those of you who haven't read "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett, do yourself a favor: Drop whatever you are doing and go snag yourself a copy (Please note: the author of this blog is not libel for any damaged or broken property or babies).

I think it would be hard to give this book too much praise. It's beautifully written, timelessly poignant, and as heartfelt as it gets. The civil rights era was not that long ago and the big events and major players of this important time in America history have not been forgotten. But this book isn't about the big events. In this story, Mr. Stockett explores the day to day life of average working class southerners with wonderfully well rounded, flawed, sympathetic characters. She shows us the stubbornness and hate that go into full fledged racism living along side the simple ignorance that fuels divisions between race, sex, and class. Nobody is at fault yet everyone is to blame. Ms. Stockett gives voice (using the most effective phonetic writing I've ever seen) to women both black and white, using the differences between them to highlight the similarities. This book is so packed full of tension, flows so well, and is so hard to put down, that I stayed up past 11 pm on a weeknight to finish it (that might not sound like a big deal but you can ask my wife, nothing short than the hand of god will keep me out of bed most nights).


I look forward to and dread seeing the movie. I just hope they didn't screw it up too much.

Unlikely Inspiration: The Bottom of the Barrel

I have read some amazing books in my life. Tolkien, Rowling, Herbert, McCaffery, Rawn, and Asimov have fueled my love of fantasy and science fiction. Old classics like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and new classics like The Art of Racing in the Rain and The Kite Runner have left me spellbound and hungering for more. There are so many great books and talented writers in this world and I will never have enough time to read everything that I want to.

But I have a confession: Great writing and great writers are not what first inspired me to write.  

Great books inspire me to read.

What first inspired me to write was an urban-fantasy paperback I bought at a used book store. I actually don't remember book's title or author (20 minute google searching didn't help) and I guess it really doesn't matter. The story line was disjointed, the characters were shallow, and the climax frustratingly ridiculous (some previously un-introduced character shows up and whisks the distressed main character away to another dimension). In short, it was the worst book I've ever read.

BUT I DID READ IT.

Not only did I read it but since I bought it at a used bookstore, presumably at least one other person also read it. The fact that this book had not only been published but actually purchased and read by at least 2 people completely blew my mind. I'm not trying to be negative or judgmental but the simple fact of the matter is that when I read that book I said to myself, "I can do better than this. If this book can get published and read, then I can get published and read."

I started writing shortly thereafter. It turns out that I love to write and that it's something I hope to do the rest of my life. And I owe that initial push that inspired me to a book that I hated.

What's my point?

It doesn't matter what inspires you as long as your inspired. Take your motivation in any form it may come it. Welcome it. Use it. Build on it.

And get writing!

Book Review: The Death of Vishnu: A Novel, by Manil Suri

The book is centered on a small group of people, one of which, a drunkard named Vishnu, is dying. Weaving its way in and out of the lives of those that live, love, and die within it, the story takes place almost exclusively in a single apartment building in Mumbai, India. It's a book that lacks a variety of settings, or even a defined plot for that matter. What it does have are snapshots. Snapshots of each character that give you a brief glimpse into their present; and with each snapshot a caption in the form of memories from the past that give the stories and characters feeling, depth, and meaning. As the reader you are shown the paths the characters have walked and then are allowed to briefly walk beside them. As you do you can see the path ahead split into all the different, interweaving tracks each character could take. Good stories, after all, are about character development. But in this good story, these good stories, the characters stay on their respective paths, not for a lack of story, but because that's what people do. You think that because the headstrong young woman gets a taste of the real world, perhaps she will shed some of her naivety. You hope that since they have let a man die on their doorsteps, the neighbors might abandon their pettiness. As you read you try to will the characters to a different, higher path; but that's not how life works. And that's what this book is, a book about life, snapshots about life, capturing only a few moments in time. But like the Hindu mythology that permeates the lives of the characters, their stories don't end just because the book does. The various story lines, all woven together, don't tie off neatly in the end. Rather than leaving you feeling empty and frustrated, like some books which a lack a clear resolution, you accept that there is no end. As in reincarnation, the end only represents a link in the infinite chain of creation. So it is with this book.