Gaiman & Grumbling

Awhile ago I posted about how disappointed I was by Neil Gaiman's "American Gods".  I felt rather guilty about reviewing a book that I couldn't get past the first 100 pages of, but having never disliked any of Gaiman's work I felt compelled.  I now probably owe him half an apology.

This has been an odd summer.  The weather never got very warm or fine until about mid-July.  Seriously I didn't even pack away my cashmere cardigans this year.  Then my landlord got pregnant and I had to move house. Then I wasn't sure when I'd have to move house, or when I'd be moving into the new place I found, or how I would be able to coordinate everything.  I will never move house in August or September ever again.


I had to force myself to read it.  I forced myself to read it sitting in a comfortable chair, in the bath, on the sofa, at the table, in bed - as much as possible. And then I came to a realisation.  It wasn't half bad.  It's just what I do for a living has made me kind of hate books.

I kept wondering how it compared to the neater, shorter, award-winning editor's version.  I kept cutting and trying to rewrite sentences in my mind. I couldn't help but to think if the book had been the edited version rather than this long rambling one I would have been able to turn my instinct off.


But of course I still need to move...

Now things won't really quiet down until the New Year, not really, but I think I'm doing the right thing. Trimming down my expenses.  I'm going to force myself to write.  No more waiting for the Muses to show up.

The truth is making myself read American Gods helped me. While I should know that authors need a lot of help between the page and the store shelf, sometimes I'm just so in awe of them that I put them up on a pedestal and fling myself downwards from the highest towers.  How dare I think of myself as worthy to be among them, but in reality, will I ever know my rightful place unless I reach for the stars?

This morning I woke up still swaddled by the fog of a dream. I recently watched Bukowski's interview on the French show Apostrophe, to give you an idea of what the set looked liked.  Jaime Oliver was asking me to list 5 books I wish I'd written.  Unfortunately my dog whacked me in the face with her tail good morning before I could finish my list.

In my dream:

1. William Gaddis' The Recognitions
2. Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude

When I woke up the first three books I thought of that I wish I had written:

3. JRR Tolkien's The Hobbit
4. W. Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge
5. ?

Then I decided that deep down the only book I wish I had written is the ones I have yet to write.

It's a sad thing to pack up my writing stuff.  All my notebooks, my outlines, my stapled and clipped pages of something that turned out to be nothing. My extra old laptop that I write on because I like the keyboard more than the keyboard on the other laptop.  My two typewriters, my framed picture of Victor Hugo, and a hundred books that will have to live in a box because I can't be without them.

I was wondering if I could list these books.  The ones I decided I needed around.  I should list them. Perhaps I will. I do love a good list of books, but be warned, some might not make sense, but no house would be a home without The Chronicles of Narnia to me.