In Watermelon Sugar

In Watermelon Sugar by Richard Brautigan (1968) I was a big fan of Richard Brautigan because I discovered some of his books when I was in high school, including some volumes of poetry. I don’t remember loving this short novel, but I read it—going back to it now, it seems pretty uninteresting in itself—a meandering story of what sounds like people living in some alternative reality—nothing too shocking or disturbing. Actually, what I do like about it is the mundane quality and the very subtle humor. There was something about the sun, in this place, shining in different colors—I liked that, but can’t find it specifically, paging through. A lot about a place called iDEATH—which is no doubt from where Apple stole the names for their dumb products. There is inBOIL and “that gang of his.” The Forgotten Works and the Watermelon Works, etc. The weirder the details are, the less interesting to me. What I like is the goofiness, the humor, and the everyday details, like people being tired of when the guy cooks who only cooks carrots. I guess that’s kind of hippie commune humor, which is the overall vibe. The thing that was most inspiring to me, when younger, is the book itself, one of the Dell Brautigan paperbacks (Third Laurel printing—June 1974—probably when I bought it!) Small and inexpensive, but with great style—bright blue front and back, with a black and white photo of Richard Brautigan and an attractive, young woman on the cover—they could be posing as characters within. I guess this book kind of said to me, “you can write a book,” and for that I’m thankful and still inspired. Of course, it’s not so easy!

3.23.26

Harriet the Spy

Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh (1964) I was a little bit alarmed at how much of Harriet the Spy I didn’t remember, re-reading it, recently—but then, I guess it’s been a while—I’m not sure what year I first read it (as an adult). It kind of shocked me at how extreme it is—the characters, the situations, the NYC setting, and the drama. There’s nothing wishy-washy about this book! I feel like it really gets at the weirdness of childhood—even if the details are far-removed from your own experience—which is the case for me, for the most part. The kids are all complex characters, and so are the adults. I guess there is a good reason this is one of the classics of children’s literature. I remember a few years back when they were going to make a movie from it—I think I wondered if they were going to water it down—but I decided not to see it, either way—nothing I could do about it. The kids can be quite cruel to each other—which is true to life. Most interesting to me is the really complex, unusual character, Ole Golly, Harriet’s nanny—great character! Of course, I particularly like that Harriet’s goal is to be a writer, and her main passion, besides spying on people, is writing in her notebook. Her observations are unfiltered and can be quite mean—but also very funny. Then the kids get ahold of her notebook, fail to respect her privacy—and it’s a nightmare. This I can relate to!

3.16.26

A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories

A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories by Lucia Berlin (2015) The best novel I read so far this year is called “Let Me See You Smile”—but it’s not a novel, it’s a story in this book—but it feels like a novel in its immensity. It is long, so maybe it would technically be a novella—it’s about an older woman in a relationship with a younger guy, and they get into legal trouble, find a lawyer who helps them—who also gets deeply emotionally involved—but there’s no way to begin to touch on the complexity of it. If I was still thinking about movies, this would be the one to attempt to adapt—but on the other hand, maybe I’d be protective of it. Not to take away from the rest of the stories in this immense volume—and it’s probably not even the best one here! But what is best? With stories, shorter fiction, like poetry, you read through them and intensely connect to some and don’t connect at all to others—but that’s really not fair to the others—which you realize, when you come back the book later—it just wasn’t time yet for some of those stories. The writing is so good—often surprising, and often very, very funny—that I could imagine having many favorites over the years. This is a book I definitely want to come back to. Some of these stories are so emotionally devastating that you might have to put up a wall—not let them in, in order to guard yourself from them. But you can still appreciate their power, or off-centered weirdness. A lot of them are about women, and children, and a lot about people who are working-class. Some about people living in poverty. And then there’s alcoholism, and addiction, and every kind of trouble, including illness, and incarceration. It’s a full course of humanity, for sure. I’m not going to list favorites—though I have some—I’m making notes for myself, though, so I can check those out first, when I come back to it, which I will do. I also want to look for other stuff she wrote—this is the first I’ve read by her—even though I’ve known about this book for a while. Just hadn’t gotten to it.

3.10.26

John Barleycorn

John Barleycorn by Jack London (1913) Subtitled “Alcoholic Memoirs,” this is Jack London’s personal history of his relationship with drinking alcohol, or “John Barleycorn”—first published in serial form, then as a book—quite popular. Well, his writing is irresistible, highly entertaining. It’s a memoir, first of all—but through the lens of his complex relationship with alcohol. He ultimately favored prohibition, and in retrospect we can see why that didn’t work, but he has good arguments for it—fully aware of the power alcohol has over humans—it’s the power to confuse and overwhelm good sense. He starts with his earliest drinking experiences, and this historical perspective is fascinating, the social side to drinking, related to work and comradery—a time when saloons were men-only. He insists that he had no physical, hereditary addiction—and there were times, such as during long sea voyages when he didn’t drink at all. But then certain obsessive episodes he describes could be seen as the epitome of alcoholism. Particularly convincing is his description, later in life, when he would not let himself drink until a certain hour, or until after his daily “1000 words” were written—but from his account, you can just feel the encroaching obsession—the way the alcohol begins to control your mind. It is such a complex subject—everything about alcohol—that we are still in the dark ages of understanding it. Hearing the way Jack London goes back and forth on the subject—clearly doing his best to figure it out—is really pretty poignant. You might recognize this in yourself, or with those who struggle with its control. I personally think we are no further along in understanding it than this book is, and its influence will accompany us until the end of human life on Earth.

3.5.26

A Confederacy of Dunces

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (1980) I had been meaning to read this book forever and I was sure I had a copy, but I couldn’t find it, so I resorted to an audio book, which was highly entertaining—it was like a whole season of the best sitcom ever—just relentless, outrageous, farcical episodes with a lot of great characters—a lot of repetition, sure, but plenty of surprises along the way. It feels both dated and all too current—I guess buffoonery and aggressive ignorance is timeless. Also, it’s set in and around New Orleans, the most fascinating town in the US. The narrator is Barrett Whitener, and he really goes for it, voicing the characters—for all that I’m missing by not reading it on the page (which I still might do, later, in my slow fashion), I’m gaining something from this performance. Ignatius Reilly is a great protagonist—one you might know of, never having read this book, as he’s exceeded it—he lives with his mother and is a pompous know-it-all, disdains popular culture—so whenever his enthusiasm alights on something, it’s a pleasure. You do weary of hearing about his “valve”—but his attempt to find work, first at a pants factory, and then as a hotdog vendor, is subject matter dear to me. The cop, Mancuso, is really good as well, could have his own book. My favorite is Burma Jones, who probably sees the world most clearly of anyone, though is a buffoon in his own way—but he’s irrepressible, and everything he says is hilarious. I guess it’s a well-known story that JKT had no success getting this book accepted, and died by suicide, age 31, before it was published, which is very sad. It’s kind of amazing the manuscript didn’t end up in a dumpster, like everything else is fated to.

3.1.26

Carry On, Jeeves

Carry On, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse (1925) I have to admit that I’d avoided P. G. Wodehouse up until now, for no good reason, so just checking out his bibliography is intimidating, yet comforting—should I find myself charmed, one has never to fear “running out.” But—how to choose? Well, what’s reasonable in the used bookstore, and available “now” on the audiobook app—which turned out to be this book—narrated by the estimable Martin Jarvis—which I enjoyed thoroughly, a couple of times through. I don’t believe this is quite the same as the original version of this book proper—somewhat less, and different order and who knows, but it’s hard to tell—stories were serialized, collected, re-collected, maybe re-written. My whole approach would probably mortify strict Wodehousians—this must be some group—would they welcome me with open arms or tell me to stay home? At any rate, the stories here are: “Jeeves Takes Charge,” “Jeeves and the Unbidden Guest,” “The Artistic Career of Corky,” “The Aunt and the Sluggard,” “Clustering Round Young Bingo,” “Jeeves and the Hard-Boiled Egg,” and “The Rummy Affair of Old Biffy.” Which begin with Bertie Wooster first engaging his valet, Jeeves, who he quickly grows to depend on for the stickiest matters, sensitive situations, and developing fiascos. Jeeves is of course a genius-level problem solver to the extent that he’s quite scary. Bertie sits halfway between Jeeves’ brilliance and the moronic misadventures of some of his cohorts. It’s a loving relationship, including an ongoing conflict involving Bertie’s questionable choices in clothing and grooming and Jeeves’ impeccable taste. While the situations are all hilarious, the best thing throughout is the language—and endless cascade of English expressions of the time and colorful slang—my favorite, naturally, being “rummy”—which as far as I can tell can mean pretty much anything. I have to struggle, now, to keep from using it excessively, myself.

2.24.26

Wild Dark Shore

Wild Dark Shore by Charlotte McConaghy (2025) I start so many books and give up on them at some point—my time here is finite, and books are infinite. I have no rule, just go by feelings, if and when. So, I guess it says something about the compelling narrative here that I raced to the end while also intensely disliking it. I’ve rarely been so conflicted about a book! I’m wondering why, exactly. The reasons I don’t connect to a book could be its voice, or simply subject matter—and I rarely go in for stories about parenting, not to mention, romance, so there’s that. As far as reasons for, aftermath of, and dealing with trauma—that depends. The trauma here is so over-the-top as to almost feel like a parody—and I liked that! And then, I suppose an element that sometimes turns me against a book is when I’m feeling manipulated by the author. With this book, I think it had to do, in part, with the way information is withheld and doled out, and the “cliffhanger” style—but that’s something I often like—so I don’t know. Maybe I need to take responsibility for feeling manipulated, and put that on me. There certainly is a lot to love in this book. Remote island lighthouse outpost, natural history, botany, woodworking, intensely cold conditions, huge storms, grappling with climate change, fascinating characters, mystery, dead mothers (well, not that so much—though it did get me wondering again why every other book I read has the presence of a dead mother). I especially loved the description of the island, the plants, the seeds, the animals. It brought forth for me those difficult thoughts, like, why are we here, and how did what’s here get here, and is there any sense in it all, or plan. The usual stuff about God, I guess. Which then led to me thinking about when an author creates a world of characters who you (the reader) care about, and then puts them in motion, why do we sometimes accept it without question, and why do we sometimes feel like the author is treating us (the reader) unfairly, due to the fate of their characters? I’m guessing that most of the people who love this book don’t dwell on such questions, and maybe for me, it’s just a matter of not connecting. But it’s hard, too, when there is so much here that I really liked. I’ve rarely been so conflicted about a book.

2.19.26

Casino Royale

Casino Royale by Ian Fleming (1953) Though we’re dying off, I guess, there must still be a lot of dinosaurs like myself for whom the first really cool thing they can remember was James Bond at the cinema. But even among younger people—due to theatrical re-releases and some fairly imaginative sequels—it’s still a big audience. So why they haven’t followed my suggestion to release a new, low-budget, two-hour James Bond nostalgia-fest each Christmas (new Bond actor and new director each year) is beyond me­—though I suspect it’s a case of must-be-bigger-than-the-last-one-itis. In my frustration, I’ve even resorted to trying to read the Ian Fleming original novels—or, in this case, audiobook with a decent narrator (if he’s got an accent, I’m in). I thought Diamonds Are Forever (1956)—in spite of the offensive parts—was great fun—but this one, not so much. I was curious, naturally, to start at the beginning, and I’ll probably try more—but much like the 2006 movie—which I feel is an improvement on this book, at least—the fundamental plotline here (which, really, I shouldn’t need to repeat), I find profoundly unpleasant. And while I’m sure there are some—the cool, or nostalgic, or funny, or odd, or exciting—bearable parts—it’s just, overall, way too big of a giant bummer to be enjoyable.

2.16.26

Winter Journal

Winter Journal by Paul Auster (2012) I’ve only read a few books by Paul Auster—I want to read more—he’s got so many books, and I really want to re-read the New York Trilogy as much as anything. This is a memoir that came out in 2012. I feel like I’ve read more of his stuff than I have, maybe, partially, because I’m remembering those movies he collaborated on with Wayne Wang, in the Nineties. I got the impression, then, that he was at death’s door, but this book is nearly two decades later, and… same. He passed away fairly recently, so this feels somewhat haunting—no less so because I listened to the audiobook and he narrates it—which is great, he’s an excellent reader, and you feel like he’s right there with you. It’s written in the second person, which is kind of unusual, and really works—so he’s addressing “you”—which means him—but as he was, when he wrote it, approaching the age I am now—so it feels uncannily like he’s addressing me. No less so because we’re thematically compatible—lots of musing on time, aging, mortality, tragedy, and in spite of it all, life being an exceptional privilege—which we do appreciate.

2.12.26

Mystery at Redtop Hill

Mystery at Redtop Hill by Marjory Schwalje (1965) One of the best kids’ books covers I’ve seen—published by Whitman, from Racine—great book cover art from this time period. If you open it up flat, it’s a whole landscape with orange sky and rolling green hills, and three kids spying on a distant car. Even the font is good. Better yet, when you open it, the endpapers have a two-page map of Redtop Hill. I love that. The cover illustration is by Charles Geer, who is one of the best—his illustrations of the Mad Scientists’ Club books are crucial—especially the cover of the first one. The illustrations here are beautiful, and there are a lot—almost every other page—some black and white, and some color, even two-page spreads. It takes place during summer break at the seasonal cabins of a couple of families from the city, at a country outpost near Cooperstown, NY, and Otsego Lake. Of course, a lot of pictures mean less text, and indeed this is “A Whitman Tween Age Book”—don’t know if I’d like being called that, at any age, but I guess it’s geared a little younger than some similar chapter mysteries. I’d never heard of Marjory Schwalje, not a ton of stuff out there by her, but this is well written and fun. It’s not a real elaborate mystery, of course, but there are real consequences, and the kids save the day with their persistence. It includes what might be the worst chase scene in chase scene history, but I chose to believe it’s a parody of chase scenes. The best parts are some funny details pertaining to the eccentric old-timer, Major Clyde—the kind of interesting adult who enriches the kids’ lives immeasurably.

2.8.26

Room to Dream

Room to Dream by David Lynch and Kristine McKenna (2018) This is an odd biography, in that it alternates between bio, written by Kristine McKenna, and memoir by David Lynch—so that the two parts complement each other. It can’t be the first time someone’s tried this, though it’s the first I’ve experienced, and I think it would be a fine model for future bios—or at least worth a try. This one works if you love David Lynch because it feels like spending time with him as he reminisces. I listened to the audiobook version (narrated by the authors)—I imagine the print version feels very different—still worthwhile, but maybe not as fun. I really connected to this. Over the years, since I first saw Eraserhead, around 1980, I’ve gone back and forth on David Lynch so many times—from being my favorite filmmaker to hating his work—sometimes within the course of one movie! I have continuously rewatched and reevaluated his movies—but ultimately moving toward greater approval. For whatever reason, this just seemed like a natural way to experience his work. It took me a long time to come around to some of it, but I think that just made me love the work more. I never read much about him, at least in depth—except for an article in some magazine, decades ago, that I had forgotten, until this brought it back. He talked about going to Bob’s Big Boy every day because he was obsessed with the chocolate milkshakes made with the Taylor machines. That was the point I really felt like I connected to him. Now, with this book, and re-watching his movies (and especially Twin Peaks: The Return), I love him more than ever.

2.3.26

By the Light of the Study Lamp

By the Light of the Study Lamp by Carolyn Keene (1934) The first Dana Girls Mystery. The ghostwriter was Leslie McFarlane, who wrote the original Hardy Boys a few years before this, and you can recognize some of his influence, as with some light touches like the comic relief, somewhat offensive portrayal of their housekeeper, named “Cora Apple.” But I read somewhere that he wasn’t too into it, so he only wrote the first four Dana Girls, then quit—I read his autobiography, but I forgot if he talked about this. I read the 2nd book in this series, a while back, and was a little disappointed at the lack of definition of the two Dana sisters—so with this one, I made a point to try to focus on their personalities a little more—and it occurred to me, they’re kind of a Hardy Boys version of Nancy Drew or vice versa. Louise is the older, dark-haired girl, and Jean, who is a year younger, is fair-haired and more impetuous. As I recall, the story was pretty wacky in that book, and this one is even more fun—a good mystery, it moves fast, and at times it’s totally over-the-top. Some people find excessive, unbelievable coincidences to be evidence of bad writing, but here it’s taken to such an extreme you’d have to consider it an art form! Sure, there’s a bit of predictability, but even when you do see some of it coming, it’s full of surprises. There’s danger, some strangeness, nostalgia, and even some hijinks at the girls’ school—scheming, and revenge—with the Danas getting the upper hand. There’s even a brief subplot about aggressive and unethical medical billing, believe it or else. Boy, the more things stay the same, the more they stay the same.

1.27.26

Buckeye

Buckeye by Patrick Ryan (2025) Can’t remember where I came across this—but naturally, being from Ohio—the title got my attention—it all takes place in the Buckeye State—though there’s also a character nick-named Buckeye. It struck me that I never knew anyone with that handle—it would seem too weird—are there any out there? For the most part, the novel rang true enough to be quite satisfying—and since it’s about the Second World War generation, I wasn’t there—but I sure have seen a few movies about the time. This story extends over a lifetime, and I’ll admit, that’s something that’s usually not my thing, to put it mildly—but I was willing to go with it, here, once I got into it. There are very strong characters who we get to love and know—and naturally, there were a few I wanted to get to know more, but it’s already a pretty long novel. I almost even cried at one point—only didn’t because I never do—and in this case, kind of turned on the story for being soap-opera-ish—but then was happy to forgive it. It’s set mostly in a fictional northwestern Ohio town—I tried to imagine a few places, based on size, and my travels, seeking out diners, in decades past. The feeling of the town is familiar and convincing. A couple things, by chance, really hit home. One character moves to Columbus—and had strong connections to the Lazarus department store, there, as I did. (I was fascinated with the store when younger, and later worked there, and was disillusioned. Jobs!) And then, my hometown, Sandusky’s famous amusement park (where I had my first job) figures in, especially near the end. I’ve written quite a bit about the terrifying double Ferris wheel—so I was happy, here, that it’s fresh, and metaphorical—yet still rides the edge between disaster and transcendence.

1.15.26

Flashfire

Flashfire by Richard Stark (2000) I can’t say these Parker novels are the most entertaining books, to me, I’ve read, in that they (so far, I’ve only read a few) lack a particular depth, spirituality, and even nostalgia—plus, the violence is almost too much for me—but there’s nothing more addicting, save for maybe potato chips. I suppose it’s an addictive quality akin to a manual, for a specific obsession—though I’m not remotely interested in any of these activities—robbery, revenge, hiding out—but I guess observing Parker assess a situation, and then decisively acting, is a real pleasure—because of his experience, intelligence, and even creativity. But then, maybe it’s simply a wild yarn, and you’re waiting to see what happens next, and it’s often not what you expect. There are some terrific surprises in this one. I only realized later that this book was the basis for a movie I’d seen—Parker (2013)—an even worse title than this book! Which I didn’t really care for—mostly because its tone was off-putting to me, while the book’s tone feels perfect for what it is—which maybe means tonally flat, washed out—and weirdly the place from which you might find inspiration. Once again, there’s a change of identity side adventure, integral to the plot—and it strikes me how that is more difficult than a heist. It’s funny how two of the hardest things to achieve, for people, is fame and a new identity. As with most crime stories, the most fascinating part is the chess match—and then, when you throw out all the rules, who can you trust, and how far, and for how long, and how completely?

1.8.26

The Secret of Skeleton Island

The Secret of Skeleton Island by Bruce Campbell (1949) Not to be confused with the Three Investigators mystery by the same name (also very good) but rather the first in the series of Ken Holt mysteries, and the first one I’ve read—as it’s the first I’ve found in a bookstore. They’re not rare, but a lot harder to find than Nancy Drew. I only recently read that the author (not to be confused with the “Evil Dead” actor) was actually Sam Epstein and Beryl Williams Epstein, a husband-and-wife children’s book writing team—which is interesting in itself. These stories are of the more highly regarded series books of the time, for their realism, I guess, and I found this one to be well-written, though oddly slow moving in places. The entire story takes place in a 48-hour period in which Ken has scant shuteye, and is kidnapped multiple times—all as we’re introduced to his background (journalist father, dead mother—another dead mother!). Then meets, by chance, future allies, a best friend (Sandy Allen) and a surrogate family—all while upending a particularly cutthroat crime ring. Unlike the Hardy Boys, who get knocked unconscious about once an episode, Ken and Sandy viciously coldcock several of their nemeses in this volume. I’m curious to see how quickly their knuckles heal and what adventure is next, and also, will the two friends ever have a falling out, say, over a girl? But my future reading will likely be determined by which books I find, out there—I do have another, I believe the fourth in the series—I don’t think I’ll worry about the order.

1.4.26

2666

2666 by Roberto Bolaño (2004) As a book object, it’s one of my favorites: the cool, mysterious title, the massive 900 page paperback (Picador)—2008 translation by Natasha Wimmer, published after the author’s death. His death doesn’t enhance it, and I wish he’d lived to write more, but this book does offer that hope—that a writer can live on through a book. Also, that a book, as an object, can be inspiring. His writing is funny, mysterious, challenging. I read The Savage Detectives awhile back, so really looked forward to this one. I still haven’t gotten through it, however, and might never, though I’ve read parts of it multiple times, and will continue to do so. It’s divided into five “parts”—not entirely connected—a lot of characters. There are a couple of threads that connect the whole. One is the fictional author, Benno von Archimboldi—an elusive, intriguing, and ultimately hilarious figure. I love nothing so much as stories about oddball authors. The other thing is the fictional Mexican border town, Santa Teresa, which is apparently based on Ciudad Juárez, a place partly famous for hundreds of murders of women, many unsolved. Santa Teresa shows up in the book as a kind of black hole, pulling the rest of the stories in. Part 4 is titled: “The Part About the Crimes” and seems to be an endless, straightforward, record of the aftermath of homicides, of women, in graphic detail. I understand that facing such reality might be important, and this brings up an eternal question—how much of reality does each of us need to suppress just in order to stay sane? And within the realm of art, what does it mean to depict it? It made me think of that Michael Haneke movie, Funny Games (1997), that I truly believe is not intended to be completed by the viewer. Likewise, this novel’s “Crimes” section is impossible for a sane person to really take in—so you must ask yourself, to what extent am I harming myself—either soul-wise or perception-wise, to get through it? I’m sure there are those who would disagree with me, and maybe our discussion is part of what’s important here. And apart from all that, there is an immense amount of this book that’s just pure enjoyment.

12.29.25

Trying Not to Be a Nature Poet

Trying Not to Be a Nature Poet by W. Joe Hoppe (2025) I read poetry frequently, but rarely entire books, beginning to end, and while I love the large volumes, it might take me years (or a lifetime) to get through them—for reasons that are two sides of the same coin. When I’m not connecting to poems, I find it best to put the book aside for a while. But when I do connect to one, I don’t like to just forge ahead because I’ll end up forgetting the one I connected with—so, then, it’s also best to put the book aside and come back later to re-read the one I connected with. That’s one reason I like short books like this one (sometimes called “chapbooks”) though in this case, I connected with all of them. They are nature poems, and they aren’t, if that makes sense. It does to me. W. Joe Hoppe is an old friend, though I haven’t seen him in years, like many, many old friends, but a book like this feels like a visit from the past, along with acknowledgment that we’re getting older. Weather in the Midwest, wildlife, time passing, things changing and not changing, those are my favorite subjects—but seeing these things in slanted ways, to remind us of how we saw things for the first time—or the first time we really saw them. You know, decay, and rebirth, and the nature of time. Personally, every snowfall makes me into a little kid again, even in the rare years when I feel like I’ve had enough. There’s so much about, say, Christmas, that I don’t love, but there’s just enough, sometimes to bring back what was once magical. There used to be a Christmas tree lot one block from where I live—which was the best thing in the neighborhood. Now it’s an empty lot, long gone. Nothing in the world lasts, and that’s one reason we have poetry.

12.25.25

Whiskey for the Holy Ghost

Whiskey for the Holy Ghost by Edward Mullany (2025) A fascinating, compelling book of very short stories of one paragraph each, most less than a single page. They’re broken up into seven sections (“Writers,” “Drinkers,” “Families,” etc.) though the subject matter might exceed those categories. Personally, I’m tempted to read the book as a novel—straight through—which I did—or even a “memoir”—though there’s no indication that it’s not all fiction. But it feels very personal, intensely intimate, even, though none of the stories are necessarily from the specific point of view of the author, Edward Mullany—and some definitely are not. But I could not help feeling, overall, a portrait of a life, and a way of thinking. The other intriguing thing is the overall style, which sets some strict rules—first and most striking is that each of the 100-plus stories is accompanied by a black and white line drawing—so that the stories are on the right facing page and the drawing opposite it. Nowhere is the artist credited, which leads me to believe not only is it the author, but the drawings are an integral part of the stories—and they really do—with a minimum of line—create distinct feelings. Great drawings! Sometimes they relate directly to the corresponding stories, or their titles, and sometimes they don’t—in any way I can figure. The same can be said for the titles. The other most striking stylistic “rule” is that the sentences are mostly very long with a lot of parenthetical asides that are only set off by commas, so they can be hard to follow, yet they get the feeling of a disjointed and disorganized verbal storyteller. But nowhere is used the dreaded (and my weakness) “em-dash,” parentheses brackets, or italics—so you’re free from those “crutches”—but you have to work a little, for meaning, sometimes. Also, interesting, some of the stories feel slight, unfinished, or without a point, while others are emotionally heavy, feeling like confessions, even—yet they all work together—they really do.

12.17.25

The Haunts of Drowning Creek

The Haunts of Drowning Creek by Manly Wade Wellman (1951) A pretty engaging boys’ adventure about two friends who decide to take a canoe trip along Drowning Creek—a real place, in North Carolina—real wilderness, overgrown trees, cottonmouths, all that—plus the world’s most dangerous animal—humans with gold fever. And indeed, there is a legend of hidden treasure up ahead. The story moves ahead with a deliberate pace—which I really do appreciate. You know there’s going to be some action, but I enjoy the mundane, as well—the depiction of canoeing on along the creek, camping, and making food. There’s some really great atmosphere and occasionally some pleasingly flowery writing. Of course, readers like me who saw the movie Deliverance (1972) (never read the novel!) can’t help being extra creeped out by some of the locals. But—even though there is danger—and some very bad men—the boys meet some new friends along the way—real characters, too—and as the adventure deepens, so do the rewards. And, let’s hope, some lasting friendships.

12.4.25

Shaker

Shaker by Scott Frank (2015) I listened an audio version of this book with a really good narrator (Dion Graham) after I heard the author—screenwriter and director, Scott Frank—on a podcast, and I was inspired by his process of writing it. Also, it seems like he likes a lot of the same stuff I do—so I related, there. It’s a pretty irresistible, addictive “page-turner,” on one hand—and I’m sure not going to either summarize or give away the story, okay? Also, it’s pretty convoluted, with a lot of characters coming and going—including long, detailed backstory sections that—while I’m often not into—I found really compelling—well-written and interesting. As it goes along, the level of violence keeps ramping up—which is saying something, because it depicts a lot of violence from the start—so I came close to putting it down, several times—too much for me. I’m not sure why—I felt manipulated by its over-the-top levels, maybe—or just turned off. But at the same time—I felt encouraged to continue, maybe because my favorite parts were the portraits of the career criminal, Roy—a fascinating, complex kind of half-person—and also, the woman cop with problems—Kelly. The ultimate-villain, Albert, however, I never got over feeling was too much—too much a Hollywood creation. I mean I know there are awful, cliché-humans out there, but I don’t need to spend time with them. Also, the backdrop of seismic activity is… maybe unnecessary? Kind of… all this plus the kitchen sink. That’s a lot of criticism, I guess, for a book I was definitely compelled (audio version, anyway) to follow to the end—and ended up liking.

11.20.25