For a while now, I’ve been meaning to give a shout-out to the books that have profoundly influenced my life and writing. And with Thanksgiving just two days away, I figured it was the perfect time to do so—especially since my obsession with books and writing has alienated all my family and friends, leaving me with nothing else to do during this fine holiday week. (It's okay, I'll just pretend I'm British or Canadian. I'm getting good at it.)
Some of the books featured below shook me to the core when my core needed to be shaken. Some got me through the roughest of times. And some shattered my preconceived notions about what it is to be human, what it is to be alive, what it is to pick up the check at a restaurant once in a while.
All of them transformed me in some positive way … just not enough to get me invited to anyone’s house this Thursday.
But enough with the chit-chat. On to the books I’m most thankful for:
The Cat in the Hat(by Dr. Seuss). Those who know me know I am a bit wacky, enjoy breaking rules and love to rap. The Cat in the Hat is the reason for all that. When I was a small child, my mother read it to me at bedtime with the hope that I’d fall asleep. I’ve been awake ever since—running around embracing absurdity, laughing in the face of authority, and spontaneously spitting mad rhymes to complete strangers. (I'm beginning to see even more clearly why I'm free for Thanksgiving.)
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (by Mark Twain). This was the first big book (336 pages) I read voluntarily, and, more importantly, the book that woke me up to America’s history of slavery and racism. I found a copy of it on my parents’ bookshelf one summer day when I was ten, and was shocked by its frequent use of the “N” word. Not even a Lil Wayne album can compete.
I’ve experienced a lot of emotions in my reading life, but few compare to the intense anger I felt toward my own race while reading Huck Finn, or to how moved I was by the book’s young protagonist defying his community and religion to ensure that an escaped slave remained a free man. I wanted to be like Huck ... only with better diction.
Without Feathers (by Woody Allen). Woody Allen’s legendary status as a filmmaker, actor, comic and creepy cradle-robber has overshadowed the fact that he’s also a damn fine author. His first book, Without Feathers—a collection of short stories, essays and plays—changed my life in college. The sheer force of existential hilarity in his writing not only derailed my clinical depression, it inspired me to stop trying to impress my English professors with overly dramatic narratives and instead embrace the sardonic humor that was dying to hit the page.
Thanks to Woody, I went from being a brooding poser who elicited yawns during workshop readings to being an eager writer who caused classmates to pee their acid-washed jeans.
Oh, the Places You’ll Go! (by that Seuss guy again). On the last day of my first post-college job (in Annapolis, Maryland, circa 1991), a coworker friend had everyone in our workplace sign a copy of Oh, the Places You’ll Go! for me to bring to Colorado, where I had decided to move because why not. I didn’t know a single sole in the Rocky Mountain state, but felt it was where I needed to ski … I mean be.
There were many lonely nights in the wintery town I ended up in, causing me to seriously question my decision to leave my friends, family and comfy job on the East Coast. But Oh, the Places You’ll Go! was there to assure me I’d made the right move. Seuss’s weird words of wisdom about travel and adventure and about finding and losing yourself—coupled with the envious and encouraging words my former coworkers had etched inside the cover—kept me from packing up and taking the safe route back to familiar environs. At least until the ski season ended and the money ran out six months later.
A Confederacy of Dunces (by John Kennedy Toole). Until I read Dunces (at the insistence of an old college friend while I was living in Spain at the turn of the century), I had assumed literary writing could be hysterical only in small doses— short stories, one-act plays. I’d tried reading what I’d been told were funny novels on several occasions, only to be disappointed and exhausted in the end ... or well before reaching it.
And then came Dunces. I not only finished it with a big smile and sore abdominals, I did so in one sitting. The book managed to sustain its humor by not trying too hard to be humorous. Truth is, the protagonist—Ignatius J. Reilly—is downright off-putting and unlikeable. So naturally I loved him … so much so, I felt inspired to try my own hand at writing a comedic novel. Of course, those of you who have read my first novel may wish Ignatius and I had never met. But I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at long fiction since then. And I’d like to think you think so too.
I’ll be forever thankful for Dunces, for providing the spark I needed to follow my literary passion and earn less money than I ever dreamed possible.
Lolita (by Vladimir Nabokov). Say what you will about this book, so long as what you say is it’s astonishing. Lolita marked my introduction to—and everlasting love affair with—transgressive fiction. Transgressive novels are characterized by protagonists who feel confined by the norms and expectations of society and who break free of those confines in unusual or illicit ways. In other words, books featuring freaks and criminals you can’t help but root for.
Most of you will agree being bad can feel pretty good. Well, reading bad can feel even better ... even when the bad you’re reading is awful … provided the writing’s great. I’ve lost you. Sorry, I guess it’s just hard singing the praises of a book about a grown man falling madly in love with a twelve year-old girl. (I’ve got a daughter for goodness sake—and she’ll kick my ass if her friends’ parents end up boycotting sleepovers at our place because of this post.)
Suffice it to say Lolita is the book that inspired me to start taking more risks with my own fiction. To explore controversial topics and moral complexities in my stories, and to develop protagonists readers hate to like. Or like to hate. I don’t really care, so long as liking’s involved in some way.
You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (by Charles Bukowski). When people tell me they hate poetry, I tell them they're mistaken. This confuses them even more than poetry. I then tell them they have to read You Get So Alone and report back immediately. This compels those who hate being bossed around to take a swing at me. They're the ones who'll love the book the most.
Charles Bukowski was an ill-tempered, miserable bastard and a drunk of mythical proportions. Fortunately, all of that comes through in his poems. As does his humanity—you just have to peer beneath the barbed wire and broken bottles of bourbon to find it.
You Get So Alone is like an old cantankerous friend who always has your back ... even in a bar fight … even a bar fight you initiated with a bunch of armed bikers who were minding their own business. Point is, the book will help you get through hell. Hell like heartbreak. Hell like depression. Hell like sibling death. And it does this not by whispering that everything will be okay or by plying you with happy platitudes; rather by punching you in the face and reminding you how lucky you are to feel it.
Fight Club (by Chuck Palahniuk). Speaking of getting punched in the face and liking it. When I read the first few chapters of Fight Club, I knew there was no going back. To old ways of thinking. To old ways of feeling. To old ways of writing. A switch I didn’t even know I had was flipped and a current like God shot through my bones.
The movie’s good, too.
Too bad the rules state I can’t talk about either. Just know I’m thankful for Fight Club the way Trump’s thankful for Twitter, or the way Saturday Night Live’s thankful for Trump.
I realize many of you are busy planning when to put the turkey in the oven and where to put your uncle after his fourth scotch, but if you have a minute, I’d love to hear what book(s) YOU’RE most thankful for. (Please share them in the comments section below.) Oh, and ...
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
ON HIS BEST DAYS, ZERO SLADE IS THE WORST MAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. HE HAS TO BE. IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE THE LOST GIRLS.