As always the character of Odd remains endearing and funny, with the customary pathos mixed in, but Odd Hours feels incomplete, more like the first act of a larger story, with plot holes left unexplained, characters lightly sketched across a few scenes, a couple of awfully convenient coincidences, and an incredibly high stakes story that feels utterly the opposite in the way it is executed (no pun intended–that’s a minor spoiler).
Still, it’s a quick read and by this fourth book Koontz has built up enough good will with the character of Odd Thomas that I’m willing to overlook the flaws and press on to #5, albeit with diminished enthusiasm.
Paul Davies, the chair of SETI’s Post-Detection Science and Technology Taskgroup, wrote The Eerie Silence in 2010, a short time after the Kepler space telescope launched. Back then a handful of exoplanets (planets outside our solar system) had been discovered. Since then Kepler alone has confirmed over 2,300 exoplanets and estimates for the observable universe go as high as 5.3 trillion.
That’s a lot of planets.
And yet seven years later, the eerie silence Davies wrote about persists. You might think that over 50 years of observation by SETI failing to yield any tangible results would be disheartening and indeed, Davies does admit it can be a little depressing when you focus solely on the lack of any clear signal that we are not alone in the universe. But he remains hopeful that life here is not a one-time fluke among the billions of star systems. That hope is tempered by his adherence to the scientific method, of observation and testing, with minimal speculation.
It is that speculation, though, that forms the heart of the book. Davies presents comprehensive scenarios on how other planets might support life, what that life might be like, how alien races might communicate with us–or if they would even bother. He takes a dim view on fictional portrayals of aliens as malevolent beings looking to wipe us out and constantly warns against falling into the trap of anthropocentric thought. H notes that we might not even recognize aliens because they could exist in a state we can’t comprehend.
Davies also spends time covering how SETI and others would handle the world-changing confirmation of other intelligent life (he doesn’t put much stock in politicians or government handling it well).
In all, this is a wonderfully detailed and engaging look into the possibility of life beyond Earth. Davies keeps coming up with unique angles on how to approach looking for signs of communication–whether intentional or incidental, on how other intelligent beings might act and evolve, and why he is still passionate about continuing the search for other intelligent species beyond the confines of our solar system.
The novel of 2001 was written as the film was being shot and apart from the ultimate destination of Discovery being Saturn rather than Jupiter, it sticks close to the film’s plot (apparently they couldn’t get the look of Saturn’s rings quite right for the film).
The book is short, giving it more of a movie tie-in feel than one would normally expect in a Clarke novel. And–as Clarke admits in the foreword–the novel makes explicit a lot of what is otherwise left to the viewer to interpret in the film.
While I enjoyed the book, particularly the detailing of life aboard the Discovery before Hal goes bonkers, its brevity ultimately left it feeling a bit unfinished. That Clarke ultimately wrote a sequel (and then two more after) is not surprising, as the conclusion feels like the end of a first act.
As a companion piece to the film, it perhaps fares better, providing more explanation for those wanting it. The depiction of the enigmatic aliens helping to shape humanity is intriguing but again, cuts short at the end.
While this is not an essential work of Clarke’s, it’s still a solid read but may be best for those committing to the entire Odyssey quadrilogy or those interested in learning more about what was going on in the now-classic film.
This is a quick little inspirational tome designed to help spur creativity, supplemented by Kleon’s quirky choice of photographs and his own hand-drawn art and notes.
His advice, backed up by quotes from notable creative types, is sensible while some of the particulars reflect what works well for him but may not work so well for everyone else. He cheerfully recommends jettisoning anything you don’t think will work for you.
Some of his ideas are interesting–having both a digital and analog desk, keeping a simple logbook (not to be confused with a diary or journal) and having a praise file for days when you are feeling down or uninspired. Others, like a giant year-long calendar you can X off each day as you complete tasks, I am less sold on.
The enthusiasm and spirit with which he presents his advice are bound to get you motivated to try something, though. And his drawing style is weirdly cute. Recommended.
Martin Lindstrom’s Brandwashed is in many ways not surprising to those who are familiar with the lengths that companies will go to in order to market their products. What still surprised me, though, was how improved technology has allowed these companies to propel their efforts to new, absurd and downright creepy heights.
Whether it’s carefully-arranged store displays presenting illusions designed to elicit specific emotions or memories, efforts to market not just to adults, teens and children, but even to babies, or the use of sophisticated data-mining to target individuals with a disturbing level of precision, Brandwashed paints a picture of a world in which we are constantly bombarded with messages–usually subliminal–to buy certain products and services.
Lindstrom’s perspective is that of an insider, and he cites not only numerous case studies and marketing campaigns, but some he has orchestrated directly himself. He comes across a bit apologetic at times and even tries to reveal some of the good in these insidious techniques, like attempts to woo consumers toward more green products, but he also rightfully raises concerns over privacy and reach.
The book focuses on a different aspect of marketing in each chapter and the style and tone remain light, even as Lindstrom reminds us of how the flat where George Orwell wrote 1984 now has 32 closed-circuit cameras mounted within 200 yards of it.
While the thrust of the book remains as potent in 2017 as when it was originally published in 2011, some of the observations are bound to raise a few eyebrows just six years later (likely in dismay):
On the male side, there are colognes attached to the famous names Justin Timberlake, David Beckham, Usher, Tim McGraw, Andre Agassi, and even Donald Trump. “We are confident that men of all ages want to experience some part of Mr. Trump’s passion and taste for luxury,” said Aramis president Fabrice Weber.25 Actually, it appears they don’t. In one of the few cases where putting a celebrity name on a product didn’t work, a few years after it hit the shelves, according to one gimlet-eyed blogger, Donald Trump for Men could be found on clearance at T. J. Maxx for $8, down from $48.
Brandwashed is an easy recommendation for anyone wondering just how far companies will go to get us to buy their stuff (which is a lot further than most probably imagine).
I’m a sucker for “how to write a novel” books and when How to Grow a Novel was on sale, I picked it up as I was interested in Stein’s perspective not just as a writer but also as an editor and publisher.
There’s some good stuff here and the advice is practical and precise, if sometimes contradictory. Stein both advises writers to read their own work aloud–and to not do so (because novels are read, not heard). He offers some genuinely interesting glimpses into how the book publishing business works (or at least worked, as the book was originally published in 1999, predating the rise of self-publishing through e-books).
I enjoyed the use of specific excerpts to underline the points being made but was less enthused with the self-promotion. The book Stein recommends the most is his own. At times he makes Stein On Writing sound better than this book, perhaps hoping to net a few more sales.
By the end, I found How to Grow a Novel more interesting as a reflection on the book publishing industry and less on the actual writing of a novel. A beginning writer could do worse (the stories of six-figure advances may be depressing in a way Stein didn’t anticipate) but could also do better, especially if looking for help that more readily mixes nuts and bolts advice with inspiration.
Author Rob Kirkpatrick was about the same age as I was in 1969, which means he was more likely to be eating crayons than dropping acid like so many of the people mentioned in this book. Despite this, one of the strengths of 1969: The Year Everything Changed is the authoritative voice Kirkpatrick uses, lending a “you are there” feel to many of the events that are recounted.
Dividing the book into the four seasons doesn’t really add much to the book, but having devoted sections on politics, entertainment, sports and major events helps color in what the U.S. was like nearly five decades ago.
There are the stunning achievements, like the July moon landing, but the year is marked more by strife–the ongoing Vietnam war that Nixon inherited, racial violence, student protests, the rise of groups like the Weather Underground that engaged in attacks aimed at the government. It was also a time of experimentation and the shedding of inhibitions–nudity was in and drug use was more openly embraced than it had ever been before. Woodstock is remembered fondly, though Kirkpatrick reminds us that it was marred by terrible weather and a surprising number of uninspired acts that limped through their sets. Woodstock shines in comparison to the concert at the Altamont Speedway that closes out the book, though. The Rolling Stones urged the crowd, mixing uneasily with Hells Angels, to settle down even as a man in the midst of it was stabbed to death, one of multiple deaths at the event.
Kirkpatrick also covers the grim parade of death led by the Manson family and the Zodiac killer, the bracing vitality of film as it covered adult subjects with a newfound frankness, whether it be Sam Peckinpah’s blood-spattered westerns or the X-rated seediness of Midnight Cowboy (as noted, an X-rating back then had more to do with violence and less with sexual content–the film later got re-rated to R). There’s also a great deal of sports coverage here, particularly focusing on baseball and the improbable rise of the New York Mets. For fans of the team or baseball in general, these sections are terrifically written, capturing the drama and politics of the sport. Still, the sports parts feel almost incongruous next to the nigh-endless violence that surrounds them.
The book ends with a brief look ahead to the 70s, rounding out how a lot of the newsmakers of 1969 fared in the coming years. Nixon had that whole “whoops, I taped that, didn’t I?” thing, NASA’s glory with the moon landing would end just a few years later and the hippie movement faded away, though many of its ideals would persist in some form through the 70s before crumbling away under the conspicuous consumption of the 80s.
1969 offers an intriguing slice of how different the U.S. was in the late 60s. While violent police action and the disturbing growth of their militarization rightfully makes headlines today, it is sobering to see how little has changed since 1969 when police raids were executed on flimsy or false premises and gun battles–with resultant fatalities–were all too common. The biggest difference back then is probably in how so many of the protesters and people agitating for change were also prone to violence. In an era recalled as one of peace and love, the late 60s were more often bloody.
While some subjects are touched on a bit too briefly–inevitable given that the book is an overview of so many major events– 1969 still gives a good feel for that era. I can’t say I’d have wanted to be an adult living in the U.S. in 1969 but it would certainly have been…interesting.
Recommended, albeit if you don’t enjoy sports a not-insignificant chunk of the book will be a wash.
Joe Hill prefaces The Fireman with a list of people who inspired him and cheerfully admits to stealing the title from Ray Bradbury and “all the rest” from his father. It’s true in a couple of ways–the story of a global pandemic that causes people to spontaneously combust has homages aplenty to King’s own end-of-the-world novel The Stand, as well as references and call-outs to The Dark Tower series. And it’s also true in that, like King, Hill tells a ripping good yarn, with vividly-drawn heroes and appropriately evil bad guys.
The story focuses on a band of infected that learn to control the “dragonscale” spores inside their bodies through group singing, something that not only prevents them from literally going up in flames but also leaves them feeling pleasantly buzzed in a communal sort of way. This turns out to have its downsides as the story plays out.
Harper Willowes, having escaped from her revealed-to-be-monstrous husband, joins the other infected in a summer camp where they lay low, wary of being found by “incinerator” gangs devoted to killing the infected. She meets the titular Fireman, a British ex-pat named John Rookwood who can not only keep the dragonscale under control but can use the fire it creates willfully.
Made pregnant by her estranged husband just days before she flees from him, Harper draws closer to the Fireman while growing increasingly concerned about the pod people-like behavior of the other infected in the camp.
As you might guess, things go sideways through intentions both good and evil, with plenty of fireworks (literal and otherwise) and mayhem resulting. Hill also demonstrates that he is not above using a well-placed fire pun. All the better to burn the reader’s expectations (ho ho).
The Fireman is a messy, bloody romp. The bad guys will have you hissing while the heroes are flawed but believable and sympathetic. The many call-outs to The Stand and The Dark Tower are fun to spot. Hill tosses curve balls from time to time to keep things interesting and doesn’t cheat much with coincidences, letting the characters largely push the story forward (there is one instance near the end where the sudden arrival of a character felt all too convenient, but Hill at least deals with it quickly and moves on).
This is an easy recommendation for anyone who enjoys post-apocalypse stories or just quality horror written in vintage King style. Hill may steal from his father but he has his own voice and with each consistently excellent novel, proves himself a valuable addition to modern horror writers.
I have no idea why the Kindle edition identifies this book as Writing a Novel with Ulysses III as there is no version 3 of the program (it’s at version 2.7 as of March 2017 and the book is based on version 2.6. The differences between these versions have no impact on the advice offered). That aside, David Hewson’s book–more of a booklet, really–is a fine guide on covering the basics and some of the specifics in using Ulysses to write a novel. As a bonus, he also includes a chapter on how to use the program to write a screenplay or radio script, too.
Ulysses bills itself as a “pleasant, focused writing experience.” It’s a minimalist writing program, using plain text with markdown to provide a very clean writing environment. As with similar programs like WriteMonkey, it is meant to be a distraction-free way to write, where almost all formatting is handled separately from the actual writing, through an export process done after the project is complete.
Ulysses is not a complicated program. In use, it is rather the opposite and intentionally so. It wants to get out of the way so you can just write. The value in this book is in how Hewson concisely covers its features while offering enough specific tips to further smooth the experience without having to search forums or other resources for information. The combination of his writing experience and familiarity with the software work well to provide advice that is of immediate usefulness.
He peppers the book with general writing advice while also encouraging writers to use their own approach if their methods don’t match his own. You may organize your manuscript, research material, and other notes differently, but Hewson’s suggestions in regards to Ulysses remain useful.
Overall, this is a quick, useful read for anyone interested in fiction writing and has chosen Ulysses for the task. It has helped me to better organize and tweak my writing projects.
This is a fine story and an interesting idea–what would a group of dogs do if suddenly given human intelligence? The problem comes not in the quality of the novel but in terms of my expectations of it.
(Minor spoilers follow but they reveal nothing the reader won’t encounter in the first few pages.)
The framing device of the story is that the gods Hermes and Apollo place a bet on whether a group of dogs, given human intelligence, would be happy at the time of their deaths. Occasionally Hermes, Apollo, Zeus and other gods step in to interfere or complicate matters further for the dogs.
I found this a little too twee and it also saps much of the emotional depth of the novel, since the author has a literal set of gods that can and do change things on a whim. Just as the reader becomes immersed in the struggles of the dogs to balance their canine and human selves (one dog creates poetry, even as he still craves to eat poop) another scene comes along that reads like a smirking college paper interpretation of the Greek pantheon, employing a droll sort of wit that wears thin quickly.
My other problem with the story is the strong tone of the author’s voice. With (god-like?) omniscience, the author often explains precisely what every character is thinking, whether they are right or wrong, what consequences are to come and so on. At times it feels more like reading a detailed summary of events rather than vicariously experiencing them.
Still, these are deliberate style choices and while they didn’t work well for me, it is very much a matter of personal taste. The meat of the story still holds up so anyone who appreciates the framing will simply appreciate the novel all the more.
Given the unique subject matter and the way the author Alexis commits to the dogs’ perspective, I would still recommend Fifteen Dogs, just be aware of what you’re getting before jumping in.
As always when reading older science fiction–this collection of stories dates from the early 1950s–it’s important to remember what we take for granted today, what actually transpired over the last 60+ years, and how attitudes have changed regarding the sexes.
Regarding the latter, one of the longer stories, “Holiday on the Moon”, is a sweet tale that ends with a girl who becomes so entranced by what she sees while visiting the moon with her family that she (secretly) decides to pursue a career in “the quest for the secret of the stars.”
Clarke usually couches his technology in sufficiently magic-like explanations but there are still amusing bits, like when a futuristic submarine relays important information to its pilot by way of a ticker-tape machine.
This particular collection–the middle of a trilogy–focuses most of its stories on space travel and the moon. The opening story “The Sentinel”, which ultimately led to 2001: A Space Odyssey is about the discovery of an obviously alien machine on the moon (not the famous monolith). My favorite part is how attempts to analyze the machine result in its destruction.
A number of stories highlight the dangers in creating and then trying to control new technology, ranging from machines that can record and playback thoughts, to others that can allow one to control another mind–provided the batteries hold out. Clarke offers a wry, not quite cynical take on the inventors and scientists in these stories, highlighting both the dangers of technology and the fallibility of humans.
The strong voice of the author–almost a narrator in some of the stories–may feel anachronistic today but it also gives the stories the feel of someone sharing a good yarn. You know, sitting by a cozy fire in a pub and hearing about that time two guys talked about parallel dimensions and then got devoured by a monstrous alien beast of some sort when they merely thought that in some dimension they’d be attacked by a tiger.
In the end, I enjoyed this collection for both the strength and imagination of Clarke’s writing and as a kind of time capsule that captures the prevailing moods of the early 1950s, when the threat of the atom bomb loomed over everything and the promise of space travel and all the possibilities it could open, was tantalizingly close.
Sean Trinder’s The Guy Who Pumps Your Gas Hates You is part of NeWest Press’ Nunatak First Fiction Series. As stated in the introduction, these books are “specially selected works of outstanding fiction by new western writers.” This is Trinder’s first novel, and though the author draws heavily on his own experience and background (“write what you know,” indeed) he does it with a sure hand, authentically (and as the title makes clear, humorously) capturing the angst of suburban youth.
The short novel tells the story of Brendan, a 20 year old living in the small Manitoba town of Oakbank. Brendan is at that awkward age between teenager and adult, where life is open to possibilities and the fear of making the wrong choice–or sometimes any choice–can lead to paralysis and inaction, dooming yourself to a life of mediocrity and failed ambitions.
As the story begins, Brendan acknowledges that he is quite good at pumping gas, then admits that no one should ever become quite good at pumping gas. From there he details his daily life, which consists of working at the gas station, getting into regular arguments with his father (his mother having long-since divorced and moved to Toronto), hanging out with his friends, smoking, drinking, and yearning to have a career as a writer. Also, more smoking. Lots and lots of smoking. Export Gold is almost another character here.
Brendan grows increasingly frustrated by his life, feeling trapped in his hometown, and seeks escape by taking an evening writing class. There he meets the “older” woman Anne, who is 27. When you’re 20 every adult approaching 30 seems old. They hit it off and become friends and then start dating. There are ups and downs.
The same happens with Brendan’s friends. They enjoy spending their weekends drinking, smoking pot and drinking more. They insist it is normal and proper for guys in their early 20s to do these things, but Brendan begins to bristle at the routine.
Eventually everything comes to a head–the relationship with Anne sours over a revelation, a party with his friends goes sideways, a fight with his father ends with him wondering if he’ll be kicked out of the house.
At times the story almost reads like a diary, with Brendan’s first person voice providing a level of intimacy beyond just telling what happens. You find out what size his penis is, which comes out of his confession that he doesn’t like talking about sex. It sounds weird, but it works.
As a coming of age story, The Guy Who Pumps Your Gas Hates You doesn’t do anything especially new, but the tone is consistent and witty, and though Brendan occasionally has, you know, opinions, he never comes off as obnoxious or unlikable. The spartan scenes work surprisingly well in sketching out the life of the protagonist as he reaches a crossroads.
My only real complaint is that some of the bones here could use more meat. A number of plot elements hint at more–such as the increasingly shady behavior of the drug dealer contact–but are left unexplored.
Overall, though, this is an entertaining and engaging debut. I’m jealous. My first novel was a half-baked piece of science fiction. Not even half-baked. Maybe one-quarter baked, then dropped on the floor when I took it out of the oven, after which the dog ate it, threw it up, then ate it again.
As someone who was once an angsty 20 year old myself, I related to Brendan’s struggles, even if my own path involved a lot less sex, drugs and rock and roll. I’m not entirely sure how well someone who was not an angsty 20 year old guy would appreciate Brendan’s trials and tribulations, but it’s ultimately a sweet story. Recommended.
Odd Hours by Dean Koontz
