A Loop is a Loop is a Loop . . .

I slept in this morning--I think I went to bed without setting my alarm. I wasn't following my normal pattern, because I was all wrapped up in giving myself a pedicure before going to bed. I soaked my feet in the tub, did the scraper/buffer thing, and then took the lotion into my room to slather on my feet before putting on socks. I was so enchanted by my lovely soft feet, and the fact that I could snuggle into the comforter with a game of Scrabble on my phone, that I guess I forgot all about the clock.

I woke up a full hour later than normal, and only then because I heard car horns blowing outside, ten minutes after the time I usually make the Thursday morning pick-up of The Boy, who sleeps at his dad’s on Wednesday nights. I gathered my wits about me and made The Boy walk the mile to my house--he'd have been late for school if he'd waited for me to shower and get ready, and then drive up there, because the traffic snarl is terrible near C’s house at that time of the morning. Driving the mile through our neighborhoods takes five minutes normally, but after about 7:10, forget it—it takes forever.

So The Boy walked, and the timing was perfect: He came into the alley as I was pulling out of the garage. Granted, we were both, as SpongeBob once said, “Late for bein’ early,” which means The Boy missed out on his time playing football in the gym before school, and I missed my morning leisure time (I usually pack or pick up breakfast, which I eat in my car or office before work while I read or knit and listen to an audio book in lovely peace), but we were both on time for what counted, and I guess that’s all that matters.

I have very little to report in the way of anything else. I did some much-needed clothes shopping last weekend, but as it was much-needed, the purchases themselves were unremarkable: I replaced some faded and/or worn out standards with some brand new standards, so I can go to work without look like the Poor Little Match Girl. I’m in the process of hemming the pants, though, which is kind of . . . not exciting at all, is it? See? I have nothing. I haven’t finished any knitting projects (Christmas shawl for my mom and Christmas scarf for C) lately, and . . . oh! Wait! Books!

I just read How I Became a Famous Novelist, and it was an odd and interesting reading experience. Reading about reading is always fun, but reading about reading and writing is the kind of meta that makes me want to write about reading, and then the whole thing becomes a Mobius Strip in my head and makes me feel like I should dedicate myself to doing some kind of important, culture-saving work. Yikes. Allow me to calm down and back up for a minute.

The book is about a smart young guy (I pictured the main character as Chuck Klosterman, whose books I enjoy both despite and because of his similarities to HIBAFN’s main character. I wonder how he would feel about that?) who breezes his way through school and college and finds himself an overeducated English major with little in the way of employable skills and no desire to go to law school like the so-called love of his life who abandoned him, and at whose upcoming wedding he is dying to extract revenge. He fumbles around for a while until he comes across an article about a best-selling writer who’s depicted in a sort of Robert James Waller, Bridges of Madison County vein. I think. The fictional author who gathers our protagonist’s interest is salt-of-the-earthier, but Waller popped into my head right away.

Anyway, this author’s incredible success in what the main character sees as posing and fooling readers sparks an, “If HE can do it, why can’t I,” moment. He wanders around a Barnes & Noble, noting titles and collecting ideas, persuades his med-school roommate to give him samples of a Ridalin-like drug to focus his attention, and then sits down and bangs out a novel—The Tornado Ashes Club—using every trope and affectation he can think of, often to hilarious effect. He really and truly nails it, and Steve Hely, who wrote HIBAFN, includes passages from the first novel and aborted attempts, the bulleted lists, excerpts from others’ novels in the Dan Brown, Robert Patterson, etc. ilk, an AWESOME fictional version of the NYT Best Sellers list, and other tidbits that make the whole thing even more fun to read.

Then again, the total package of the novel makes you wonder. It makes you wonder (not for the first time—admit it) if you could become a famous novelist. If you’re as cynical as the main character. If you know what’s good. If it matters what you read, or even that you read at all.

It’s a fast, easy read, and definitely worth checking out.

And . . . I guess I had more to say than I thought. Next time I’ll talk about the book I’m reading now, Lev Grossman’s cool and fun The Magicians.