Short fiction is awesome. I’m not sure why I didn’t see it before. My preference for books is, of course, founded on the fact that I track how many books I read and generally only consider counting short stories when it suits my arbitrary fancy (read: when it pads my numbers).
But a short fiction anthology is totally a book, and John Joseph Adams has produced a bunch of them. I read (and loved) The End is Nigh, and now I’ve finished another terrific addition to his personal pantheon, Robot Uprisings. From the website:
At the helm of this project are Daniel H. Wilson—bestselling novelist and expert in robotics—and John Joseph Adams—bestselling editor of more than a dozen science fiction/fantasy anthologies. Together, they have drawn on their wide-ranging contacts to assemble a talented group of authors eager to attack the topic of robot uprisings from startling and fascinating angles.
Featuring work by Hugh Howey, Seanan McGuire, Scott Sigler, Charles Yu, Anna North, Robin Wasserman, Ernest Cline, Jeff Abbott, Julianna Baggott, and many more, plus a new novella from Daniel H. Wilson.
I normally link an image with an affiliate thingy, hoping that if someone buys the book it’ll earn me a few pennies with Barnes & Noble, but in this case I’m linking back to John Joseph Adams’s website, because I’d rather he get the credit. (The blurb above mentions that Daniel H. Wilson was also onboard, and he and Adams were recently Guest Geeks on The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy. Great stuff!)
It’s true that I’m a fan of the robot uprising genre, having really enjoyed Robopocalypse (and recently re-read and re-really-enjoyed it in anticipation of the sequel coming out), but there’s something really great about short fiction in regard to the genre. Robopocalypse has a great scope to it, taking us from the nascence of the uprising through its conclusion (though the sequel would seem to indicate it wasn’t entirely concluded), but short fiction allows for cool concepts without the burden of having to chase down every idea and finish them off.
Plus, an anthology of stories has the benefit of getting looks not only from different authors, but from a variety of perspectives. What makes it a robot uprising? Does it have to be humanoid robots? What about nanomachines? And how sophisticated must the robots be? How might humanity recover from an uprising? All these and more are explored in the collection, and it’s absolutely tremendous stuff.
On the whole, I’d still give the nod to The End is Nigh in terms of overall rating, but there’s no question that if you’re a sci-fi fan who likes to think about the Singularity and robot uprisings, you’ll get a kick out of this one.
The standout story in this one, to me, was “We are All Misfit Toys in the Aftermath of the Velveteen War,” by Seanan McGuire. I won’t even spoil it, because it’s absolutely tremendous. The concept is almost absurd, but that’s what makes the story so compelling. I’d recommend the whole anthology just for this story.
(Just had to restrain myself from giving more details about that story. It’s incredibly awesome.)
I need to get back to reading The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination (another John Joseph Adams collection) now that I’m on a short fiction kick. Alas, I’m reading the latest Koontz, and I’ve got Robogenesis and Earth Awakens coming out in the next month or so, and I’m re-reading Jurassic Park for the podcast. (BTW, we’ll be recording about Death Race 2000 – based on a short story – this weekend, so if you have thoughts, head over to the website and leave some.
I guess if I tried to make a case that I’m not a fan of Michael Crichton’s books, the biggest line of evidence I’d have to overcome is the fact that I’ve read eighteen of his books. Seriously. Now, I haven’t enjoyed them all or anything…(*cough* Micro *cough*)
For the most part, though, I definitely am a fan of his books. One summer I found that my sister had a shelf full of Crichton’s books and I worked my way through them in a few weeks. If I recall correctly, the list was:
- The Andromeda Strain
- The Great Train Robbery
- The Terminal Man
- Eaters of the Dead
- Jurassic Park
Eventually I caught up with Crichton’s major publications, and then it was just a matter of keeping up with whatever he put out. In fact, I even kept up with some of his stuff that got published after he died! BTW, I’ll let you in on a little secret here: Pirate Latitudes was pretty awesome. Micro was not.
So anyway, I thought I was done with Crichton since after Micro I’ve given up on seeking out further titles that get dusted off and finished. And then came the podcast. By the way, I host a podcast! Did I mention the podcast? It’s called Take Me To Your Reader, and we talk about books or stories that turned into well-known films. Well, someone finally noticed long enough to lob a suggested title at us, and it was a Crichton I’d previously read and had the misfortune to have seen the film adaptation of: Timeline.
In a way, Timeline is Crichton at his best. He starts with a non-fiction premise, namely the rise of quantum physics and quantum computing, then weaves a fictional story around science fact. And it’s fairly successful on a first reading. It didn’t totally hold up on this subsequent reading, though.
So here’s the plot: archaeologists and historians are at a dig in France when they make a discovery of an apparent modern artifact in a newly discovered site. And there’s a note, written six hundred years ago, asking for help. And it’s from the head of the dig. (Who had previously left the country.)
The Big Bad Overlord Corporation (TM) gives them a chance to rescue their friend. The characters are given a whirlwind introduction to the wonders of quantum teleportation, which cannot be used for time travel. Time travel is impossible. Except the professor totally ended up in the past. Still, quantum physics means never having to explain yourself, so we go with it. Just remember that there’s no time travel. (BTW, we dig into this on the podcast.)
The team heads back (er, to another universe) to retrieve the professor, and it’s a team specifically selected for historical knowledge, language and cultural knowledge, and some good old fashioned guts. And rock climbing. Can’t underestimate the value of rock climbing. Also, some redshirts go along with them. What better way to show the situation is serious than having someone lose their head two minutes after arrival?
Of course, France in the 14th Century is a dangerous place, and they’re thrown right into the middle of a conflict between the French and English. And they get separated, and something very bad happens to the transport room. So there’s that.
I’m writing this as if I didn’t enjoy the book, and the fact is that I did. The parts of the book set in the past are really engaging, and some of the characters are tremendously compelling. But this has always been a weak point for Crichton: he’ll over-develop some characters and give others almost no attention. For instance, there’s a love story that I guess has to happen, and it’s straight out of the George Lucas Prequel handbook: take two good-looking people of opposite sex, and they fall in love. And that’s the love story. Sparked by this gem:
Chris was still grinning, and he seemed so confident and amused, and she had the feeling that she had never noticed, never been aware, that he was quite an attractive man, that he had a certain genuine appeal.
Tell me that’s not one of the worst lines of prose you’ve ever read, even eliminating the run-on nature of the sentence.
Crichton was never huge on character development, and his prose was never anything to wax rhapsodic about (unlike John Wyndham’s amazing prose in The Day of the Triffids). He was all about the concept and execution of a technically plausible and compelling story. He never let a little thing like writing it well get in the way.
And do you know what? It works. His concepts are good enough that they drive the narrative despite some fairly ham-handed writing. Though he absolutely had a problem coming up with good endings. Timeline is a notably decent exception to that trend, though.
The main flaw of the book is that the present day story is mostly superfluous, showing the machinations of the Guy We’re Supposed To Be Okay With Getting Totally Screwed At the End, but I’d argue that spending time to make us dislike someone is more on the telling, not showing scale of things. Even without those unnecessary scenes, the character was already intensely dislikeable.
Still and all, it’s an enjoyable and quick read, just not quite as quick as I’d have liked.
As for the film adaptation, well you’ll just have to give the podcast a listen in order to find out what we thought. And let us know what you thought.
Next up, it’s another John Joseph Adams anthology, Robot Uprisings.
As with Farewell to the Master, it’s difficult to classify this one as a book, but since you can find it bound as such, it totally counts even though it’s listed at 69 pages on its Goodreads listing, it totally counts toward my yearly book reading.
There’s something charming about old science fiction. If you tried to write a story today about how a man and fly’s head and arm got swapped, you’d have a hard sell. You’ve got to make it more plausibly science-y these days. The 1986 film The Fly took a crack at it, but it’s still basically what TV Tropes calls “Art Major Science.” Okay, so a dude and a fly get in a teleporter together and get merged at the molecular/genetic level. Fine. But what about the air in the chamber? The bacteria on the surface of the telepod? Nothing?
I’ve now seen both major adaptations of the George Langelaan short story, and I can definitively say I prefer the 1986 film. The 1958 film is certainly more faithful to the book, and the screenplay was written by James Clavell, one of my favorite authors. But I think that in sticking so close to the source, the 1958 film missed an opportunity to elevate the material. Also, it botched the ending a bit.
If you haven’t read the story, I have to recommend that you do so. It’s included in a bazillion science fiction and horror anthologies, and it’ll take you maybe an hour to read, and it’s a pretty terrific story. Seriously, go do it. I don’t want to spoil it for you. What I really want to do is write a bit about why I favor the 1986 adaptation over the original.
If you’ve seen the 1958 film, you’ve basically read the story, albeit with a slightly better and slightly worse ending, with an awesome animatronic spider and one of the great scenes in film history, but also with a conclusion that’s a little too happy. I preferred the way the book handled it.
(By the way, did I mention we discussed the story and both films in the latest episode of Take Me To Your Reader?)
I’m actually writing up a piece about how I enjoy films that adapt a written work but take great liberties in doing so for the sake of crafting a better story. There’s nothing terribly wrong with The Fly, but the 1958 film doesn’t improve on the material. The 1986 film does.
What if the transformation wasn’t instant? What if the new fly-man reproduced? How would his transformation unfold? Would he slowly become more bestial, or would it improve him? These are the questions the newer film answers, and it’s crucial to note that there are almost always unanswered questions in fiction that should be answered by an adaptation.
Plus, the film is gorious. (This was not a typo, and it’s totally a word meaning “gloriously gory.”) The transformation into what the producers of the film called “The Space Fly” is relentless and just downright awesome.
Have you seen the 1958 film? The 1986 remake? Have you read the story? I’d be curious to get your thoughts on any of them, either here or over on the podcast episode I linked above. (Also linked here)
And what about film adaptations? Should they be faithful no matter what, or is it permissible to improve on a story by changing it?
I’m working on a couple of books right now, including Timeline, by Michael Crichton, which was suggested for our podcast. So I’ll be reading that over the next week or so, and I’ve got a couple of other things in the works.
(Also, we have a podcast.)
I’m not generally given to hyperbole (though it is the BEST THING EVER!!!), but it’s difficult to overstate the awesomeness of Andy Weir’s The Martian. It’s Apollo 13 meets Castaway, minus Tom Hanks, plus a lot of swearing, with a bit of MacGyver mixed in, wrapped up in Gravity. What’s not to love?
The story is really quite simple in setup. During an early evacuation from a Mars mission, on crewmember is injured and loses contact with his crew. Presuming him dead (because of his biometric equipment being disabled and his vitals showing flat-lines), they end up leaving him behind.
Mark Watney, the eponymous Martian, then has to figure out how to survive until the next mission shows up. He has some food, due to NASA’s over-preparedness and the fact of the early evacuation, but he must make it last more than a year when the mission was provisioned for a month. He also needs water, which he can make by burning hydrogen and oxygen. Which is also known as ROCKET FUEL!! So yeah, not everything is easy or safe. Then he has to figure out how to get to the site of the next Mars mission, all without being able to talk to NASA. Fun!
I first heard of the book on the Science Friday podcast and knew it had to make it onto my reading list for the year. Library2Go was an easy choice since I prefer to read on my NOOK. Hold Request came through, and I gave it a leisurely four day read-through.
It’s fast paced and interesting, verging on geek overload at points, but never straying into Clancy territory for too long. It’s certainly possible that to the non-engineer types out there it’d be too heavy on the details of how he kludges stuff together, but it was a perfect fit for me (and also got the approval of one of my Pavement Pounder buddies).
I really don’t want to go into much more about the plot, so let me just sum up and give this one a big recommendation. Seriously, it’s tremendous fun and the kind of book that’d be perfect for a plane trip or anytime you’ve got a few hours you’d like to pleasantly pass.
I guess should point out the book is littered with a lot of colorful metaphors, but I can hardly fault a guy stranded on Mars for cursing a bit. I’ll be curious if the inevitable film adaptation will cut down a bit on the swearing to hit a PG-13 rating. I imagine it will.
I mentioned I heard about this book first on Science Friday, but then The Incomparable did a Book Club episode on it and it got a mention on The Skeptic’s Guide to the Universe. So it’s making the Podcast rounds. Speaking of which…
The Pavement Pounders Podcast (aka Take Me To Your Reader) is up and running, with two episodes posted and a third in the editing phase. Head over to our site if you want to see what we’re doing next. And leave us a comment, will you? Or a Facebook like. And here ends the podcast advertisement.
I may write up something for The Fly, which incidentally is the topic of our forthcoming podcast, though I may give it a pass, too. I’m back to reading Jim Gaffigan’s Dad is Fat, and I just picked up Man in the Empty Suit and Death By Food Pyramid. So I’ve got some reading to do. And I’ve got some NOOK money to burn, so I may just pick up Shift. Who knows?
When I think of cheesy science fiction movies, The Day of the Triffids is always quick to pop up on my list. Soylent Green is right up there, too, but I remember watching Triffids with my dad and being singularly unimpressed. But still, it has a special place in my heart because of that connection.
Having recently embarked on a podcast about adapted science fiction, it had to be on the list. Plus, a blogger whose opinion I trust had recommended the book some time ago. I still haven’t gone back to watch the movie (or either BBC miniseries adaptation), but the book is well worth a look. (And we’ll totally do an episode about it as soon as one of my co-hosts gets off his duff and reads it.)
In many ways, it’s the typical post-apocalyptic story: something bad happens, and those left unscathed must learn to survive in the new reality. In this case, a spectacular stellar event robs those who view it (and practically the whole world does) of their sight. In the wake of the disaster, though, a highly-advanced and lethal plant begins to take over. Triffids, ambulatory plants cultivated for their valuable oils and other byproducts, now have free reign of England. Their deadly stings combined with the obvious disadvantage of their victims turns the tide in their favor.
Obviously, some parts of the book reminded me of Blindness just due to the nature of the difficulty experienced by the humans in the story. But while that book focused on one sighted woman and her community of blind companions in a quarantine facility, The Day of the Triffids focuses mostly on one man, Bill Masen. And blindness isn’t really an antagonist in the story.
He wakes on the last day of his hospitalization following a nonlethal triffid strike. Ironically, his temporary blindness spares him from the effects of the meteor shower, for he wasn’t able to see it. He wakes to an eerily quiet world.
When a day that you happen to know is Wednesday starts off by sounding like Sunday, there is something seriously wrong somewhere.
Sight isn’t his only advantage, for he is a scientist who is more than a little familiar with triffids and how to deal with them. The action of the book is his attempt to get to safety with a sighted woman he encounters.
One odd thing about the book is that while the triffids are definitely the titular antagonists, some of the more pressing problems encountered by Bill and Josella involve other people. And sometimes the antagonist becomes the new reality of the quiet and solitude.
Now I was really on my own I could not shut out the sense of loneliness. Until then I had always though of loneliness as something negative---an absence of company, and, of course, something temporary….That day I had learned that it was much more. It was something which could press and oppress could distort the ordinary, and play tricks with the mind. Something which lurked inimically all around, stretching the nerves and twanging them with alarms, never letting one forget that there was no one to help, no one to care. It showed one as an an atom adrift in vastness, and it waited all the time its chance to frighten and frighten horribly – that was what loneliness was really trying to do ; and that was what one must never let it do….
To deprive a gregarious creature of companionship is to maim it, to outrage its nature. The prisoner and the cenobite are aware that the herd exists beyond their exile; they are an aspect of it. But when the herd no longer exists there is, for the herd creature, no longer entity. He is part of no whole; a freak without a place. If he cannot hold onto his reason, he is lost indeed; most utterly, most fearfully lost, so that he becomes no more than the twitch in the limb of a corpse.
Did I mention the book is brilliantly written? Oh, it’s not perfect, but the prose is outstanding as you see above.
Imagine the solitude that would result from the collapse of our society. Our connected society. Even though I’m someone who enjoys lonely places and quiet solitude, it makes me shudder a bit to think of our connectedness being removed.
As I mentioned, there’s some interesting social commentary, as they encounter more than one group of survivors with very different ideas of how to rebuild society. One group wants to chuck out the morals of the lost society and forge ahead with new ones, while another wishes to enforce essentially a theocracy in order to maintain order and civility. And still another wants to take advantage of the likely global situation to erect a new empire with Britain at the head.
My gripes with the book are fairly minor. The pace is on the slower side, though not all the way to H.G. Wells or Tolkien territory. (Yes, I dislike Tolkien a fair bit.) The book doesn’t lend itself well to reading in spurts, partially due to pacing, but also partially just by the nature of the immersion you need to get the story. So if you’ve got a few hours available, like a plane or train ride, I highly recommend this book for concentrated reading.
The other issue is that while Bill Masen is an adequate protagonist, for much of the book the action sort of happens to him rather than having him drive the narrative by his actions. But as it’s a first-hand account, I guess I can’t fault him for not being Jack Bauer. He just relates what happens, even if it’s unflattering to his potential future as an action hero.
One other minor gripe is the ending, which was substantially different than the one I remember from the film. I certainly don’t object to things being changed in adaptations, but I think the filmmakers felt they needed more of an ending than that provided by the book. It’s not really a terrible thing having the ending left a bit open, but I thought I’d warn you.
Overall, I’m definitely filing this under pleasant surprises. I’ve said in the past that we hold these truths to be self-evident, that the book is always better than the movie. And in this case, I definitely agree. (But will reassess once I’ve seen the other adaptations of it.)
(Incidentally, in the review that featured the line “we hold these truths to be self-evident,” I concluded that it’s not always true. The Princess Bride is the exception. Tune in to our podcast to see how Farewell to the Master and Planet of the Apes held up against their big-screen adaptations.)
Having recently embarked on a quest to start a podcast dedicated to adapted science fiction (films from books/short stories), I was interested to learn that the upcoming Tom Cruise film Edge of Tomorrow was based on a Japanese novel with a much cooler name: All You Need is Kill.
I’m curious if the translators of the title went deliberately for something that sounded a bit like a title you’d find on Engrish.com, or if there’s supposed to be a slide from “is” to “kill,” making the title sound like All You Need is Skill. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the latter were true, though I wouldn’t be surprised at the former, either.
This is an interesting book in a lot of ways. It’s fairly light reading, but not for kids due to your run-of-the-mill salty language typical of fictional depiction of folks in the military. (Which I understand is probably toned down from reality.) It’s also quite bloody, which I generally regard as awesome, particularly if I get a bit of an Aliens vibe from the whole thing, which I do. But it’s also got some smart science fiction in it, or at least smart enough that I could suspend disbelief and just go with it.
The premise is that an advanced alien species sent a xenoforming ship to Earth in advance of an invasion, or perhaps as the invasion (it’s never totally clear). (BTW, xenoforming is the analogue to what we’d call terraforming, or creating a habitat suitable for Earthborn life on another world. It’s just done in the opposite direction. And harmful to human life. Sort of like the b.s. stuff from Man of Steel that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.)
As part of the terraforming effort, biologically engineered critters began mimicking Earth forms in order to create foot soldiers. Mass producing them and making them tough nuts to crack. Hard to kill. But they were given a particular advantage that I’ll have to wade deep into spoiler territory about.
This is where the spoilers be. Read on at your own risk, though if you’ve seen the trailer for the film, you’ll know essentially what I’m about to spoil.
The mimics have the ability to send out a tachyon pulse or something else suitably Star Trekky into the past in order to learn from battles and adjust strategy. So the battles occur in essentially alternate futures, sort of, but present themselves as hyper-realistic dreams to those affected by the pulse. So they really don’t take place. I guess. It’s trippy, but I bought it.
Our hero (almost wrote hiro, as in Hiro Nakamura from Heroes) is Keiji Kiriya, a fresh recruit with the United Defense Force, hopelessly out of his depth in his first battle. His friend is killed, and he is confronted by a mimic. Carnage ensues and…he wakes up the day before the battle.
At first he shakes it off as just a dream, but when it keeps happening, he begins to toy with his Groundhog Day-like opportunity. He tries to escape. Wakes up in the same spot. Kills himself. Wakes up in the same spot. Learns. Eventually he makes contact with another soldier who has experienced the same phenomenon and learns how to break out of it, but that’s the fun part, so I won’t spoil it.
I’ll be curious how the film will adapt the premise, and I can already tell from the trailer that there’s some character consolidation. Totally cool with that. If you’re going to have Emily Blunt around, keep her on the screen as much as possible. Especially since I anticipate being able to connect with her character more than Tom Cruise’s. Just sayin’.
I’m going to leave it at that and post two reviews back to back. Next up is The Day of the Triffids, and it’s pretty terrific. The book, that is, not the titular disaster premise.
At this point, what is there to say about Rick Riordan’s Heroes of Olympus series? The books are still fun and interesting, and The House of Hades is a fine and inoffensive entry in the series, but am I the only one who’s looking forward to the series ending?
Maybe it’s just that if you’ve written a review about one, you’ve reviewed them all, and having written up all the Percy Jackson & The Olympians series (five books) and now four books in the Heroes of Olympus series, I’m basically out of words.
It comes down to this: everything the series as a whole has done right, this book does. It’s got fun dialogue, interesting characters, fascinating situations and places from Greek mythology and is generally a decent way to blow a few hours of reading. But the story is still going and it’s basically a cliffhanger. To say nothing of the fact that I’ve essentially forgotten what happened in the book.
This is coming off negative, and I want to emphasize here that I enjoyed this book as much as any of the others, or at least close to it. I guess I’m just noticing some diminishing returns. Which sort of contradicts what I just wrote. I guess my enjoyment of each book is going down just through sheer repetition. Yes, different things happen, but they happen in basically the same way.
I’ll still read the final entry in the series, if for nothing else that it should wrap things up and put a bow on the series. My enjoyment-meter may even tick up a few notches just for the fact of the series ending.
And yes, I’ll probably pick up the next series Riordan writes, though I make no commitment to reading the whole thing, as I left off the Kane Chronicles after one book and don’t really plan on going back to it.
So there’s that. I’ve actually got another review queued up right behind this one, so I’ll get that posted in a few minutes. (Gotta give it another read-through.)
The Fault in Our Stars isn’t my kind of book. In fiction, I tend to read more in the World is Ending or Things Are Blowing Up sections of the bookstore. Even my YA reading tends to be in that category. In fact, I’m trying to think what book with a female protagonist not existing in some kind of dystopia or post-apocalyptic world that I last read.
So yeah, it’s not really the kind of book I’m a fan of. I am, however, a fan of John Green. I love his Mental Floss videos; his vlogbrothers stuff is also wildly entertaining, and Crash Course is one of the greatest things to come around since most other things (U.S. History is my favorite).
So a few weeks ago, when I was faced with major amounts of downtime due to the State Swimming Championships, I read three books. On the last day I was in town I stopped in at the library, thinking that such a weekend would be a good time to just pick something up and knock it out, and since I’d seen so many good reviews of TFIOS, I grabbed it.
Totally worth it. Disclaimer: this book will likely cause you to weep. Results may vary, of course. There may have been slightly-detectable chokedupness in me, though I have a heart of stone and am not normally prone to such experiences. So it could slay you if you’re prone to, you know, emotions and stuff.
The book is told in the first person by Hazel Grace Lancaster, a teenaged girl living with cancer. It’s funny, it’s brutally honest, and it’s obvious that John Green has met actual people with cancer. The book is aware of other entries in the canon of Cancer Fiction and rejects the notion that cancer sufferers are somehow more or less human than the rest of us. They can be happy. Or sad. Or angry. Or all of these. They may be brave. They may be terrified. Or both. Or neither.
I can’t really say much else about the book that hasn’t been said better by a million other people, so I’ll just say that it’s a tremendously good book even for a stonehearted curmudgeon like me. There is the issue of premarital sex that I’ve seen brought up, but I really didn’t have any issue with the way it was handled. The whole narrative felt real to me, and real teenagers sometimes have sex. There’s also some salty language, but again it never felt forced, and it wasn’t anything like excessive.
If you’re interested, here’s an old vlogbrothers video of John reading the first chapter of the book. He’s an excellent narrator, actually (takes him a bit of time to get going because he’s doing a live YouTube video):
I’m still planning to get a review of The Cay out if I can convince my son to combine on it, but that could take a bit of bribing or berating to get done. Probably both. In the meantime, remember that thing I mentioned about books from the Things Are Blowing Up section? Well, I’ve got another entry from that category in Hiroshi Sakurazaka’s All You Need is Kill, which is the basis for the upcoming Tom Cruise vehicle Edge of Tomorrow, which is a title that make sense but is substantially less awesome than All You Need is Kill. The book is also pretty awesome.
I’m also slowly making my way through The Day of the Triffids and just picked up Jim Gaffigan’s Dad is Fat, which totally only applies to the author and in no way to me.
I keep reading about how great The Bullpen Gospels is, and it’s probably strange that I’ve read its two follow-up books, Out of My League and Bigger Than the Game (and the eBook Wild Pitches) before reading the book that started it all. But if the strength of the other volumes is any indication, I’m in for a treat.
Hayhurst pulls back the curtain on life in professional baseball in such a winning way that it’s hard to do anything but rave about the latest book. The Bullpen Gospels (from what I know) is set entirely in the various levels of the minor leagues, while Out of My League has him in the high minors and transitioning to the majors. (His Portland connection was one thing that initially attracted me to the book.)
In this latest volume, Bigger Than the Game: Restitching a Major League Life, he’s coming off a decent year pitching for Toronto, getting ready for another season in the Bigs when he injures his shoulder. He’s also coming up on the publication of his first book, which makes him somewhat unpopular with a vocal minority of his teammates. These two things don’t mix well.
Hayhurst is great at giving us a look at the behind-the-scenes life of a professional ballplayer without throwing anyone under the bus or over-sensationalizing anything. But the real strength of this book is in his personal story of struggle with depression brought on by the weight of his own expectations of himself, his feelings about being injured, getting paid well to not actually play baseball during his recovery and rehab, and his alienation (sometimes real, sometimes imagined) from his teammates. The coping mechanisms of your average ballplayer aren’t what I’d call healthy, and Hayhurst doesn’t call them that, either.
How often can you take sleeping pills before it’s a problem? How much beer can you drink? Is this actual pain I’m taking these pills for? At what point should I ask for help? How will that affect my career going forward?
The structure of the book is interesting, going a bit nonlinear by detailing the injury and the first half of his rehab, his descent into depression and a bit of substance abuse (not addiction, but overuse), and his decision to finally seek help. As he interacts with the team shrink, the narrative shifts back to the previous season and the nascence of his alienation from some of his teammates. This is where most of the classic Hayhurst Hilarity shows up, and I liked that it was sandwiched between the more serious bookends of the beginnings of his struggles to their eventual resolution.
Not to say that there isn’t anything funny in the rest of the book, because the part about his social media faux pas with wrestler Triple H is as funny as anything I’ve read since Hayhurst’s last book (though not quite as funny as the Japanese baseball prank from Wild Pitches).
If he keeps cranking these things out, I’ll keep reading them. I made an exception to my general rule about not paying full price for an eBook for this one, though it was at least slightly discounted, so my rule is totally still intact. Yeah, that’s it.
I’m a bit behind on my reviewing schedule. I guess I still need to write up something for The House of Hades, though I’m not sure what I could write that I haven’t written before. And I recently read The Cay, which is a YA classic. I’m thinking of co-reviewing that one with the Swimmer Dude as he also read it for class. And then there’s The Fault in Our Stars, which I’m apparently the last person to have read. So maybe I’ll hit up one or more of those in the near future.
My sister asked for memories about Mom for a birthday book she was compiling, so I thought it’d be appropriate to post my thought here as well as in the print book. So here it is, slightly updated from the print version, because I remembered something else!
One thing I definitely remember is the whistling. Mom had a tremendous whistle, one of the only sounds our dog would actually respond to other than “Wanna go for a walk?” But then there was that other whistle. The whistle you’d only hear when you were doing something you really knew you shouldn’t do, picking on a sister you knew you shouldn’t be picking on, or just generally being a bad boy when being a good boy was clearly required.
The whistle of the impending meeting between buttocks and that cursed slotted-wooden spoon.
You never saw it coming, but you could hear it. That whistle, that smack, and then the slow realization that you had a surprisingly accurate picture in your head of what that welt would look like the next day. And the knowledge that you so had it coming.
Mom was big on the ambush, and it was effective. Dad was better at working the dread machine. Go to your room and imagine your impending doom. Judgment cometh, and that right quickly. But not as quickly as you’d like.
Mom was more in the “Behold, I strike quickly” school of biblical wrath.
So maybe my most vivid memories of Mom are of wrath, but my most treasured ones are of comfort.
I wouldn’t describe myself as a sickly kid, but I certainly missed my share of school days, reliably getting strep throat about once a year, mixing in the occasional bronchitis or pneumonia. But I remember one illness especially vividly. I don’t know what I had, but it caused me sharp chest pains, which would be troublesome at any time, but I’d recently viewed “I Am Joe’s Heart” at school and was terrified of heart attacks. I’m no hypochondriac, but I was sure I had advanced heart disease at nine years old.
Mom held me. Prayed for me. Read to me. I remember I was working my way through Gulliver’s Stories, an abridgement of Gulliver’s Travels, for a book report, and counter to my usual technique for writing a book report, I was electing to actually read the book this time. I’m not sure I’d have actually done it if I hadn’t been sick that day. Mom and I took turns reading.
Did I mention she prayed for me? I remember imploring her to pray for me over and over as the pains would take me. She never refused. And I lived. Who can say but that her intercession might have been the difference? Given my many foolish ventures with fire and heights in the future, the odds get better and better that her prayers were my special armor against the Reaper.
I could go on to other topics, including the buckets of vomit Mom had to clean up on my account. I guess I’ve always been a chucker, and I always went for style points, puking from the top bunk, or the second row in church all the way to the bathrooms in the foyer. But who wants to discuss vomit?
So Mom brought me through childhood illnesses with grace, but the waking hours weren’t the only arena in which I challenged her resolve.
It was mom who sang to me when I was scared. And I was scared. A lot. I had recurring dreams of hallways of locked doors and fearsome black labs. I don’t even want to know what the interpretation might be, because I’ve always loved dogs, and my aunt and uncle had a beloved black lab I never tired of hanging out with.
I also dreamed about death a lot. Sometimes it was just your standard animal-attack dream not involving dogs (bears and tigers were the usual suspects). Sometimes it was a drive-by shooting resulting in the death of my dad, leading me to wake up and swear there was a ghostly image of Dad in the room. Or sometimes it was Dracula or some other monster I’d inadvisedly watched in a movie at a friend’s house. Lousy less-than-vigilant video store staff, letting kids check out creepy movies!
Sometimes I’d manage to get out of my bed and sneak across the hall, standing in my parents’ doorway like something out of a zombie movie. Dad would generally stir and tell me to go to the bathroom, and I realized later that this was probably a way of making sure I wasn’t sleepwalking. Sometimes I was. One time, I proved it by mistaking the bathtub for the toilet. A stream of urine makes a surprisingly recognizable sound in an empty tub and causes dads to come running. Just an FYI.
But on those times I couldn’t bear to leave my bed lest the monster under it consume me, I called for Mom. And Mom would come and sing to me that song based on Psalm 34:7:
The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.
When my son was younger and not yet aware that his Dad’s singing was totally uncool, he’d often ask for “the Angel Song” at night. It’s now one of my most treasured memories of those days. I owe it to Mom. Along with my life and probably my sanity.
Thanks, Mom, for comfort and correction.
Oh, and one more thing (this is the thing I remembered to add as I was preparing to post this): I suppose it could be filed under correction, because Mom had a particular technique for snapping me out of a rare blue-funk. Dancing. She’d grab my hands and we’d bound up and down the hallway singing, “Shall we dance, pa-pom-pom-pom!”, which was a reference to The King and I. It always made me laugh, and now I wish I had photos or video, but I suppose memories will have to suffice.
Happy (belated) Birthday, Mom!