I live in a townhouse in my state’s capitol city. I drive a mini-van (sadly) and visit Trader Joe’s twice a week. I am the furthest thing from a farmer that you could find, yet I’ve found myself recently becoming a bit obsessed with farming memoirs. Specifically, tales of women abandoning big city living to take up weeding and herding sheep and restoring old farmhouses. Preferably a farmhouse with a wood stove- it’s more cozy.
This is a guest post from reader Michael Strand. He lives in Morris, Minnesota.
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I first became interested in dystopias when I studied Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 for my final project in 12th grade AP English. We were asked to read a novel and then write a set of “Cliffs Notes” for the book. For some reason, I became obsessed with the project and rendered a final paper nearly as long as the novel itself, much to the chagrin of my teacher. This was three years after the September 11th attacks, and months after the invasion of Iraq. I remember reading and re-reading the book while listening to System of a Down, Anti-Flag, and Rage Against the Machine decry the perceived loss of democracy. It seemed a season ripe for dystopias.
When I first started trying to figure out how to talk about this particular genre kryptonite, my first impulse was to write about how I love Book About Books. I quickly realized that list would spiral out of control in a 2,000-word epic ending with incoherent gushing about how I just want to read more and more and more and more. So I’m trying to contain myself a little bit and focus this down to a particular type of book about books — memoirs about books and the reading life.
This installment of Genre Kryptonite is a guest post by Rita Meade. Rita is a librarian who lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. She blogs about her (often crazy, always entertaining) library adventures at Screwy Decimal. You can find her on Twitter at @ScrewyDecimal.
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Full disclosure, folks: I am not addicted to drugs. To be honest, I’m not addicted to anything – not even in a cutesy “EXCEPT FOR SHOES AMIRITE LADIES” kind of way. I consider myself lucky in that respect, and I certainly don’t claim to understand the disease of addiction from a first-hand perspective. It is true that I’ve known and been personally affected by several people over the years in various contexts who have struggled with different degrees of drug addiction. Still, I sometimes wonder why I am drawn to this genre of books with such a strong sense of detached fascination and dedication.
This guest installment comes Alexandra Jacunski, a graduate student in Pharmacology at The University of Toronto. She also blogs about her studies, science, and science-related books at Exercises in Auxology.
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A book I read in the third grade, The Measly Middle Ages, began my slightly morbid obsession with illness. It described the bubonic plague from a perspective that fascinated me: nobody at the time knew what was killing them, how it was doing so, or how to protect themselves from this invisible monster.
This is a guest post by David Abrams. David is a novelist, short story writer, reviewer, and book evangelist. His novel about the Iraq War, Fobbit , is forthcoming from Grove/Atlantic in 2012. He blogs about books at The Quivering Pen. Follow him on Twitter @davidabrams1963
It’s true, war is hell. But in the right hands—holding the pen askew at just the right angle—war can also be funny as hell. As long as there has been a military machine—and self-important leaders turning the crank which turns the cogs (soldiers)—there have been novels poking fun at armies clashing on the battlefield (and in certain Strangelovian “war rooms”).
This is a guest post by Scott Beauchamp. Scott is a writer living in New York.
There’s an unattributed quote I’ve heard mentioned during conversations about American decline: “The three things that America will be remembered for are the constitution, Bob Dylan, and baseball.” Whether or not you agree with the sentiment, it’s hard to argue against sports, especially baseball and football, being a fundamental part of our American identity. Our cities aren’t “big-league” unless they have a sports stadium. Some of the most watched television programs of all time are still Superbowls. Kids can’t tell you who the Secretary of Defense is, but they can name the entire roster of the New York Yankees. For better or worse, we are a country of sport.
I could spin this as a post about the mysterious nature of faith and my fascination with the things that human beings believe in and practice, but if I’m really honest–with myself and with you, dear reader–what it’s really about is voyeurism. Having grown up in a midwestern protestant congregation–possibly the most mainstream of mainstream groups–I relish “losing my religion” memoirs for the glimpses of long-protected secret rituals and the explanations (and often critiques) of teachings and conventions that couldn’t be further from my own experience.
This installment of Genre Kryptonite is from guest contributor Jodi Chromey. Jodi is a writer and blogger living in the Twin Cities area of Minneapolis. She write about books and things that are not books at I Will Dare. Follow her on Twitter: @jodiwilldare
Without fail, every time I go to the grocery store at least one of three things happens: a little old lady will kindly ask me to get her something from a high shelf; a stranger I’ve never seen before will ask me about my inseam; or someone will stop me in the peanut butter section to ask how tall I am.
To be clear, I am not the one that first called these fine ladies “bitches.” It is a name that they each get called on a regular basis, though. The insult is usually delivered by some guy they are fighting with, and more often than not, that guy finds himself flat on his back and in considerable physical pain. That is to say nothing about his injured pride.
These women, on the surface, don’t seem like much. They are not traditional beauties. Their bank balances hover just above zero. They are easily distracted. They are also highly intuitive, fiercely loyal, and unbelievably lucky. And under the right circumstances, they can definitely be bad-ass.
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