Things I'm Reading and Listening To, Ep. II
In a new installment of this recurring series, I talk about the impactful things I recently consumed.
I haven’t touched this series in over a year. That much is obvious, what with the gap of time between installments. What I didn’t consider, however, was how much my writing style changed in the time since, something I feel disarmed by at times. Like any writer could probably relate, I err on the side of the quiet, subtle, and unpronounced as far as my growth is concerned. It’s not until I revisit one of my works after stepping away for a prolonged amount of time that I’m struck by creative choices I’ve since removed from my creative encyclopedia. My sentence structure, my word choices, were things that felt rooted in my desperation for approval. And these feelings aren’t exclusive to my Substack writings—I’d elicit the same emotions if I unearthed a short story I haven’t touched since my days as an MFA student. As my artistic growth is never-ending, I try not to feel too surprised by whatever signs I exhibit. At the same time, however, it’s difficult not to feel somewhat taken aback by the equivalent of looking at your old childhood photos.
Do you know what I also found interesting, humorous rather, re-reading the first installment to prepare for this new one? My sense of optimism at the time, thinking I had all this free time to read and discuss these books, completely forgetting I was mere months away from the biggest move of my life. I am well aware that in the first installment I made it clear from the outset that when I described this series as “recurring,” I meant it in the loosest sense of the word, so I suppose I should afford myself some grace. Having to wait over a year though for a new installment? That’s not a visit to the corner store for a quick bite to eat. The wait ended up being beneficial for everyone in the end it seemed, as it gave me ample time and opportunity to reconfigure the Substack and its objectives, as well as this series. So the question remained: would the series remain the same, or would it change? And if it did, would it be for the better?
The series won’t be the same, but hopefully whatever changes I implement will benefit it in the long run. Going forward, not only will I discuss short stories and novels in these installments, but also works like magazine profiles, interviews, and podcasts. After all, quality narratives and high caliber storytelling can be found everywhere, so who am I to deny myself the building blocks of my creative lifeblood? It’s also a decision influenced by the completion of my recent posts. Following their publication, I felt rejuvenated, and my influences gravitated heavily towards creative nonfiction, specifically of the personal narrative, New Journalism variety I have history with. I felt my horizons broadened after returning to this genre of writing, which I hope also means getting to produce more higher quality writing from my end. I understand, however, that sometimes it’s good just to read something that is as good as it is foundational, and not make it into something transactional, specifically in the name of craft. Although if you are able to pick up a couple of new writing skills in the process, really, where’s the harm?
These changes also come from a concerted effort to ensure timely publication of all posts going forward. It’s not something I’ll plan to beat myself up over, especially in times where a couple of extra days are needed to finish a piece. I do, however, want to adhere to my goal of being a productive writer, which I feel I can accomplish only by holding myself accountable and making myself write everyday. I also feel productive when I avoid making empty promises like, “I’ll get this post done eventually,” only to not publish it until several months later. My plan for all future posts, not just those in this series, is to write, edit, and post them in the span of a week if possible. And if it isn’t, then I still have those previously mentioned extra days I gave myself as a buffer—to ensure I won’t blow a mental gasket. For the posts in this series specifically, my plan is to post a new installment every three months. And if I can settle into a routine that will allow me to write more frequently, maybe I won’t have to make everyone wait three months for a new episode.
Okay, now that I’ve taken care of housekeeping, let’s get to what you all came here for.
I realize that when it comes to seeing a film adaptation, many prefer to read the source material—book, story, or whatever—before they watch the film, which I presume comes from this sense of ensuring the text is done justice. I prefer to watch the adaptation before I read the text, however, and I embrace this approach. I may take a peek at its opening passage and then look out to see how it‘s worked into the screenplay, if it ends up making the cut at all. Otherwise, I prefer going in as blind as possible. Through my approach, I walk away with more motivation to read the original text should I come out of the cinema with nothing but praise. I also feel I get a unique lens I can apply to my reading thanks to this approach. My appreciation of the text will be different, yes, but I don’t think it makes it lesser—if anything, it feels like a unique strain of appreciation that could only come from this order of viewing before reading. This I stand by.
I say all of this to preface my praise for director-screenwriter RaMell Ross’ sublime and poignant adaptation of Colson Whitehead’s The Nickel Boys, and how the film was on such a level of excellence from start to finish that it inspired me to read Whitehead’s novel as soon as I got home, a rare occurrence. The only other time I felt this similar motivation was after seeing Sergei Bondarchuk’s adaptation of War and Peace (1966), but seeing as I didn’t pick up Tolstoy’s book until years later, that doesn’t count, does it? Anyways, Ross’s adaptation is a film you all would benefit from seeing at least once if you haven’t yet done so—another assertion I swear fealty to. That’s all I have to say about the film for now, however, as my focus is on its literary progenitor.
In this discussion of text before film, or vice versa, I’ve also noticed that in response to whatever you’ve consumed first, people love to comment on your reading experience. Their concerns specifically focus on whether your reading experience has been tainted now that you’re aware of how the narrative will unfold. I have to say, however, that none of these so-called concerns speak to my reading experience at all. If anything, in the book’s first part alone, certain passages were already devastating thanks to the knowledge I now carry, and I expect the rest of the book to have a similar weight. The book emanates a tone that is as sad as it is brutal, and it becomes especially prevalent once it enters its second part, yet it never veers into excess. And because I know what befalls many of these characters, with each narrative milestone I reach, tension and devastation are always close at hand, but because I’m just a part of the audience, on the outside looking in, there’s no power I can exercise to prevent this literary fatalism. It’s because of this that my reading experience can never be tainted.
And this isn’t me wanting to engage in the subjectivity discourse that was prevalent in the 2010s style of blogging. Such commentary would be doing a disservice to Whitehead’s skill with the pen. His sparse, minimal writing style seamlessly cuts through each line on the page like a knife. In my own creative journey, I’ve become aware of how much I favor good characterization, and from just a single passage, I was struck by how much detail the reader is given about Elwood. The novel’s opening lines, for example, spend only so much time discussing the only vinyl record Elwood owned, yet it is writing that is particularly affecting thanks to its laconic prose. It is such an effective opening passage, I would champion it as a worthy example to use in creative writing courses if it’s not already being taught.
Whitehead is also particularly skillful at pacing. Events move unhurriedly, owing in large part to the aforementioned level of detail he imbues on each page which, in turn, is coupled with the level of trust he has in his audience. At the time of writing this, I admit I’ve made minimal headway into the novel’s second part, but because of Whitehead’s deft skill, there rests the assurance that this reading will be rewarding—familiarity with the narrative or heaviness of the subject matter be damned.
Whether a musician has been in the game for long or just started popping up on people’s radars, a favorite pastime of mine has always been going down the Wikipedia rabbit hole and doing as much research on them as possible. While their music blasts through my earbuds, in another window you’ll find me browsing through the ‘early life,’ ‘career,’ and ‘discography’ sections of their Wikipedia page, in awe of the storied journey that shaped them into a musician of note now selling-out venues across all of these countries, their throngs of fans cheering them on and singing along to the lyrics in their songbook. My own way of showing that an artist has been added to my list of ‘favorites,’ albeit in a subtle way, is re-reading their Wikipedia page for the upteenth time, fully aware that the content hasn’t changed much. It’s a good indicator of my level of fandom, as well as how comprehensively I’ve listened to their discography.
Yet for all the research I’ve done on the musicians on my ‘favorites’ list, I haven’t read many magazine profiles, which I know must sound surprising, both given how many times I’ve reread the definitive musician’s profile and, as I mentioned before, how I gravitate towards good stories the way bees tend to nectar. I’ve noticed when it comes to these newer musicians, whenever I read a profile that tickles my fancy, my focus is on their story, if and how their upbringing contributed to their artistry, and the overall make-up of their artistic journey. I believe we’ve been blessed with a generation of writers skilled in weaving their line of questioning with storytelling that is as informative as it is engaging, so no matter which artist you learn more about, you can read up on them knowing their story was in the hands of someone capable. On a side-note, while I haven’t noticed this much, if at all, you still want to be on the lookout for profiles that are nothing more than hagiography, or god forbid, end up being nothing more than platitudes like, “it all started when they got their first guitar at eight years old.”
Which brings me to Grayson Haver Currin’s stellar chronicle of MJ Lenderman’s rise in the indie rock scene, specifically in the alt-country and slacker rock subgenres. Published in GQ as The MJ Lenderman Story You Haven’t Heard, it came across my desk when the news broke that although Lenderman ceased touring duties with the band Wednesday, he would continue working with them in a recording capacity. Considering both acts have shot up in fame over the past couple of years, I understand how much of a heartbreaking shock it was for fans of both. Yet considering this bit of news was but a single fragment from such a large and comprehensive work, I was of the consensus that placing that much emphasis on a single line did Currin’s writing a grave disservice. Currin does such magnificent work parsing not just Lenderman’s rise thus far, but also some of the finer details of his artistic influences, his upbringing in the 2000s, his collaborations with Katie and Allison Crutchfield, and, from the outset, how his sold-out headlining gigs at famed Asheville venue The Orange Peel were not run-of-the-mill homecoming performances. Rather, the shows felt more akin to a rite-of-passage for an artist the article argues is the definition of “the real deal.” In fact, the article would probably argue that that phrase doesn’t come close to capturing his current influence.
Once I began reading the second section, which opens with Currin discussing Lenderman’s parents’ history, forgoing the standard ‘shared love of music’ trope in the process, I knew Currin had written something special. Instead of taking that oft-traveled road, he instead wrote at length about their music tastes and how they played a big role in their courtship. He also discussed the full extent of their level of music obsessiveness and their families’ background in music. Taking the time to shape all of this background information into an essential thread within the overall narrative, this is when I realized Currin had crafted something unique. I read many assertions that Currin’s profile was one of the best pieces of musical journalism written in a long time, and after reading it myself, I feel compelled to happily toss my endorsement into the hat.
My aversion to podcasts under the category of ‘nonfiction’ started around the time I was in grad school. More specifically, I was averse to Serial and true-crime podcasts like it, avoiding these audio shows like they were the plague. The reason for my disgust stemmed from the ways in which many of the crimes depicted were discussed, although “picked and prodded at” sounds like a more apt description. While many of these hosts believe they mean well, that doesn’t stop them or their shows from routinely putting their verification bias on full display. Any information they present gets distorted and manipulated, with the information in question only really having the presence it did to support whatever slant they were aiming for. These questionable methods resulted in shows that, from an ethical standpoint, were troublesome at best and disgusting at worst. I don’t know when I began to trust nonfiction podcasts again, but suffice it to say Serial and its godforsaken offspring very nearly ruined it for everyone.
Going into This American Life however, I can’t say I felt many of the same trepidations. Perhaps it helped that I already occasionally listened to Decoder Ring, a show similar to This American Life in its approach to mixing investigation with storytelling sensibilities, but with more of a focus on pop culture. And perhaps in listening to these podcasts, I’ve not only acknowledged, but perhaps accepted, that in their presentations, sections are not only greatly exaggerated, they may even be sensationalized for the benefit of a well-told and entertaining story, most likely for subject matter that was not intriguing to begin with. Getting into these shows, it was also relieving to know, at least as far as I’m aware, that the shows’ creative teams didn’t desecrate any corpses during production.
All of this is to say that not only have I accepted sensationalization to the point that it’s been integrated into my listen of 129 Cars from This American Life, I’ve welcomed it with open arms. Have narrative threads of the episode been exaggerated just to heighten the conflict? I don’t doubt it for a moment, but when it’s in service of a narrative that is as fascinating as it is exhilarating, what does it matter? The episode’s quality writing immediately grabs hold of the listener with its introduction of Freddie, the general manager of the Chrysler dealership at the center of the episode. At the start, listeners learn of Freddie’s tendency to end his sentences with light laughs, which helps soften the blow of bad news. This habit originates from his days as a car salesman. After his introduction, we’re introduced to the episode’s central conflict: the dealership must meet a gargantuan car selling quota for the month, the episode’s titular figure. Also at stake is the possibility of either a hefty bonus or being in the red for the month. The audience learns just how grave the situation is when Freddie, not one to miss out on an ill-placed laugh, fails to register a chuckle during a daily team meeting, instead delivering his team’s progress thus far in a harsh tone.
Freddie is just one of many colorful characters you become familiar with over the course of the episode. Everyone in this ragtag bunch contributes to the highs and lows, both the elations and frustrations associated with meeting a demanding sales quota. In addition to its splendid characterization, the episode chugs along like a well-oiled machine, thanks in large part to its writing and that no narrative thread is left sailing in the wind. Even before the episode reaches its halfway mark, you’re forced to reckon with the likelihood that the team may not reach their goal due to a series of errors that build up in the episode’s fourth act. I don’t want to give away too many details, but suffice it to say, if you’re someone who tends to grab someone or something, who gasps while engaged in something particularly thrilling, this episode of This American Life will feel right up your alley. Even if you made up your mind on the program long ago, you should at least check out this one episode. Thanks to its aforementioned high caliber writing, quality reporting, and presentation, it’s nothing short of a rewarding listen.
Hanif Kureishi’s Art of Fiction interview is the most recent addition to my reading list, and I actually began reading it almost immediately after I received my copy of The Paris Review’s winter issue. Or rather, sometimes I’ll preview an issue’s contents by the opening lines of certain pieces, and I did just that for Kureishi’s interview. I skimmed through Hari Kunzru’s introduction, and his line of questioning immediately had my interest—his first query focused on Kureishi’s foray into Substack. I received this issue of The Paris Review when I was in the throes of bringing my newsletter back from hibernation, simultaneously revising and writing the Middlemarch post. To not only discover that Kureishi was the subject of an Art of Fiction interview, but also that the discussion opened with a question that felt pertinent, the timing of it all felt attentive in a rather humorous way.
The engaging factor of Kureishi’s conversation with Kunzru, however, lied in both the range of subjects the two authors covered, as well as the chance to reconnect with an author whose work has shown up in my life intermittently. In the final semester of my undergraduate studies, I started writing a novella for my independent study project, and one of the mentor texts assigned by my supervising professor was Kureishi’s Intimacy. The assigned reading list was rewarding enough on its own, but Kureishi’s novel stood out as the most fascinating of the bunch. I was taken with the point-of-view from which it was written, its voice, and the revelation that the book’s narrator was the epitome of unreliable. Combine these facets of the book with the narrator’s unbecoming behavior, frank views towards sexuality, desire, and the family he was intent on leaving, it only made the book more engrossing in my eyes—a work I felt especially excited finishing both for the sake of my own project and because I was that invested.
When I think about the book now, a novel I have not read in close to ten years—surely it’s due for a reread in the near future—I felt a small reward reading Kureishi’s brief reflections on it in the interview and learning about the personal context surrounding its release. I must confess I never knew the subject matter was directly influenced by a breakup, nor was I aware of any controversy due to both its subject matter and the unapologetic and frank manner in which he writes about the dissolution of a relationship. My defense on not being informed the first time I read it—not that I need one—is that the personal context, quite frankly, didn’t matter to me. It wasn’t going to cloud or influence my reading of it in any tangible way, and that first read was primarily focused on craft, which is how I approached Kureishi’s novel.
What was also impactful about Kureishi and Kunzru’s talk was the chance to acquire more knowledge about an author I previously had been uninformed about. I already read one of his books, so it wasn’t as if I was completely ignorant of him and his existence. With this interview, however, I felt as if I had a proper introduction to him as a creative, as well as to his personhood to an extent. I also never kept tabs on the major events of his life, although this is more out of a respect for someone’s privacy and the fact that their personal goings-on are none of my business. That being said, imagine my shock and horror upon reading Kunzru’s introduction, where he describes the terrifying fall that left Kureishi a tetraplegic. Kureishi also describes intense existential moments, akin to an out-of-body experience, where he feared for his life. It’s not the only subject the two authors discuss—it provides equally fascinating insight into Kureishi’s playwriting background, as well the theatre scene at the time—but the level of detail he affords this chapter of life, coupled with his trademarked bluntness and a plethora of vulnerability, results in one of the interview’s most eye-opening moments.
I mentioned earlier that I was due for a re-read of Intimacy. By the time I completed this piece, it was no longer the only book of his I wanted to focus on. The Buddha of Suburbia, The Black Album, and his recently published memoir, Shattered, I felt an urgency to immerse myself into all of these works. I felt so invigorated following this interview, I also listened to his discussion with Fresh Air’s Terry Gross, which touched upon similar subject matter, but also provided insight into his aforementioned memoir. And I never would have felt motivated to listen to that audio interview had it not been for the interview within the pages of TPR. This wasn’t just another great interview—it was superb insight into a writer I’m glad I’m making the effort to better familiarize myself with.
On a final note, although I’m reading it rather slowly, as well as at a sporadic rate, Yiyun Li’s The Book of Goose has also been on my list of reads. The only observations I feel are worth sharing, at least for now, center on how she rewards her readers who practice the virtue of patience. I learned this many years ago, when I was in grad school and I was assigned her collection, Gold Boy, Emerald Girl. For those of you who don’t know, it opens with the eighty-page behemoth, “Kindness.” The first time I read it, I thought it was a daring move for a first story—I still do. It’s no wonder then that the collection became one of my favorite books of all time, for Li has such a way with creating these three-dimensional sketches that you become taken with her characters’ life stories, their idiosyncrasies, and their foibles. Li’s work demands patience, yes, but there’s no better writer alive who possesses her same level of skill at rewarding patience.
This is all to say that I’ve been very intrigued by central characters Agnes and Fabienne, as well as their unorthodox friendship, and the interesting dynamic they have. As it goes with her work, I have an abundance of thoughts and outstanding questions regarding the direction of the narrative, how it has yet to unfold, and how it plans to revisit the narrative thread introduced in its opening. Will someone in their circle discover their ruse, and if so, how will they be found out? As I’ve said, I have many questions, but there will never be a day where they inform either my reading experience or critique I form by novel’s end. I find when you let theories fester, they turn into expectations, which could lead to satisfaction, but it can also result in disappointment. And anyways, authors like Li have a vision, and my job as a reader is to judge whether or not she’s executed her vision to the best of her ability.
With that, another installment in this series comes to a close. Look out for the next episode in June!
Phenomenal first read! 😎