Richard Van Holst's Blog: Borborygmi from the Back of Beyond

The first thing I realize when I try to make sense out of the books I have read in 2016 is that there is a lot of overlap in categories. That is to say that a single book could be listed in several places at once. So one particular item might be by women, religion, and poetry. The second is that, some of the statistics were surprising. For instance, I didn't realize how much poetry, (auto)biography, Canadiana and Tudor era material I've actually read this year.

There are reasons for these phenomena, however.

I confess I did have an ulterior motive with the poetry: the volumes were slim and could be read quickly in order to bolster the numbers for my book challenge. This backfired sometimes, however. Some poetry is a challenge and must be read slowly and carefully.

The biography was an extension of personal interests or previous study. One book had a story which ran curiously parallel to a manuscript I had previously edited. Another autobiography was written by a man whom I know personally.

There's quite a bit of Canadiana because some was just thrown in my way by friends, and some was put out by the publisher of my own writing, Seraphim Editions. I also wanted to read more of some authors, especially Margaret Laurence.

Some of the books on the Tudor era concerned a minor character whom I was considering as the potential subject of a short story. The story has not materialized yet. But one never knows what the future will bring.

Speaking of which, you may wonder what my reading plans are for the future. The first thing is to clear away the books that I started last year and have not yet completed. I will continue to review books by some of my GR friends; I hope they will continue to have patience. And I may continue or complete some series which I began in the past. But I am always looking for books which are new and interesting, so keep those recommendations coming.

I've already made a brief announcement about the new developments surrounding "Maiden Aunt," my first published short story. But this event has made me sit back and think about how I came to write it in the first place, and how it has changed my outlook on life.

The story is built on a whole series of unlikely events and coincidences that can still astound me when I think about them.

As you know from my review of The Weight Of Flames, I met my editor Bernadette Rule by coincidence--not once, but twice, with several years between the encounters. It was only at the second meeting that we got to have a good conversation about being a writer. Like many literature majors, I had a lot of unpublished material stashed away on my hard drive, and big dreams about getting published someday. She listened sympathetically, and we agreed to continue chatting by email. When she first approached me a few weeks later to contribute a story to an anthology she was putting together, I came close to declining. I liked the idea of the book, I told her, but I thought that the accounts I'd read of the women surrounding my writer of choice were so intertwined that it would be difficult to untangle them. Nothing daunted, she advised me how to tackle the problem and encouraged me to proceed.

The research proved rather grueling. My first and main source, the biography of Dickens by Peter Ackroyd, was so long that I despaired of ever finishing it, let alone making any use of it. So, with a heavy heart, I decided to quit. I was actually afraid to tell the editor, because I thought she would be angry or offended. Once again she surprised me by being supremely unruffled; instead of scolding, she managed to convince me, quite gently, that the project was worth doing, and that I could in fact do it. So, reluctant and relieved at the same time, I was back in the saddle again.

I was elated to finish Ackroyd, but as it turned out, he was only the tip of the iceberg. There were books, articles, websites, and even some untried Dickens to discover. I had some stimulating discussions with colleagues and friends (including our former family physician), who listened, encouraged, pointed me to resources, and gave me some delightful ideas. Bernadette even took me to a museum in Dundas, ON, curated by a friend of hers; the furnishings and implements which can be seen there had actually belonged to a nineteenth-century Canadian doctor's office.

At last, feeling very unsure of myself, I began to write. I struggled a lot at first, wrestling with each sentence. But gradually, it became slightly easier. And then one day, something caught fire. Ideas began to come, and they flooded into my brain so fast that I could hardly keep up with them. They would often come early in the morning, shortly after I woke up, and I'd struggle to keep them in my head until I had a chance to scribble them into a notebook.

Finally the first draft was done, and Bernadette liked it, but it needed some work, and she advised me how to change it. I was a bit crestfallen, but went to work obediently. She reacted with such enthusiasm to the second draft that I was startled, but greatly encouraged. However there was much adjusting and tinkering left to do. For one thing, in the flashback scene set on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, the tour guides spoke in Italian. This seemed fine at first, until I realized that for the story to have accurate local color, they would have to speak in Napoletano. That was a big headache, but thankfully, with the help of two Goodreads friends, I got the problem sorted out too.

So finally my story seemed as ready as we could make it, and we were ready to tackle the next stage: finding a publisher for the anthology. Our editor approached several publishers who seemed intrigued, took the manuscript, kept it for long periods of time--and then returned it with regrets. After a few years of this, even the indomitable Bernadette fell into the slough of despond.

Just when I thought poor Miss Georgina would languish in obscurity forever, a publisher accepted the manuscript. Last revisions were made--including some suggested by a GR beta-reader. And before I knew it, I was sitting at the first book launch holding in my hands a slim paperback with a stunningly elegant cover.

Reading at book launches is somewhat akin to performing in a theater production: you hear people recite the same passages over and over again, and you get a glimpse of some of their gifts as well as their quirks. But it was good to get to know them, and I think that some of the friendships forged in this way will be lasting ones.

So what have I learned from "Maiden Aunt," the story that almost wasn't?

First, writing does not happen in a vacuum. It is inspired by what we have lived, experienced and read. The actual writing may take place in solitude, but I think that the mental picture people have of the author locking him- or herself in a cabin in the woods and emerging some weeks later with a masterpiece is largely false. Writing takes place with the support of others: editors, copy-editors, publishers, beta-readers, experts in various fields of importance to the story, and last but definitely not least, sympathetic listeners.

Second, the first thing you write is not the last thing you do. It doesn't go straight from your keyboard to the local bookstore overnight. Hard work is a must. Overconfidence is dangerous.

But so is a lack of confidence. You may feel that nothing will ever come of your efforts. Publishers may pat you on the head and tell you to shoo. So then you might think about self-publishing, but that too has its pitfalls, or so I'm told. You may get discouraged. But if it is meant to be, then persistence will pay off in the end.

Recently, "Maiden Aunt" astonished me again, by winning in a local writing competition. Bernadette was delighted to hear the news. But at the time I told her, her email was down because of computer woes, so neither of us knew that there was yet another twist of fate in store. Unbeknownst to us, but knownst to the organizers of the competition, she had also won for a piece she had entered in a different category.

The life of a writer is full of surprises.

I'm one of these people who usually find it hard to come up with an idea for discussion without a lot of painful preliminary hemming and hawing. However, once the light-bulb is switched on, I can go like sixty. Yes, I know, I know. I just mixed my metaphors. Be that as it may, I have finally, after three and a half months, come up with a topic. But it was not without a little help from my friends. Thanks are due to my new GR buddy Brannon, who switched me on to this post by suggesting I write about the reviewing process.

Is there a protocol for writing reviews on Goodreads? Well, GR has its own set of official guidelines of course. But do I have my own personal rules? The simple answer is: Yes and no. There are some things I try to do, and others that I try to avoid. But it's not like I use a checklist or anything.

In fact, I try not to use a set formula. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Often people need fixed patterns and manage to let creativity flower within them. But for me, spontaneity is important too. So I try to find the approach that best suits the book and my reaction to it.

Sometimes I provide some background material. This helps if the author comes from a different culture or time period, or if the book is relatively little-known. This angle can be overdone, so I try not to be too long-winded about it.

At other times, I do plot summaries. It's easy to fall into traps here. One must be careful, I think, not to spend the majority of the review rattling off what happens in the story; this is the gradeschool approach to writing book reports. And obviously, spoilers should be avoided. Otherwise, why should the reader even bother opening the book? This is not always easy though. Sometimes it's extremely difficult to say anything meaningful about the book without alluding to a major plot twist. It can be a veritable tight-rope.

Occasionally I do some good old-fashioned literary criticism. I was, after all, a literature student for years, and old habits die hard. And some books, especially literary classics and collections of poetry beg for this. But I try not to make it too exhaustive, so as not to exhaust the reader's patience. I might take just one or two poems to analyze. Or I might touch on some of the themes that struck me as I was reading.

And fairly often, I try to include a personal anecdote. The whole point of reading is to connect with a book on a personal level. And books have been a big part of my life since before I even knew how to read. So I will try to say how I first encountered a book or why it is meaningful to me. When it's well done, this can be very effective. I have occasionally been moved to tears by my friends' accounts of how they connected with some very special books.

But the bottom line is: Did I like the book or not? Why, or why not?

On the one hand, there's my proverbial Canadian politeness, complicated by my ethnic background. I am originally from a culture where people are often very forthright (read: blunt) about their opinions. Honesty is important. But there's a difference between telling the truth and beating someone over the head with it. I've witnessed first-hand how hurtful this brutal sort of forthrightness can be, and I've learned that it's possible to disagree with someone and still treat their opinion with respect. So when I review a book I try to be honest about the negatives, especially if the author has asked me for an "honest review" (always a bit risky!). But I try to explain my opinion so that readers and authors alike understand where I'm coming from. And I also add in some positives. Because if you can't say anything nice...

And last but not least: humour. I love humour, as many of my friends know. For me, a review isn't a review without a good joke, or a bad pun.

It is natural for some people to pause at the end of the year, to look back and take stock of what they have accomplished over that year, and to make resolutions for the next year.

But I have never been one to do this.

For one thing, taking stock often seems forced. For another thing, most of the time, one does not end up actually keeping the resolutions one makes. So why am I pausing now to survey what I have read? Is it peer pressure? Perhaps. Other Goodreads bloggers have treated their fans to musings on their "reading year in retrospect."

Or am I doing this because by analyzing what I've read, I can learn something more about my relationship with books, reading and writing? I hope so.

In my last blog post I said that I read because other people suggested books. And that has certainly been true this year. I've read a few books which could be categorized as the GR flavour of the month. All right I admit it. I caved in and read The Hunger Games and 1Q84. So sue me. I was curious to see what all the hubbub was about.

But I have also read almost two dozen books written by GR friends. Many were undertaken voluntarily. Sometimes I brashly requested review copies; sometimes the authors approached me themselves and later became my friends.

There were two side effects of this reading. Because GR encourages reviews, I have started to write more of them, and because more people noticed them I got more requests. What's fascinating to me is the relationship (courtship dance? wrestling match? snowball effect?) between reading and reviewing.

Another thing that's fascinating is that, even though I normally stick with "traditional" subjects such as theology, history and literary classics, I've begun to explore, a bit in spite of myself, some other genres that I didn't realize I liked so much or that didn't interest me a lot before. In one of my reviews I humorously remarked that for me, 2012 was the year of reading dangerously--and there is some truth to that. But it's been an exciting adventure.

For instance, thanks to "Lawyer Stevens" and the Southern literature group, I not only renewed and deepened my acquaintance with Flannery O'Connor, but I met some new authors such as John Kennedy Toole and Eudora Welty.

I've also read some mysteries, some poetry, some children's literature, and some works that are harder to classify. Is there such a category as Voltairean space fantasy? Heavy metal bizarro? Fashionista farce? Intestinal postmodern metafiction? (I'm still working on that one, but it seems appropriate to mention it here, given the title of the blog.) Whoever invented the adage that truth is stranger than fiction was on the right track. But after some of the reading I've done this year, I'd say it's a moot point.

So what is in store for 2013? More theology, history and literature, certainly. But I hope to conquer some truly gigantic classics. And I'm counting on the GR community to introduce me to new and fascinating things.

Why read?

Isn't that a stupid question to ask on a social network dedicated to reading and populated by users who are addicted to books?

Yes and no.

Well, here are some of my own answers to these questions.

We like to read because someone awoke in us a love of books and reading. In my case it was my mother who read to me until she was cross-eyed. (Not literally.) Kids love to hear stories, but they also think about them and want to regurgitate them. It's a small step from this to reading.

We read because people make us read. Teachers assign an author (let's say Shakespeare) in school, and sometimes--sadly--students come to detest the Bard because of the person who introduced him. But sometimes teachers foster and encourage a love of books. Fortunately, I've had more of the latter than the former.

We read because others read. I've bought many books because someone else (a professor, a friend, a family member) was reading it or told me it was a good book. I got into Dickens and Austen because of a little book which told me how amazing they were. And on Goodreads, I read on the strength of reviews, recommendations and friendships.

But when it comes down to it, I read because I have a compulsion to read. If I start a book, I want to finish it. Even when it's a book that's not particularly exciting. (This is good or bad, depending on whom you consult.)

When I hear about a topic that interests me, I want to collect books on the topic. This is fine, until I discover that my interest has shifted. (I dabble in many disciplines.)

If I read one book by a certain author and like it, I want to read more of this person's works--if not all of them. I've read many works of Dickens and Austen, everything by Susanna Clarke that I could get my hands on, a lot of Neil Gaiman and close to 40 Terry Pratchett novels. I've recently found that there is a name for this ailment. I'm a completist.

Reading involves a lot of tendencies which, in me, seem to be dangerously close to OCD. These lead to an empty wallet and overflowing bookcases. But if that's bad, I don't wanna be good!

Shakespeare put these oft-quoted lines into the mouth of one of his heroines:

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

So some of you may be shaking your heads and asking yourselves why I named the blog the way I did. When I assigned a title to it a few days ago, my first choice was something I felt was mildly funny but not stunningly original. I hope this is better--although whether it's funny is a matter of taste, I suppose.

Borba-WHAT? you may be wondering. Well, if you googled it, you will know that it's the plural form of borborygmus, the term for the embarrassing gurgle your innards make when they want something to eat. I still remember the astonishment I felt years later when I learned that there was actually a word for it.

So what will be IN the blog? There again, I just plunked something into the space for the description. But Goodreads is a site devoted to books, reading and reviewing. So you, the readers, might feel that this is just more of the same. After all, many of us spend a good deal of our time tracking our reading progress, swapping recommendations, writing reviews and scanning those of others.

As many of you know, I'm a relatively new author of a short story which is about to be launched into the world. Many authors use their blogs as publicity tools. While this is understandable, it's a turnoff to some readers. So I hope to keep this within acceptable limits.

So what am I going to write about? It's a question which plagues every student who has ever been asked to come up with an original piece of creative writing. Sometimes one of my biggest problems is finding a topic. So I'm willing to entertain suggestions from you, the reader, for intriguing things to discuss in this blog. That's not to say that I promise to use all of them. But if I use yours, you will get a mention as the inspirer thereof.

Wouldn't that be fun?

When I was young, my parents had friends who used to visit them quite often. The husband, a salesman, not only had "the gift of the gab," he was a veritable raconteur. The only problem was that his stories would take the form of non-stop stream-of-consciousness blow-by-blow commentaries. Here's an example where he narrates his meeting with a fellow salesman. Particulars have been slightly altered to protect the identity of the guilty:

"So I met Frank, and I said, 'Hi, how are you?' and he said, 'Fine, and how are you?' and then we sat down and talked pants..."

My dad had the habit of assuming a poker-face at moments like this, so as not to be rude. Smile and nod, smile and nod. But later, when the visitors were gone, he amused himself and us mightily by lampooning his friend. He had a highly developed sense of the ridiculous.

But I've noticed that many people, otherwise delightful individuals, have this character flaw which annoys or amuses me depending on my mood. I've had taxi-drivers tell me in great detail about the vicissitudes of their daily schedules or what they were going to do once their shift ended, or what they had done the previous weekend during an outing with their grandchildren--complete with an exhaustive inventory of what games were played, what foods were consumed, what cute things the holy terrors said to grand-dad. Et cetera. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam.

Meanwhile, as one such narrative meanders sluggishly onward to its undramatic conclusion, I am in the passenger's seat praying that the driver keeps his eyes on the road and does not catch me rolling my eyes. I'm also praying that traffic runs smoothly. Smile and nod, smile and nod.

Or I am stuck in a restaurant with another raconteur whose conversation flows from one topic to another. I excuse myself to use the men's room. On my return, my friend remarks that I have taken quite a while. I don't dare tell him that I was looking at the window in the cubicle, trying to figure out if I could fashion a rope out of toilet paper, climb through the window, leap down the outside wall and make a clean getaway down a back alley.

But there are several reasons why this plan would not have worked. First, the one-ply stuff they use in these places is notoriously flimsy, so it wouldn't have made a serviceable rope. Second, I am not in the least athletic. Third, my friend drove us down here, which means that to get home I would have had to hail a cab. And with my luck...

So I apologize and sit back down. Smile and nod, smile and nod.