On Audio Books

I’ve been giving some more thought to the experience of listening to audio books vs. reading them. I have yet to enjoy a novel I’ve listened to, and I’m beginning to wonder if my reaction to those books was influenced by the fact I was listening to them rather than reading them.

One of the problems with listening to a book rather than reading it is that it seems to engage less of my brain. Thus, when a character does something unbelievable, or a plot hole yawns wide, or a writer seriously gets her facts wrong, I find my mind spinning off into prolonged analysis and contemplation of these failings even as I continue listening to the story. I suspect if I were reading the book, I would simply note the problem, then move on.

Another factor is one of speed. The book I’m listening to at the moment has massive tons of description. Now, I like description, so if I’m finding myself wishing I could skim, you know we’re talking serious overdoses of travelogue. This author also writes loooong scenes that do nothing to move the plot but are intended simply to show characterization (I personally think a scene should do both); if I could skim or skip them, I might find the book more enjoyable…although I would still have to put up with her Too Stupid to Live heroines and serious lack of understanding of how an archaeological dig works or what 800 years in the dirt would do to a brass and silver buckle.

I suppose the only way to test this theory would be to listen to a novel by an author I know and respect. Which is what I’ll probably do next.

In contrast, I find I enjoy listening to nonfiction. I suppose the experience is similar to listening to a good lecture. The problem there is that, as I drive down the street, I find myself wishing I could take notes! As a result, the two nonfiction books I’ve listened to most recently are now sitting on my bookshelves.

"No, I Don't Know That Author"

The American Library Association had their convention here in New Orleans this week. They are the first convention since Katrina that hasn't cancelled, and I can't tell you how grateful everyone is. The businesses downtown need conventions to survive, so this was an important boost to the local economy. Thank you, ALA

I did a book signing at the convention yesterday. Those signings are enormous fun because the publishers give the books away for free and there are always lots of people eagerly lining up for an autographed copy. A small taste of what it would be like to be Pat Conroy.

My favorite was this one woman, who when I asked, “Would you like a free, signed book?” looked at the poster advertising my signing, made a face, and said, “No. I don’t know that author,” and walked off. I guess Pat Conroy doesn’t get that too often!

One nice benefit of signing at the ALA: you come home with bags and bags of free books. Now, where to put them all?

What I’m reading…

Fiction: A mystery I won’t name, in adherence to my policy. There’s a quote from People on the front, describing the NYT bestselling author as “The female John Grisham.” Ah…no. It’s a very straightforward mystery with none of the complexity or Faustian overtones of a Grisham novel. And this author either is a very bad lawyer, or else she has no respect for her readers’ intelligence. She seems to make it a habit of ignoring whatever might get in the way of her lazy plotting. For example, we have a long scene in which a witness is giving hearsay evidence, and our heroine attorney does not object—not once. Why? Because the author needed the testimony as a plot device. I won’t be reading another.

Nonfiction: THE HUNDRED YEAR LIE, by Randall Fitzgerald.

Reading Karen Armstrong

I’ve almost finished reading Karen Armstrong’s ISLAM: A SHORT HISTORY. I read it mainly as a refresher, since I did my master’s degree in Middle Eastern history. As a history I found it a bit too “short.” The centuries whizzed past at a dizzy pace, despite the fact I was already familiar with the material. But her analysis of the religion itself is fascinating, particularly when one considers that the author spent seven years as a nun.

I’ve always had tremendous respect for Islam, a respect that Armstrong obviously shares. Judging Islam by its modern fundamentalist lunatic fringe is about as fair as judging Christianity by Jim Jones and the Inquisition. Unfortunately, it has become expedient for everyone from Hollywood players to Washington, D.C., politicians to demonize the religion. Given that Islam is the world’s fastest growing faith, the kind of insight Armstrong provides is badly needed.

When Tempers Fray in Katrinaville

I came out to my car this morning to find my rear right tire flat as one of Dali’s melted clock faces. Again.

There was a time not so many months ago when we here in Katrinaville were pretty cocky about our survival skills. We’d been through hell, but we could still laugh; we made jokes about smelly refrigerators and blue roofs and MREs. I’ve noticed lately people don’t laugh much any more. Many have become snippy to the point of being rude, while others are just dangerous. There was a guy living in a FEMA trailer a couple of blocks from me who flipped out completely. He was convinced government snipers were going to kill him. The sheriff’s department tried to commit him; he shot back. They brought in SWAT teams and… You guessed it: government snipers killed him.

He was one of eight people who died violently in the area in just three days last week. In response, the governor finally gave in to the mayor’s request to bring back the National Guard. They should never have left. For months now, thieves have been picking clean what’s left of the city. I don’t like the idea of seeing soldiers with machine guns on the streets again, but I like the alternative even less.

As I write, I hear a rumble of thunder. I’m hoping for rain. After drowning in Katrina’s storm surge last August, we’re now having a drought—the worst on record. How ironic.

Go West, Young Man. No, Not North! West!

Human beings have a strange capacity to laugh at past trauma survived. These days, my family makes jokes about the hours we spent on the Causeway with Katrina barreling down on us. To our dismay, we realized we'd goofed: we were being forced north toward Mississippi when we wanted to go west to Baton Rouge. It wasn’t particularly funny at the time.

We were still on the I-12  at six o’clock on Sunday evening, August 28th. The storm still hadn’t turned and the outer bands of the hurricane were already rolling through. The area’s cell phone system was completely overwhelmed. Samantha, who'd left earlier, managed to get through to tell us she and my mother had made it safely to Baton Rouge; then the line went dead. Steve and I were driving separate cars, each with a contingent of howling cats, Dani sitting beside me. She kept trying to call Steve, hanging doggedly on our tail, but we couldn’t get through to him. Oh, to have a set of Walkie Talkies and an evacuation map!

We finally decide we could cut across the state heading west on the back roads. We pulled off at a little town I’d never heard of named Amite, Steve right behind us. They have a Subway there, and we stopped for a sandwich and a badly needed stretch. We’d been driving for what seemed like forever; soon it would be dark. Getting back in the cars, we headed off on narrow winding roads almost devoid of traffic. Gently rolling hills, thick stands of trees, shady little streams. I found myself thinking, incongruously, It’s pretty up here; why have I never come up here to see this? (It was in those rolling hills we would eventually buy our lake house, backyard above.) Then we hit the outskirts of Baton Rouge.

Think about this: over a million people streaming out of Orleans and St. Bernard and Jefferson Parishes, joined by the residents of the other low-lying parishes south of the I-10. Cars full of small children, aged grandparents, people who are sick, women about to give birth, unhappy dogs and cats, birds and guinea pigs. The Contraflow worked. Although New Orleans and Louisiana officials get little credit for it (and what happened to those left behind was an unpardonable tragedy), we still achieved a miracle: a modern metropolitan area was largely evacuated in 24 hours…and there was no place within hundreds of miles for most of them to sleep.

We fought our way through the chaos to my daughter’s apartment, thankful we had a refuge. Five people and five very disgruntled cats in a tiny one-bedroom student apartment.

With a hurricane coming.