I almost read John Hodgman’s The Areas of My Expertise awhile back, but then it strolled back down to the library without even asking if I’d had a chance to read it yet. Thus, I re-entered the long line of  library patrons too cheap to actually shell out for the book and was finally allowed to check it out again a few days ago. I realize that I am perhaps poised on the cutting edge of September 2005 (AT LEAST) talking about it now, but them’s the breaks out in here in the sticks with our begging cup. And I’m a sucker for a miscellany, especially one so concerned with the Loup-Garou.

I thought y’all might be amused by this little section of "HOW TO WRITE A BOOK: THE FIFTY-FIVE DRAMATIC SITUATIONS," on what is the best kind of book to write:

I was asked this many times when I was a professional literary agent. The answer at that time was obvious: The most marketable kind of book to write was one in which vampires fight serial killers. But the best kind of book was one in which the vampires fight large weather systems and perfect storms.

Of course, that answer isn’t correct in today’s publishing environment, as neither sort of those examples includes a worldwide conspiracy overseen by a centuries-old religious secret society. While my initial response dates me hopelessly, literature — bless it — ever grows and matures.

There’s also these two entries from the table OTHER MARKETS FOR YOUR SHORT STORIES:

Where to Market Your Short Stories Featuring Lots of Footnotes, Comic Book References, and Lists – The Journal for Extra Smart Boys

Where to Market Your Charles Bukowski/Raymond Carver Slash Fiction – Penthouse, circa 1981 and What We Talk About When We Talk About Raymond Carver Having Sex With Charles Bukowski Monthly.

Ah, sweet mockery.

I’m too tired to muster much of an entry, but what the hell, right? I want to talk about the book I just started.

You see, I’ve been in a bit of a fiction slump for the past month or so. Every time I picked up something new and started it, I did not fall madly in love. I was not swept away. I was not awed. I was not in love. Now, I certainly don’t expect to feel this way about every book I read, but I do expect it every once in awhile. And I expect a cousin of that feeling to occur a fair amount. I don’t read very many books I don’t like (see Jenny Davidson, see Colleen Mondor): mostly I put those down. I’m still not sure whether this slump was purely related to my own reader’s malaise (it happens) or to the books I was attempting (at least a few of them deserve another chance). I was getting my fiction fix mostly by rereading novels I already knew and loved well.

Anyway, this lack of dazzling fiction has been somewhat eclipsed by all the excellent nonfiction reading I’ve been up to (see 75 sidebar, down and to the right) and by some excellent stories in the Fountain Award jury reading. But. I was still beginning to worry. Fretting really, like some Mr. Rogers-type unable to find a clean sweater. Where is a book I LOVE? What if I’ve become one of THOSE people — you know, the ones who rarely LOVE a book anymore?

Last night, C and I went out to dinner and a couple of glasses of wine and bookshopping. He picked up the lovely Justina Robson‘s Living Next Door to the God of Love; I picked up Laura Whitcomb‘s A Certain Slant of Light (suddenly available, after a year of remembering to look for it at bookstores but never finding it). I think we also bought a couple of others off the remainder table, but that’s indelicate to speak of. (A real aside: The bookshop girl was charming and we got to talking about the Tiptree Award somehow — she ordered Air while we were chatting — and she recommended Wes Stace’s Misfortune for it and was amazed it was already on the short list for this year.) I took both the novels when we got home. I haven’t made it to the Whitcomb yet — though I’m sure I’ll love it, based on Justine’s reaction. I haven’t made it there because I started Living Next Door.

This book is completely exhilarating. (Someone Fed-Ex a copy to a certain D.I. stat.) I was in love with it by the end of the first paragraph:

There’s a kind of hush all over the world tonight: the sound of lovers in love. The rosy fug of it is so overpowering that I can’t hear the special kind of silence I’m listening for; the one that will tell me I’m about to die.

Whew.