Well, I’l say it again: there’s no greater self-esteem boost on earth than being told you’re funny.  I think it trumps “good looking”, “smart”, maybe not “rich”…

But it’s awful darn good.  I was thrilled to see the mention of Trespassers Will Be Baptized in this HuffPo article yesterday, along with the author’s note that it made her “cry laugh in public.”

To quote Dolly Parton, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.”

Mine too.

Oh, and you really should read the article. Mandatory for anyone contemplating publishing a memoir.

Well, it’s making the rounds on the Internet again.  You’ve probably seen it — an old Washington Post advice column about the burden-laden life of a stay-at-home mother.  If you haven’t come across it, you can view it here, but the gist of it is probably familiar to you anyway:  Non-Stay-at-Home-Parent writes that she just can’t understand how Stay-At-Home-Mom-Pal claims to have no spare time anymore, not even for a phone call or email.  Columnist proceeds to spend a full quarter-page biting Non-Stay-At-Home-Mom’s head off, right down to her ill-deserved ovaries.  Right after this came out, pretty much every SAHM (that’s the short-hand for stay-at-home-mother) printed it off in all-weather nylon and flung it from every surface in sight - from her roof down to her car antenna.

I was one of them.

And let me be clear - I do not disagree with what the columnist says.  Being a SAHM is hard.  It’s really hard.  But her tone reminded me of that period of my life when I was also a SAHM - proud, devoted, proud, proud…oh, and miserable and defensive to-a-fault to just about everyone.  And to all those people who, for almost two years, I just “couldn’t possibly find a moment for,” I apologize.  The resurrection of this column reminded me just how much I needed to do it.  My job was hard.  But was it any harder than that of my friends with other employment?  (Guard the ovaries…) No.  No it was not.  And now I can admit it.

Three years ago, my son was born, and it was clear right away that things weren’t as perfect with him as we’d hoped.  He was born with a malformation that, though minor, still required reconstructive surgery and intensive aftercare that lasted several months.  And there were other problems.  He hated being held.  He squirmed constantly and sometimes, despite my most exhaustive efforts, couldn’t be calmed.  I failed at rocking him to sleep.  I didn’t get the sorts of “payback” other new parents reminisced about at playgroup — no coos, no interaction, no hint of “I’m comfortable; I like you,” or “It’s working,” or even the slightest “You’re doing this right, Mom.”  When other moms would reminisce: “It’s soooo hard!  But it’s all worth it every time I look at that little face!”  I tried that.  It didn’t look back at me.

Our baby, Judd, had autism spectrum disorder, though, clueless first-time parents, we didn’t know it at the time.  Still, it was clear something was off, and in an attempt to fix it, to somehow “bond better”, I decided to stop lawyering and writing for a bit and stay at home.  I never told my employer (or fellow employees) exactly what my husband and I suspected, the real reason for the change.  After all, they were still balancing it all in perfect stiletto heels — into court and out of daycare with aplomb — and still apparently raising kids who could write briefs before they were out of diapers.  I just said it was a personal matter, and I was becoming a SAHM.

And that’s when I began to take it all — myself, my life, and ESPECIALLY my new SAHM status — really, really personally.  It was a career, a status symbol, a shield, a trophy…it was a lot of things it really shouldn’t be, but I let it consume me and shape my increasingly defensive attitude, and my near-martyrish outlook on my importance in the world.  I was always “EXHAUSTED…but so fulfilled!”  Because I had “The hardest job on the planet!!!”  And the “toughest boss ever! (hee hee hee!).”

Damn, I was annoying.  But (see above article), I was not alone.  Encouraged by other SAHMs on Facebook who “liked” me and cheered me on, I posted things like: “Another day doing the MOST important job in the world!”  Gee.  Bet my buddies who are doctors (also with kids) really appreciated that.  Or teachers (also with kids).  Or bus drivers (with or without kids).  Or my husband, who was still slaving away with 14-hour days as we figured out how to finance the treatment our son would probably need.  Or the scores of women I knew, personally and professionally, who are having problems with fertility, and thus would never even hope to qualify for the MOST important job on the planet.  SHUCKS! (Sad Facebook face!).  From time to time, groups of us would get together for “Mom Breaks” (or some such annoyingly named group), and clink glasses about how glad we were that we finally got the night out we deserved.  (Man, how I miss those days.  Since I’ve been back to work fulltime, I’ve yet to convince my boss to let me hand that last-minute assignment to a babysitter, so that I could go out for the drinks I’d planned.)

And then there were the women (some former co-workers) I’d run into on the street after business hours, in their workout clothes while I pushed my stroller.  With a toss of my hair, I’d comment that “I WISH I had time to go to the gym, but Judd was up at five AM…” (knowing, full well, that said coworker also had a toddler at home, who she also probably had to be up with at five, before putting in a 12-hour shift for a boss who couldn’t be soothed with a shiny rattle).  Boy did I feel sorry for her, and I’m pretty sure she knew it.

But I defended my life choice — which was, at its heart, purely sacrificial, lest anyone forget — to anyone who would listen, refusing to admit that there were any sort of self-indulgent perks that come along with being a SAHM.  Like…say…a career wardrobe made solely out of terry cloth and fleece?  No workplace politics?  No performance evaluations?  No pressure to impress anyone I didn’t like?  The occasional nap in the middle of the day (okay, rare, but the very fact that that was even a possibility)?  The walks outside?  The ability to actually visit the grocery store sometime other than rush hour, when it isn’t teeming with people and mile-long lines?  Oh, and the ability to be my own boss?

Yes, I know.  If you spoke to me during my SAHM era, I’d have sooner been burned at the stake than admit that being a SAHM gave me that priceless gift of actually being able to control my days.  “Ah, ah ah,” I’d say, “it’s the kid who’s in charge!  The kid’s the boss!  I’m at his mercy!  So haaaard to be completely at his mercy!  Oh, for the love of God, DEATH TO TYRANTS!”

Seriously, if you are letting a person a quarter of your size dictate every moment of your day and your happiness, you ARE doing it wrong.  There, I said it, the sheer blasphemy — the parent of an infant, is, in fact, the boss of said infant.  Infant may throw the occasional wrench into your plans — scream during the quiet you wanted; poop on something you loved.  But so does your average workday boss.  And he doesn’t love you.  And he knows you are replaceable.  And he might even say it.

So…why did I feel so defensive and entitled back then in the SAHM day?  I think (okay, I know) it related to my own inadequate feelings about what I was doing.  I was exhausted most of the time, but if I’m being completely honest (again, guard the ovaries), it wasn’t because taking care of a child is harder work than anyone else’s work.  It was because I’d gone from a structured environment to a completely unstructured one, and I was bad at managing all the un-managed time.  I could have found 30 minutes, in the evening, when my husband got home, to go to the gym.  Instead, I usually collapsed in the sofa with a bag of Doritos and a glass of Cabernet, lamenting how rough I had it.  I could have taken time to call more friends.  I could have done a lot of things.  But more often than not, I didn’t plan, I didn’t structure, I let the lil one push me around, and I wallowed in being a “beast of burden” rather than a parent.  It was hard, but it often was harder than it needed to be because I let it become that way.  And then I complained about it and demanded a medal.

Not that people like the Washington Post columnist are lying.  But I do smell some familiar exaggeration, especially in these two old standbys:

“You can’t relax when you’re a SAHM!  EVER!  You have to be looking out for their safety!  Every minute!  Every second!”

Yes, that is true.  But it’s called baby gates and band-aids.  It’s not really rocket science.

Oh, and this was always my favorite.  I CLUNG to this one like the last life raft outta Pompeii:  “You have to teach them constantly.  EVERYTHING I do is teaching.  Everything.  E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.”

Umm…no, really you don’t.  Not constantly.  They won’t tolerate that and neither will you.  There’s this little thing called the infantile attention span.  Any SAHM who tells you she hasn’t popped in the occasional Dora video to ward off a migraine or (horrors) read a magazie is either lying or in need of a major shake-the-mommy experience.  Your child neither values nor thrives on your instruction THAT much.  And sometimes, you both need your space.

But even in my tiredest moments, I assured myself it was all in the motive.  I was being selfless, you see.  Not like those self-centered career women.  I was doing nothing but giving all day long, and that was my sole motivator…

Umm…excuse me…bwahahahahahahaha!  I can no longer, with a straight face, subscribe to the theory that no one is purely altruistic in the workplace except for the stay at home parent.  I’m a fulltime lawyer now, and I can admit that part of me likes helping clients.  But part of me also likes the money.  And the prestige.  And…okay, sometimes just the whole idea of being to tell people I’m a lawyer.  There are days when it’s worth the price of the degree.  But I can also admit, despite my former protestations, that when I was a SAHM, I liked helping my kids but…I also liked the idea of, well…staying at home and not having to go to work!  I liked the idea of scheduling a lazy day if that’s what I wanted, and not having to be accountable to a single other adult.  And maybe, just a teensy weensy (and I mean teeny) part of me liked that little lift that came with telling people: “Oh, we’re so blessed.  You see, I don’t have to work.”

I do thank the columnist.  I didn’t realize, during my SAHM period, how many people (adults) probably needed space from ME and my self-righteousness.  (Not that every SAHM is that way, I’m just saying that with the benefit of hindsight, I probably was.)  I do wish I could stay home with Judd now, but I can’t.  There are lots of personal and practical reasons why I won’t be able to rejoin the ranks of SAHMs again, and that reality is bittersweet.

But the beauty in any job is how you do it, the skill and love you bring to it, and not the title itself.  And your happiness in any job, again, is dependent on you, and not the title itself.  You can be proud of being a working parent.  You can be proud of being a stay-at-home parent.  You can work hard and have tough days in either venue.  But ultimately, if you don’t find time in the day to call a friend back, it’s your fault, not your children’s,  not your co-workers’.  And if you feel overburdened, it’s probably your fault too, not “society’s”, not the “pressures” from all those folk working in other professions who just don’t understand and don’t have an ounce of appreciation for you.  Appreciating you isn’t part of their job description.  And if you walked a mile in their shoes, maybe you wouldn’t expect so much of them.  Maybe you’d be happy with where you are, and let them be happy with where they are.

Actually, that may be the hardest job in the world.

Hey y’all,

I’ll be signing pretty much all day long tomorrow at the Resource Fair for the CBF Assembly in Charlotte, NC, at the Charlotte Convention Center.  Mom and Dad will also be around, for those still trying to collect their autographs, though Meg won’t be making an appearance at this one.  (I can probably get you her signature, if you want it that badly.  I didn’t realize so many fans were trying to collect the signatures of the whole Hancock family for their books.  We really don’t have as much power as you might believe.) 

I hope to see you there!  Thanks to those who have already dropped me a line to let me know they are attending, and I’ll be glad to meet lots of new faces as well. 

My husband and I started watching Lost the year we were married.  It was 2005, and we spent an entire weekend ordering in, not leaving the bed, and watching the entire Season 1 on DVD (ahh, the pre-children era), so we could be caught up for the start of Season 2.  After that, we never missed an episode, and we almost never missed an episode together.  If one of us was traveling we’d call the other one and end up talking about it.  Lost had a weekly seat at our family table.  As of last night, it won’t be back.  And man, is everyone I know ticked off about it.  

I am not pissed off about the ending.  I am pissed off at myself because…I already knew it.  Really.  I mean, didn’t we all?   

No, no, think about it.  How many times (over the past few weeks, especially), have we heard this line of dialogue: “Because I’m dead.” 

And just in case anyone was unclear, Richard Albert gave a big old campfire lecture about that very thing.  And remember (couple seasons ago, I think), the news footage of the underwater wreckage of Oceanic Flight 815?  Complete with bodies?  Complete with ”Wait sir, there were no survivors of Oceanic Flight 815!”  Remember that?  Remember when they gave the logical explanation that resolved that little wrinkle?  Oh wait, they never did. 

In fact, from the first season, the Lost-o-phile community seemed in unanimous agreement that the characters had to be in some sort of puragatory or afterlife.  It was the only thing that answered most (but not all of the questions).  In the seasons since, I didn’t see anyone come up with a better or more widely accepted theory. 

And yet, we persisted with the collective denial.  Dead?  NAH, c’mon!  This all must be part of some greater complex mystery that I, a simple-minded viewer, am ill-equipped to understand.  You see, I look to this show as a hero of my weeknights.  A hero is smarter, handsomer, more insightful than I am.  And that’s fine.  I like it when people think storytellers are heroic for what they can create.

And what was created here was a sense of frustration.  We can’t believe all our characters were that dumb, that Jack really was that deep in denial over his own fate.  Or, is it our own denial over something we so clearly, plainly knew already, that’s making us angry?   

It’s hard to be a person who loves to read, who loves to listen and watch and observe stories as they unfold, and not hold out for that holy grail of tails — the one that solves the unsolvable, and somehow makes sense in both real and fictituous universes in the end.  This story was not the holy grail that we all, even against overwhelming evidence, insisted that it was.  But I’m not sure I’m sad about that. 

I wonder what life is like once you’ve already heard that holy grail of a story.  I think I rather enjoy life lost and looking for it.

But I still want to know what the hell all the fuss was about Walt.           

In certain Southern church services, there exists an abomination called The Children’s Sermon.  It is abominable because the whole premise behind it is a lie - while it takes place during the church service, it is not a real “sermon”; it’s a gospel “lesson” so watered-down and sugar-coated that you could put it on in a public school classroom and not a single Atheist parent would complain. 

And it’s not about children, either.  It’s a little respite for the adults, who enjoy their little sniggering game of “let’s see whose child will pick his nose right there in view of the videographer”, and “Lord, I hope Bettie May’s spoiled brat pulls her new dress right up over her head.  And I hope she’s wearing drawers with her mother’s name monogrammed on the front.”  (Admit it; you all do it.)   

My Dad was never fond of Children’s Sermons, but he did them on occasion, usually for Holidays.  A particularly memorable Easter Sunday comes to mind.

Dad was asked to add a little levity to the solemn service by asking the little children to come unto him, right before the offertory, for a little personalized preaching.  He didn’t look forward to the event, and wasn’t sure the kids would either, so he asked some member of our church who bred rabbitts on their farm to supply a prop.  He hid the costar in a little picnic basket, and brought it to the church that morning. 

The Sermon began like this.

Dad:  “Children, I have something in this basket.  Can anyone guess what it is?”

Children:  (Head shakes all around)

Dad:  Okay, well it’s someone who’s white and furry, and has long ears, and people thing of him a lot around Easter time.  Can anyone guess now?”

And with that, a little boy named Matthew raised his hand and said, with much contemplation:

“Well, I know the answer’s supposed to be Jesus, but it sounds like a rabbit to me.” 

They say there’s no faith like a child’s faith.  But sometimes the little boogers have us beaten in the reason department, too. 

When doctors don’t call you back with lab test results.  Faaaantastic.  I’d put it right up there with Spring Forward on my list of things that are really…just great.  No better word for it.  In fact, they’ve prompted me to submit a little prayer to the Heavenly Office of Laboratory Accountability, Great Physician’s Desk:

Dear God,

1.  I try to write every single one of my fans back.  (Try, I don’t always succeed, but I try.)  They are important to me, and I love hearing their personal stories.  (Of course, I cannot diagnose them with step throat, cancer, diabetes, crossed-eyes, or hair loss based on my evaluation of what they send me.)

2.  I am extremely diligent about constant communication with my clients (in my other, lawyerly life).  I don’t even want to know how swiftly I’d get canned if I just plain old neglected to report back to a client on the outcome of his case.  (”Oh, but it was a good result!  We don’t call when results are good.”  Heard that one before?  I suppose I am lucky that I’m in a profession where giving good news to someone who has paid you good money to get it isn’t considered unduly burdensome.) 

3.  I grew up with a father who took in roughly five billion prayer requests a week.  Let’s not begin talking about what would have happened to him, had he not responded, in person and in depth, to every single one.  But, to be fair, I suppose that accountability for the blood of Christ is, overall, less stressful than accountability for someone’s pee in a cup.  And Dad did get paid that fantastic salary.  Let’s not forget that. 

I suppose what I’m asking here for, Christ, is a little Karma in the getting-a-response department.  I think I’m owed it.  I think…wait, what’s that?  “What in heaven’s name is ‘karma’,” you say? 

Oops.  Wrong religion again.  Dang it.           

Alirght.  So I know authors love to play “most tortured.”  Memoirists, especially.  

But I’ve read a lot of reviews and commentary later that have prompted me to speak up a lil for our beleaguered Dewey Decimal Class.  Things like this comment, posted in the Amazon reviews section for Isabel Gillies’ Happens All The Time, a memoir of the breakdown of her marriage:

“Seems like another rich, privileged ’so called author’ getting a book deal she doesn’t deserve.”

Wow.  Ouch and double ouch.  The rest of the review is pretty scathing, but something about that one sentence makes me thing that the person who wrote it detested the book, the author, and the whole idea of either one of them existing before she even cracked the cover.  I could be wrong, but…”book deal she doesn’t deserve?”  Deserve?    A book deal?

Oh, honey.  I hate to bring the downpour upon any would-be writers out there, but book deals aren’t about talent.  They are about marketability.  There is no ”earn” here, nor is there any “deserve.”  And yes, Isabel probably did get the size of deal she did because she was a tv star before she decided to write. (And no, I don’t know what it was nor do I know her; we were seated at different tables at the last underground Everyone Who’s Ever Written a Book Convention that a few readers seem to think I attend.)  Does this mean her book has less merit on its own?  (Incidentally, I think not, and especially not in this case.  I really liked the book.  Tough read, but I couldn’t put it down.)

And conversely, what about the nobody who writes a memoir that STILL becomes a success, regardless of the writer’s non-Hollywood pedigree?  Must a book like this automatically have more merit than a piece of Glit Lit?  (Yeah, I made that one up too.  Not sure about it, may change it.  If you have a better term, please do comment.) 

Ummm…no.  Random books come out all the time and happen to snag on some lucky corner of the market.  Doesn’t mean they’re “better”, doesn’t even mean they’re good.  And you can’t blame the celebrity machine for their success and seeming heaven-sent fortune.  You can blame Jesus, and this country that keeps allowing any old nobody to read and comment on anything at will.  Unless you’d really like to change that, why all the anger?

Cause there’s a great deal of it out in the memoir aisles, and not all directed at blond, seven-foot-tall actresses.  I read comments and reviews on memoir after memoir, bleeding with the treatment of some reader who clearly picked up the book with claws pre-sharpened, blood boiling with a hefty dose of Who-Does-This-Person-Think-She-IS-Writing-A-Book?  Why is HER story so important?  Why is her LIFE worth pages and money and space on a bookshelf.  WHAT MAKES HER SO G-D SPECIAL?!?!?! 

If I may so kindly answer, on behalf of all memoirists (everyone else, duck):  Because she (or he) has a book out, and you don’t.  Not that you couldn’t.  It’s a free country and the presses are open.  And if a “nobody” with a “boring” or even “idiotic” life was marketable to some publisher, somewhere, then surely you are, too.  But maybe, judging by your comments, you don’t have the patience to work out your story on paper, or the courage to face an audience of people like you. 

Because that’s what it takes to be a memoirist.  You don’t have to have a Hollywood story.  You don’t even have to have a good story, or a well-written story.  You can have one that, like Isabel Gillies’, happens every day.  But you do have to be tolerant, persistent, and (here’s where the anger thing is a bit of a hairlip), kind. 

Yes, you read that correctly.  I don’t mean sweet, sappy, fluffy-reviewer kind.  I mean you have to see that there is a place in the world, and on the shelf, for all kinds of stories.  You have to accept that there’s as much beauty in the ordinary as there’s diamond dust and holographic covers in the Hollywood Hills.  And you have to love life and the relentless retelling of it in every stilted, ordinary detail. 

That’s how you do it.        

People who read as a hobby don’t get the chance to “win” via that hobby very often.  For all the junior high days in which teachers, parents, and coaches reiterated that literacy was the most important thing in the world, it was the athletes, the artists, the never-missed-a-days (big woop on that one) who got all the shiny trophies and ribbons. 

But there were the rare exceptions.  For me, the first happened in the second grade — that illustrious bastion of healthy habits known as Pizza Hut launched its Book-It Program. (Remember that?  Turns out they still have it!)  Here’s how it worked (then, anyway): 

1.  You read a book.  Any book.  For each book you finished, you got to fill in a circle on a chart at the front of the classroom.

2.  When you’d filled five circles, you got a gift certificate good for a free personal pan pizza.

Oh, but the glory didn’t end there my friends.  I begged my parents to take me to Pizza Hut the night I earned my first certificate (ahem…first in the class, of course).  And when I arrived, the waitress presented me with the coveted Book-It button.  It had room for five star stickers at the top, one for each Pizza you earned.  And it was a little bit like a medal.  Really, it was.  Anyway…

I planned on wearing my button to school the next day, but I forgot.  No problem.  Everyone else in the class was only on, like, their third book circle on the classroom chart, so I could wear it the next day and still be F-I-R-S-T. 

But then Tonya Reemsma walked into Miss Gallegher’s classroom.  Tonya, who had only one circle filled in on the chart.  And that was for the book Miss Gallegher gave everyone automatic credit for, because she read it to the whole class.  Plus (though no one dared mention it), Tonya was in a special reading group that hadn’t exactly moved on to reading real books yet.  They read these pamphlet-type things, and Miss Gallegher said that was as good as a book to them. 

Of course, I did not point out the distinction.  I did not even think of doing so.  I was very thankful for all the books that I was able to read.  But I was seven.  And my little sister had just gotten a shiny gold trophy for tee-ball and…DAMMIT!  Deep, deep (I mean waaaay deep) down, I wanted to shriek: “It’s not called FLASHCARD-IT!!!!!!!!  And you can’t count a book just because you sat there and an adult read it to you.  In that case, I’ve read the entire Bible, probably about fifty times!” 

But I composed my self.  I steeled my ankles inside my Kangaroo tennis shoes, straightened my jumper, and calmly asked Miss Tonya (picture Gollum in pigtails; I’m sure that’s how I looked when I did this):  “Where did you get that?”

She said that she had gone to Pizza Hut the night before, too (I didn’t see her there…hmmmm).  And when she told the waitress she was participating in Book-It, the woman had just gone ahead and given her the button.  (Yes, thank you Pizza Hut employees for your contribution to the death of literacy.)  It didn’t have any stars marked, though.  It was blank.  But it was still a trophy. 

Over the years, my teachers would throw other quasi-competitive reading “competitions,” but none carried quite the bloodthirsty fury of that first round of Book-It.  And even I lost my drive for that after I figured out you couldn’t get eny higher honor than that button.  That button was it. 

A few years later, when Meg was in the third grade, her class had its own reading competition.  It was a national thing, called “Beyond Books” or something like that.  All you had to do for that one was make a list of all the books you’d read.  But mom and Meg found a loophole, see.  They discovered that the rules didn’t specify the books had to have been read within the contest period.  So they made a list of every book Meg had ever read in her whole entire life (which was a lot by that point, believe it or not, if you counted all the teeny little learning books that kids read in the beginning).  Meg was so proud when, midway into the contest, she shared her list “so far” with her classmates.

That was a mistake.  From then on, everyone was on to the trick.  And a few individuals (including…ahem…the eventual “winner”)  evidently interpreted the lack of a time frame in the rules to include all the books they had read or might read in the future.  At least, I think that’s why a certain little snot named Emily Franklin included A Farewell to Arms in her list.  Surely, she didn’t just copy the titles from her parents’ bookshelf.  She wouldn’t have had time to do all that!  Not with finishing The Owner’s Manual for the Whirpool Electric Washer, and all.       

Meg came home furious the day that Emily was crowned Most Literate of All.  Everyone found the contest outcome a little dubious, but no teacher in America wanted to get into a parental battle over whether a child had actually read a certain book.  You see, that would imply that a teacher didn’t necessarily think the child had the capability to read a certain book.  And if you saw this Emily chick and her formidable mother (lots of sweaters with embroidered apples and chalkboards worn to the parent-teacher conferences, even though she wasn’t a teacher), you’d sooner “imply” that they both had venereal disease.  The outcome was final.  

Meg cried, and when Mom, terribly proud of her and hurt to see her so upset, asked what the prize was, Meg muttered: “Th..the beaver pencil.”

“Um…wha??”

“A pencil that a beaver bit off of.  The wildlife lady brought it and Miss Forest kept it for the prize.”

Mom couldn’t duplicate that one, but I think she sat back and relished the way that her child and others had clawed, fought, lied, and battled their way to being the “most well read” in the class. 

Will it ever be that way again?  I don’t know.  I read somewhere that Pizza Hut is changing its name to The Hut to attract its waning hip, young crowd, and something tells me that means Book-It will also end up a casualty of coolness. 

Oh well.  Hey, at least us nerds still have the St. Jude Math-a-Thon.  Though I was never going to win that one…   

I enrolled in a new book club recently, so there’s been much discussion among my friends as to what constitutes a good selection.  You know, the mythical “something everyone will like,” the book that won’t lead to bloodshed. 

Of course, finding the holy grail of choice reads is a little like trying to stuff a dozen wildcats into a pillowcase.  Book tastes are diverse.  They’re varied, they’re unique, and in this economy, they’re sensitive.  I think it’s part of the whole apocolyptic attitude.  People resent “wasting” time and/or money on a book that didn’t resonate with them.  We’ve become hoarders of the precious and exclusionist toward everything else.   We want a perfect match or we don’t want one at all.

Writers with…ahem…current manuscripts in the works are especially aware of this phenomenon (at least they should be), and I’ll be interested to see if it has an impact on what the market turns out.  Will books become worse or better as they seek the popular middle ground?

I know that common thought would say “worse.”  Diversity in the reading market is good; it challenges us.  And, despite the opinions of fellow authors who freak the heck out every time someone one-stars their book on Amazon, everyone benefits in some way from every book they read.  They come to realize what voices connect with them and which are hit-and-miss, and maybe they start to wonder about how they sound to the world.  They find themselves enthralled with some characters, while others bore them to the point of not finishing the book.  And then, once it’s closed, they may later ponder other aspects of their lives that are little more than unfulfilling time-wasters.

A personal example:  Yann Martel’s Life of Pi.  You’ve porbably at least heard of it; heard it praised, heard it loved, heard it reviled.  I’m on the loving side.  I adored the book as an adventure-driven metaphor for the classic faith journey.  But my family (rather faith-driven themselves, as you know), didn’t feel the same way.  In fact, I got the same criticism from all of them: “Okay, but I couldn’t make it past the first 150 pages.”

All of them (yes, the preacher, the preacher’s wife, and the preacher’s phD-seeking younger daughter)said that. 

And for my part, I huffed and fumed like Yann Martel was my Honor Student godson. 

How *could* they?  Finish the book!  I pleaded.  Just do it!  I begged.  You won’t regret it!  I promise!  I swear!  Oh, for the Love of God FINISH THE BOOK! WAAAAAAAAAAH!

More than a year has passed.  They have not finished the book.  And I have at long-last abandoned my self-imposed Herculean labor of shoving it toward them like a Saturn-sized boulder.  If only, I resigned myself to say, if only it came with an instruction, right on the cover.  Something like:  “You WILL love it, but you have to get past the first half.  The payoff is worth it!  Moneyback guarantee.”

When I got to thinking about it, I realized there are probably many books out there that would benefit from reader instructions/warnings on the covers.  I don’t mean the jacket blurbs; those are useless.  They’re written by publicists who are paid to make everyone buy the book, including people they know will hate it.  No, I mean useful warnings, like these:

Even though it’s a bestseller, this book is full of sentence fragments and creative grammar.  Teachers and vocab snobs beware.

If you don’t want to read about a sudden death, walk past this misleadingly colorful and shiny cover.

Author does significant indulgent proselytizing between pages 30 and 65.  You can skip that part if you want and not miss out on much plot.  The rest of it is pretty much worth what you’re paying.

The word “God” in the title does not necessarily make a book appropriate for your Sunday School class, and by purchasing it, you agree not to hate the book for that fact.  

If you can’t get past a writer’s political leanings, you won’t appreciate this.  Have a nice day.

What do y’all think?  Can you think of a book that would benefit from such a disclaimer? 

Exciting news! A limited number of Trespassers Will Be Baptized copies will be available for sale in the resource center of the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship’s annual General Assembly. They’re hardcover, and will be offered for the special price of $17. For more about the Assembly, click here.