CAPOTEX – A vintage 1960s designer drug. Unlike most other banned literary substances, this drug is often used by fiction writers and non-fiction writers alike. Artificially increases prose style and sophistication. May cause speech patterns to be affected. Known to induce cutting, witty remarks in some test subjects. Long-term use can lead to literary irrelevance.
SPILLAGRA – Boosts literary testosterone levels. Known side effects include involvement with femme fatales, consumption of rye whiskey in dive bars, and over-reliance on colorful similes. If hard-boiled dialogue persists for over four hours, contact a doctor immediately.
ORWELLBUTRIN – Regulates and encourages the production of dystopamine in the brain. Developed as a means of social control, but now listed as a “doubleplus ungood” substance by the Ministry of Health. In rare cases, subjects may imagine that they can hear animals talking. Should only be taken after the clocks strike thirteen.
In college, wise men with Einstein hair stood in front of lecture halls to tell you literature isn’t really about verbs, adverbs and dangling modifiers. No. Beneath the surface, lit-rah-sure asks a fundamental question that some believe is just as important as religion or science.
That question is this: “What’s worth living for, and what’s worth dying for?”
Nine words.
But I’m not banging in the keyboard late at night, powered by industrial amounts of coffee, to channel that old man with Einstein hair and a corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows. No. I not some ancient professor, and my closet contains no corduroy whatsoever.
I’m here to talk about those nine words, and why it leads me to one inescapable conclusion: that I do, in fact, know how to spell “inescapable.” Bit surprising. Thought I’d muff that one.
Also: every man must read a romance — and every woman must read a thriller.
Why every man MUST read a romance
Not to pick up girls. And not, if you’re married, to improve your odds of staying out of the dog house.
Every man should read a romance — and think about these things — for an entirely different reason. It’s the first part of the question, the “What’s worth living for?” part.
See, I could walk into (1) a cubicle farm, (2) factory break room or (3) sports bar and show any random 10 single men a photo from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, and if I asked them — drunk or not — whether they would marry this swimsuit model. I’m only half kidding when I say nine of those men would shrug and say, “Sure.”
Because we men are stupid that way.
HOWEVER: We need to get over it, and start thinking about these sorts of things. And yes, a damn fine first step would be to read a romance novel.
Watching a rom-com starring Matthew McConaughey, who’s last name is impossible to spell, does not count. Neither does firing up Netflix for SEX AND THE CITY 3: SARA JESSICA PARKER SHOPS FOR PURSES IN PARIS.
You must read an actual romance novel, with words and sentences, though I’ll leave it up to you whether it involves Men in Kilts.
I’ve written a few things about romances. (See below.) And my thinking has evolved quite a bit, not just because I’ve met 5,092 romance authors and talked to them, using this thing I like to call the Series of Tubes.
On the surface, sure, romances are about relationships. How two people meet, how they fall in love, all that.
Beneath that, romances are often about a massively important choice: who do you commit to, and marry? Classics like PRIDE AND PREJUDICE feature a lot of talking, thinking and scheming about who should get matched up with who.
At first I thought this was a lot of gossipy gossip nonsense. But it’s not. These choices are hard, and they mirrored real life. Back then, who a woman married meant everything. It wasn’t like folks had a lot of career choices and birth control options. Could this man be a good provider for oh, eight or ten kids? You’re damn straight if I were a woman back then, I’d want to marry a handsome prince. Tell me that story. Let me live that dream, not the one where I die in squalor giving birth to child No. 9.
High stakes back then. High stakes now, and a big deal for everyone involved. Who should you marry and have kids with? Oh, that’s massive, especially before the invention of The Pill and no-fault divorce. Can’t think of a bigger decision, and it’s definitely worth thinking about, if not agonizing over at least as much as the average man obsesses about his fantasy football picks.
Most men I know are generally horrible at this. We tend not to talk about love and relationships with our buddies, our sisters, with anybody. A lot of us tend have the attitude, “What happens, happens.” Then two years later, they’re married to somebody they’ve either (a) dated since ninth grade or (b) met last Thursday and flew down to Vegas to get hitched.
Four years later, they have two kids. Seven years later, they’re divorced. Not cool. Not smart. I know a lot of good, educated people who made bad choices and wound up like this. I feel lucky. Also, my beautiful and brilliant wife devours novels like candy, including not just lit-rah-sure but romances of all shapes and sizes. So I know enough to be dangerous.
I know that there are romances which really dive into the struggle to choose between two different partners. I know that it’s cheating to make one a villain and one a hero. Both choices must have merits and demerits. Thought I hate the stupid movies and books, TWILIGHT highlights this choice: the sparkly vampire or the hot werewolf? THE HUNGER GAMES — great book, great movie — also features this tough choice, and does it well. BRIDGET JONES’S DIARY makes you think twice about the handsome bad boy and take a second look at Colin the Firth and his ugly Christmas sweater.
There’s a long list of stories diving into that decision. They’re worth reading, and watching, and talking about.
Because in the end, a lot of people figure out “What’s worth living for?” isn’t about money, fame or spending more time at the office. Life’s about your wife and kids and family.
Pick wisely, men. Get all the help you can get, and not from your buddies, because they’ll say things like “Dude, the choice is obvious: Kelly the waitress with the sweet Mustang, unless you want to cruise around town in Sarah the lawyer and her hand-me-down minivan.”
Why every woman MUST read a thriller
Thrillers answer the second half of the question: “What’s worth dying for?”
If you answer the call to serve — as a firefighter or homicide detective, a Marine or a smokejumper, a coal miner or logger — there’s a chance you’ll die on the job. And if somebody breaks into your home and threatens your wife and kids with a gun, it’s your job to take a bullet and take the guy out while you’re family gets away safe.
This is how men think, and it is something that we talk about. It’s also why we tend to be obsessed with violent sports like football, MMA and hockey. (WWE, however, is fake and lame.) These things are practice for real life.
The question is, how often do you roll the dice? You can’t run around pretending to be Superman, spending your nights cruising dark alleys looking for muggers and rapists to duel to the death. (That’s because Superman is kind of a dipstick, invincible and annoying. Batman, now, is the man. You can go ahead and pretend to be him.) Yet you can’t be a complete nancypants, either, running from every fight and challenge.
When do you decide something is worth dying for?
Thrillers answer that question in a visceral way, with the stakes raised as high as they go.
Should you answer the call of your country and fight a war, taking the lives of other young men with families of their own, and possibly coming home in a body bag yourself — even if you suspect the war is wrong?
If a serial killer kidnaps your daughter, do you put your faith in the cops — or turn your CIA training loose and go after the whackjob yourself, despite the risk? Liam Neeson votes for hunting down whackjob kidnappers.
Should your family suffer under the oppressive fist of a planet-destroying dictatorship, or will you risk your freedom and life by joining the rebellion, which probably has the same chance of victory as the Mariner’s have of winning the World Series?
When the only hope to save the world is to get on an armored space shuttle with Bruce Willis, fly to an asteroid, drill deep inside and set off a nuclear explosion, will you go on that suicide mission, knowing that you probably won’t come back, or will you stay behind to enjoy one last week of picnics and bottles of Riesling with Liv Tyler before the world goes kaboom?
Just as betrayal is a common theme in romances, it’s also a huge element to thrillers. Because there’s nothing worse than doing dangerous, deadly work for a boss who is secretly an evil jerk. Not only did you get duped, but you did dangerous things, maybe violent and murderous things, for the wrong reason. That tends to piss men off.
Even though it’s a cliche, there’s truth to the typical action movie nonsense about a lone wolf detective / Green Beret / assassin who’s weary and retired from the game. It takes a lot to convince him that he should return to work, because he doesn’t fully believe that all the suffering and sacrifice is worth it. He’s seen too many good people die already.
Often, the story proves him right. He’s a cog in the machine, a machine that will use him up and throw him away. Is that worth dying for? Probably not.
Action movies and thrillers are about the need to make that choice decisively and wisely. There’s no “I’ll go halfway with you on this assault the Death Star thing, OK?” You only die once, except in Bond movies, thought I’m not exactly sure why Bond gets to die twice. I do know this: Bond has terrible taste in women. Are they beautiful? Sure. But after they sleep with him, they all turn up dead. EVERY TIME.
Not your usual sitcom nonsense
All this is why romances and thrillers can be epic. The stakes are high. The emotions are visceral. It’s not the usual nonsense you see in a sitcom every night, where Bart Simpson shoplifts for the first time and in 30 minutes learns the important life lesson that stealing is wrong, wrong, wrong. Roll credits.
Harry Potter is really one big long thriller about whether Harry will get Voldemort — a serial killer who happens to be a wizard — before Voldemort gets him.
STAR WARS takes an unexpected twist, with a father sacrificing his life to save his son and free a galaxy from oppression. I expected the new Death Star to simply get blown up in an even fancier explosion than the first time. I did not expect Darth the Vader to toss Emperor Wrinkly Face of the Lightning Fingers down an endless shaft. A father’s love turned out to be the biggest deal in the end. Interesting.
There’s a reason why many thrillers start out with a family being slaughtered and the lone survivor setting out to avenge them. You’re taking away what’s worth living for, and that leads the hero answer the question of what’s worth dying for.Your wife and kids mattered. You can’t let that slide. And you won’t.
Thrillers aren’t as compelling when the hero is aloof and the mission has nothing to do with his emotions, family or country, when it’s just a job where the hero is busy looking cool while wearing sunglasses and shooting guns. There’s nothing behind it. It’s flat and empty.
Everybody wants something worth living for, to dedicate themselves wholly and completely to something, because otherwise, what’s the point of waking up, fighting traffic and slaving away in a cubicle for thirty years until you die, right? People get that. It’s why people become obsessive fans of the Green Bay Packers or STAR TREK, why people dedicate themselves to politics, religion or a cause. Some folks divert this urge into collecting every Beanie Baby every made. Don’t.
Great stories — in movies and novels — speak to this need to matter, to belong, to put a stamp on life, to give your all, even if it’s bonkers.
And truly great stories take us deeper.
Harry the Hedonist will argue that lovers leave you, husbands divorce you, kids randomly get leukemia, and in the end, we all die, so pass the wine and live it up.
Isaac the Idealist says you should dedicate yourself to great ideas and institutions, which are the only things that last.
Ned the Nihilist trumps THAT with “Nothing truly lasts. Institutions don’t care about you and even a killer asteroid, nuclear war or homicidal robots from the future fail to destroy us, the sun will eventually turn into a red giant, doing a burnt-toast number on earth before ruining THE ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD by going supernova.”
Do I have video? Yes I do.
But if nothing truly lasts, there’s no point in sacrificing friends and family for an institution or an idea. Be good to others. Do the right thing. Love with all your heart. Or use two cows on a silly blog to explain all of politics and philosophy. (The world explained by TWO COWS)
These questions are tough, interesting and complicated — and every tough, complicated problem has an easy, simple to understand wrong answer.
You can get into these kinds of questions with romances and thrillers in a way that Philosophy 402 classes simply can’t touch. Because if you put human faces and names behind the ideas, and real emotions, the neat logic about the deontological notion of equal treatment versus the greatest good for the greatest number — all that abstraction turns to dust.
Also, take it from Plato and every dictatorship on the planet: literature and stories are the most powerful, and dangerous, way to talk about ideas. That’s why evil governments burn books and censor movies.
So men, read a romance.
Pick something that won an award, or one with Fabio on the cover. But grab one. And don’t buy one at Barnes and Noble, because I know you won’t do it. Ask your women friends for their favorites, read the back covers and pick your favorite of the bunch. Also, hear me know and believe me later in the week: romance novels are more interesting, and useful, than reading Cosmo when you’re waiting in the doctor’s office, despite all the tempting headlines. (Secret truth: every edition of Cosmo is actually the same. They swap out the covers, change the headlines of the stories and NOBODY NOTICES.)
Women, find a thriller. Hopefully one by Barry Eisler or Lee Child, who should be sending me kickbacks.
Then start a literary knife fight in the comment section about Men in Kilts versus Haunted Homicide Detectives Who Are Allergic to Razors.
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Guy – Photo by Suhyoon Cho
Reformed journalist. Scribbler of speeches and whatnot. Wrote a thriller that was a finalist for some award.
We all read them in high school, then college. You know the books I’m talking about: the classics.
LORD OF THE FLIES and WAR AND PEACE and GIANT NOVELS BY RUSSIANS WHO REFUSE TO CALL ANY CHARACTER BY ANYTHING LESS THAN SIX NAMES.
I’m talking about literature, except true literary snobs pronounce it “lit-RAH-sure.”
It’s these Great Books that we all flipped through at three in the morning, cranking out a term paper fueled by beer with fish on the can and Camel cigarettes bummed from your roommate as you dream up phrases like “the author’s framework includes a subtle critique of dialectical materialism buried within the character’s clear delineation of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs” until you hit about 7:15 a.m., with the paper due on the professor’s desk at 8 a.m. sharp, so you start busting out sentences like “The last chapter’s use of the hierarchical opposition of day and night, does, in fact, highlight the artificial constructs of love/hate, life/death and hunger/satiation, when clearly there are no such boundaries except as defined by man — or woman, or cyborgs, sufficiently intelligent dolphins and chimpanzees trained in the art of ESL.”
Amanda the Nelson reads the classics for us so we don’t have to.
Then she writes about these books with insight and hilarity.
Because honestly, all these classics do have interesting things to say, and Big Ideas worth pondering. They were simply written in a time when authors didn’t believe in these things we like to call “paragraphs” and “books that weigh less than a Volkswagen Passat.” Some of these guys make 1,032-page Stephen King novels look like their standard prologue. You know, just warming up them there writing muscles.
Amanda the Nelson reads the classics so you don't have to. Her blog is a public service. Go read it. DO IT NOW.
Amanda doesn’t talk about these classics in the usual pretentious language that we’re used to. Instead, she is hilarious.
And I believe Amanda’s brutal, honest wit makes her better, not worse, as a critic. Because your average book critic says, “Hey, this was good,” or “This book stinks up the joint,” except they spend 500 words to say it, wasting 495 of those words (a) profiling the author, (b) comparing this book to the author’s previous stuff, (c) being so polite about it that you’re not sure what they really mean or (d) being so mean it makes you wonder if the critic hates the author instead of the book — you know, because of the thing with the guy at that place.
And here’s a bit about her from her blog, which gives you a flavor of her as a writer.
THE PERSONAL AD
Greetings! I’m Amanda Nelson, and I live in Richmond, Virginia. I’m married and have one cat and a set of identical twin boys named Rhett and Atticus, even though children scare me (especially the ones in those sad, sad backpack-leash things). I love the following: literary tattoos, irony, those cats that look like little leopards, castles, earl gray tea, couch naps, having an ambiguous ethnicity that allows me to blend in anywhere, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice, Jesus, rain when there are no clouds, the smell of honeysuckle, writing real letters (BE MY PEN PAL), and rose perfume. I do not love: post-modernism, fake nails, being sticky, celebrity politics (shuddup Sean Penn, for the love of holy hot pants), small dogs, the color yellow and therefore bananas, fast food, Twilight, reading for escapism, hammocks that are made of rope instead of canvas, chinese food, my husband’s driving, and reality television.
THE PRESS RELEASE Amanda Nelson is a freelance writer and blogger from Richmond, Virginia. She is the sarcastic-yet-earnest voice behind the blog Dead White Guys: An Irreverent Guide to Classic Literature. Amanda is also a weekly contributor to BOOK RIOT, a bookish news and social commentary site. She specializes in honest book reviewing and reader-focused literary criticism, and is a member of the National Book Critics Circle. She has a Bachelor’s in History from Virginia Commonwealth University, which she mostly uses to sound smart at parties.
See? What’d I tell you. She is ONE OF US.
Because it has become a tradition, and because you may have lost her blog link already, here’s the typical Friendly Friday plug.
Amanda Nelson of Dead White Guys: An Irreverent Guide to Classic Literature
Note: these Friday shout-outs are (1) always a surprise and (2) never in exchange for bottles of wine, boxes of chocolate or suitcases stuffed with purple euros. Do I want folks to nominate worthy bloggers, tweeters and writers? NO NO NO. Because then I’d be writing friendly shout-outs to people that I don’t read, people I don’t know one bit, making it all fake and mercenary, except for the getting paid part. I have to be inspired, to see a blog post or a tweet and want to tell the world, or at least the Series of Tubes.
What is the most amazing, over-the-top Fabio romance cover OF ALL TIME?
We are talking about Fabio here, so there is an embarrassment of riches.
How can we pick one masterpiece when everything the Italian Master of Romance has done with the cover of novels is so good?
I wanted to do crazy sci-fi and fantasy covers first. But they are surprisingly monotonous, with the difference between (1) a great cover and (2) a campy cover and (3) an insane cover being a matter of taste, really, and of what cup size you want your robot / elven princess / barbarian warrior woman to have, and whether she should be a loyal sidekick, at the feet of the male hero, or the heroine who’s busy cutting off the heads of trolls or whatever.
The other options for sci-fi and fantasy covers include:
Old Bearded Man in a Robe with a Magical Staff,
Young Man Playing with His Magical Sword, or
Spaceships and exploding stars (dinosaurs are optional).
Frankly, they kind of bored me, though I will search harder for amazing sci-fi and fantasy covers, especially of spaceship riding dinosaurs.
Take a look at this man, who was apparently a famous poet.
Charles Baudelaire, the most famous poet you don't know. Hell, I could be making him up, and you'd nod your head and say, "Sure, I read some of his stuff in grad school."
I know the name Gertrude Stein, and understand that she is some kind of Giant of Literature.
(It’s pronounced “lit-rah-SURE, by the way, if you want to be all snobby and lame.)
HOWEVER: For the first time, I’ve read actual words she wrote and published.
Not even gigantic hits of marijuana chased with tequila shots would make her stuff (a) understandable or (b) enjoyable.
She isn’t somebody I’d tell a new writer to read and emulate. If I actually cared about the new writer’s sanity and career, I would tell them this: read her words, then DO THE OPPOSITE.
Gertrude Stein is a literary train wreck.
Check out one of her famous poems, Sacred Emily, which starts like this:
Compose compose beds. Wives of great men rest tranquil. Come go stay philip philip. Egg be takers. Parts of place nuts. Suppose twenty for cent. It is rose in hen. Come one day. A firm terrible a firm terrible hindering, a firm hindering have a ray nor pin nor. Egg in places. Egg in few insists.
Book signings, as you know, are boring, even for we literary types who love books and think authors are like Greek gods, only nerdier. Look at the headline. Is there any doubt you are a Great American Novelist, if not The Great American Novelist? Not when TIME proclaims it to be so.
Let me tell you about the Best Book Signing Ever, which happened in Great Britain.
Jonathan Franzen has signature writerly glasses, with thick black frames, and at a serious book signing event where Jonathan was surrounded by serious literary people, a crazy thief snatched those amazingly nerdy glasses, as if they are the source of Franzen’s strength, like Samson.
Franzen was just on the cover of TIME Magazine. He is Serious and Important, though not important enough for the British presses to print his new book without insane typos.
However: this bold and fearless thief didn’t just run off with Franzen’s magic glasses. No. That would be pedestrian, and gauche.
Our thief left a ransom note demanding SUITCASES PACKED WITH PURPLE EUROS. (Maybe he is reading the blog? Nothing is impossible.)
The ransom note asked for 100,000 euros, which is even more than 100,000 dollars, but easier to transport because you’re not packing twenties. You can transport stacks of purple 500 euro notes, meaning a million bucks fits in your purse, man purse or European carryall. Think of a suitcase packed with purple euros. You would be a bazillionaire.
The police were called, of course. There are reports the thief jumped into the water.
A helicopter showed up to look for this person. How many book signings have you attended where (a) the police show up and (b) they bring a helicopter? Zero. This is the best one ever. You cannot top it.
Sadly, police caught the man, meaning we will not be entertained by the manhunt and photos of the thief putting the glasses on statues across Europe to taunt Franzen.
A classic post from my old blog. For new folks, enjoy.
Let it be known: we men must rethink our natural manly instinct that romance novelists are something to avoid, like SEX AND THE CITY 2, which is indeed worthy of scorn, and woe unto any man whose girlfriend or wife coerced them into wasting two hours of their life to see that stupid thing. No bribe is sufficient.
Published romance novelists are not only talented and funny, but many can write circles around the 6.57 gazillion reporters, writers and novelists I know. Also — and most importantly — they CELEBRATE AND ADORE MEN, which we should encourage.
I have thought about this, and it makes sense. These women are more talented than most folks writing about elves and spaceships, or elves riding spaceships, because there is so much freaking competition with romance novels.
It’s like throwing 10,000 authors into the Thunderdome, tossing in a single chainsaw and refusing to unlock the door until there’s only one woman left. By definition, that woman is going to kick tail. She will be a writing goddess.
And I was wrong to ever believe that romance novelists might be writing 80,000 words about shoes or amazing handbags. They focus on writing about men, though they apparently want us to be as allergic to shirts as Lady Gaga is allergic to pants. They also spend a lot of time writing steamy scenes encouraging women to do natural things with men. This is a Good Thing, and should be encouraged, and celebrated throughout the land, unless we men have been busy taking Stupid Pills.
The trifecta: no shirt, mullet and sword.
Also, they want us to be packing swords, if not guns, and sometimes guns and swords. Any man can learn this from googling “romance novel covers.” IT IS AN EDUCATION.
Do they want us to be office drones, worried about TPS reports? No. Do they want us to talk about our feelings to a shrink and cry when we see a sunset? No.
Women want us to have one of three manly jobs: Viking, pirate or Native American warrior.
Fabio covers two of the three manly jobs that women want us doing. He's missing Native American warrior, but we can forgive him for that, because he has the mandatory sword.
Aside from piracy and swordsmanship, they specifically want us to punch things that need punching and spend our time with a beautiful long-haired woman who happens to be heiress to a billion-dollar fortune but does not know that, because her evil uncle has hidden this fact from her so he and his plastic-surgery obsessed witch of a wife could keep all that money for themselves, and it is our job to dropkick the evil uncle into the next century. If that doesn’t work, hey, all men are required to carry a sharp sword.
Check out Fabio’s covers again. Shirt? Optional. Sword? IT IS REQUIRED.
I have never read romance novels, or even checked the covers until now. Yet we men should secretly pool our resources to fund these female authors, because they are an army of dedicated women doing a $16.5 billion public relations campaign on our manly behalf.
So, romance novelists: I am holding a mug of Belgium beer, and I raise it in your direction.
Keep up the good work. We men may not know it, or admit it, but we owe you a huge favor.
Once you’ve read his books, and fully appreciate his literary genius, you can watch this low-definition video with horrible audio that still rocks because it has KURT FREAKING VONNEGUT.
I would have paid monies to have him as my professor. Now that I think about it, I did pay monies to have professors. Hmm. Though my journalism profs were top-notch. Props to you all.
Now, it’s not so complicated, is it?
Hero in a hole.
Boy meets girl.
Girl with a problem.
Albert Einstein — and thousands of other people far, far smarter than you or I put together, even on our good days when our fingers spark magic and the coffee we drink would do better on an IQ test than Michele Bachmann — spent many years trying to come up with a unified theory of everything.
See, the whole E=MC2 was only part of the answer. That’s the equation for energy. He wanted to do an equation that also explained gravity and whatnot. IT IS COMPLICATED. We will not get into it.
Albert Einstein was a muffin of stud with epic hair. I salute him. Image via Wikipedia
Oh, people get all mystical and complicated, and come up with their own jargon and rules. Yet these self-appointed writing gurus all disagree, and they specialize so much that they know more and more about less and less until they know absolutely everything about nothing.
"In my insomniacal Twitter meanderings I find the miracle of @speechwriterguy. Follow him. He makes energetic sense about words. And life."
@CharlesCrawford / Oxford area, England / Former British Ambassador turned speechwriter, writer, mediator, trainer, blogger. Founder member of ADRg Ambassadors LLP
"Informative, funny, blunt & quirky, @speechwriterguy 's blog is a must if you really give a damn about language & communication."
@DavidWeedmark / Ottawa, Canada / Acclaimed poet & novelist with a penchant for dark roast coffee; passionately curious.
