ReKindling the Readership

I mentioned and linked at length yesterday to Michael Chabon's work, which I have just spent the summer reading.  I am proud to own copies of all his books, many of them signed by the author, whom I have met twice and will see several more times on his book tour this fall for Telegraph Avenue, but whom I am not stalking, contrary to what some people may say.  Of course, I read all of these books in their physical form, rather than on a Kindle or iPad (which I do not own, but would be open to receiving as a gift).  A special preview of Telegraph Avenue, however, nearly led me to purchase the book in that format, as a special edition of the book exists with accompanying audio tracks, images, videos, and so on.  However, thanks to the thoughtful gift of a friend, I do not have to make this decision, and a beautiful copy of the book is sitting all shiny nearby as I write this.  Which is good, because now when Chabon signs it later this month, I don't have to worry about rendering it useless.  (Seriously, GoogleImages? Nothing for this? Has no one's toddler written on their Kindle screen?)
 
But it got me thinking... When is a book no longer a book?  I recently discussed the flexibility of novels with a friend, wondering if there was a difference anymore between a collection of interwoven short stories and a novel.  Faulkner's Go Down, Moses seems to straddle the line.  But I don't just mean novels, I mean books in general.  When we can click and watch a movie, listen to a song, hear a sample from the audiobook... Are we still experiencing books?  It's an interesting transition, from the written page to the written retina-display touch-screen with special interactive features.
 
Even more interesting, though, are the two transitions from e-book to print that I found today.  The first is a print-on-demand art book, which collects 56 images of broken kindle screens and reproduces them in print.  While certainly cheaper than purchasing and breaking 56 original Kindles, I'm confused as to why anyone would buy this.  It calls to mind the title of another print book sitting on my couch right now... But Is It Art?  Perhaps the knowing smile and partial face of Agatha Christie knows the answer to that mystery...
More impressive, I think, is the project that aims to explain the modern e-book to a member of the analog past.  It's the 19th-Century Kindle for Charles Dickens!  Normally, I would be opposed to someone gutting a book, but this is so freaking cool.  And it created a bunch more little books to make up for taking apart old ones.  Though I have to imagine those little ones are abridged.
 
As an exciting piece of news today, the trailer for this November's film Lincoln premieres later today.  While this is not the movie I'm most looking forward to this Fall (Looper and Cloud Atlas and The Master are fighting for top billing there), I'm intrigued by the trailer, if only to see the great double-named Daniel Day-Lewis transform into another amazing role.  You can't see the preview until 7:00 tonight, but there is some leaked footage of Day-Lewis here.  Okay... Maybe not.  But I wouldn't be surprised to hear that Mr. Method-Actor spent months of preparation actually installed in Disney's Hall of Presidents, replacing the existing audio-animatronic.
 
Wikipedia tells me it's International Chocolate Day.  Act accordingly.

What We Missed

Remember the Report?  Or did you open your inbox yesterday evening and go, "Hello, what's this? Junk mail?"  We're back!  And unlike that July 31 claim that the "Report Rises," when we lasted shorter than Bane without his mask (Maybe? What would have happened there? It would have been extremely painful, I guess) this time we're back for the long haul.

What changed?  Well, in the first place, things really picked up at work, so I had to freeze production rather than rather than reduce quality.  Things are still busy at work, but I'm able to bring things back now, because this weekend, I completed my two major summer projects.  (Both in the same 24 hours.)  First, I completed my reading of all of Michael Chabon's published books.  (Eventually I'll tackle the uncollected stuff, too.)  3601 pages later, that's done, and I'm now reading his newest novel, Telegraph Avenue, albeit at a casual, leisurely pace.  I also completed the script for my children's theater play, "To the Moon," a science-fiction adventure set in 1962, featuring a circus, space pirates, and a Space Race.  For NH readers, there will be reminders forthcoming about the show's October premiere.
 
So, with those projects out of the way, I now plan on preparing the Morning Reports the night before they go out.  (It's sort of like a print report in that regard.)  This way I can keep the quality high in both my Report and my work.  But now, to business.  Specifically the business of considering what could have been.
 
It's frustrating to look back on all the time-appropriate internet findings that I've missed the window of distribution on.  No doubt you saw many of them yourselves.  But let us take this Report to focus on the Reports that Never Were:

The Olympics

How could I have missed these?  I could have offered reflections on the pomp and absurdity of the opening and closing ceremonies.  Discussed my awe at the gymnasts... Particularly at the fact that when the cameras zoom out, you remember all of a sudden that they are so very tiny.  And I would no doubt have complained about the fact that I can't link you to video without NBC kindly requesting that I never report again.  And imagine the number of time-delayed broadcast jokes I could have made about late reports.  We would have seen it in gifs discussed by number (ohmygosh #3 still).  And we would have collectively made a significant increase in the borderline NSFW links to Tom Daley.  But now the Olympics have passed, I missed my opportunity, and I can imagine the look on all your faces.

The Political Conventions

You may recall that I preface all political discussions with a notice on how I try to avoid politics on the Report, but certain items here could not have been avoided.  Well, no, really just one.  Because I could have provided in-depth discussions of these.  And these. (Some overlap, I know.)  And this. 

But now, it is all but too late.  The ship has sailed.

And now it is after Labor Day.  Summer is over.  I know, not because of the calendar, and certainly not because Starbucks insists in pressuring me into their pie-in-a-cup-and-just-as-many-calories Pumpkin Spice Latte.  I know because of the way the world felt this morning, when I left for work in a jacket without sweating through it.  As this NPR reflection on the beginning of fall discusses, it's "just a hint of a change, a certain kind of coolness and the color of the light, but you know it as soon as it hits."  And it has hit, dear reader.  To err is human, to er is autumnal: September, October, November, cider, sweater...

 

Autumn has arrived, the Report has returned, and I, Dear Readers, could not be happier.

Reflections on Welcoming Remarks Made at a Literary Reading, 9/25/01

Every year on this day, I wonder what I should do to properly commemorate and reflect upon the events that took over morning news reports and irrevocably and undeniably changed the world eleven years ago.  A flag pin is not my style.  A Tweet or Facebook status update seem too insincere, wedged between my latest snarky 140 characters or a link to that video.  (You know the one, where the [animal / toddler / recently medicated person] [does / says] something [adorable / hilarious / incredible].)  A vigil feels too public, a prayer, too private.  I need something that is a healthy medium between those two spheres of my existence.  Something shared, but something that is mine.

The answer I inevitably and invariably come to is the same one reached by the editors at McSweeney's Internet Tendency.  I read, share, and reflect upon a piece by John Hodgman, titled "Welcoming Remarks Made at a Literary Reading, 9/25/01."

Though you may not recognize his name, most, if not all of you would recognize Mr. Hodgman were his photo presented with the article.  He is the tweed-attired, nerdy PC of the Mac vs PC ads that aired several years ago.  He is a frequent guest on The Daily Show, where he offers his "You're welcome"s for solving problems he has not actually solved.  He has written three books, each more funny and self-referential than the last, each brilliantly humorous in their ability to be opened to any page for a quick laugh, yet also intricate in the overall narrative arc that weaves them together.  His appearance and voice, mild mannered, polite, and soft-spoken, offer a perfect juxtaposition to his absurd and assertive statements, working to make them all the more humorous.  Imagine if Lewis Black or George Carlin politely voiced their frustrations to undermine them.  This is the humor of John Hodgman.  It is intelligent, quiet, polite, good, human.  It is therefore, not difficult to hear that voice reading those words, in spite of the fact that I was likely doing homework for my 7th grade math class, and not at a Literary Reading on September 25, 2001.

The piece (Have you read it yet? Do so before pressing onward.) deals with storytelling, which is likely why I find myself so drawn to it year after year.  Storytelling is, for me, a fundamental piece of personal and human existence, the lens through which I view the world.  Events demarcate new tales and chapters; characters enter, vanish, appear unexpectedly after long absences, and subtly but profoundly change the narrator; settings shift; themes, symbols, motifs become oddly apparent...  I declare it in my Facebook "About Me," (and where is there a more authoritative declaration of my existence?) "Storytelling above all."

And it just so happens that I agree with all of Mr. Hodgman's assessments about storytelling.  Maybe he was the one who shaped my own assessments in the first place.  It's hard to say.  First, that it is an oral tradition.  Your ear is reading this more than your eye.  But more importantly, that it serves three functions: "to inform, as in relay news and record history; to instruct, as in pass down a set of moral guidelines; and to entertain."  When I write or tell stories, particularly for children, I aim to juggle all three of these functions at once.  Sometimes the juggling leads to imbalance, and the moral guidelines are hammered home in heavy-handed fashion at the journey's end, or the entertainment is an abundance of puns, or a narrator must intercede to spell out the information.  But in general, I am for all three, and I like to think I do pretty well.  Rarely, though, do I think of that fourth function, that function that served early storytellers and listeners as they "desperately needed distraction, and reassurance that they were not alone."

I believe that is why I turn to this piece every year, rather than returning to stark images of the day's events or replayed footage on CNN.  This piece allows me to remember, but also to distract myself with a reflection on storytelling.  To distract myself from the fact that eleven years ago, my story, the story of all Americans, the story of all the world, changed suddenly.  Some of the stories, those we remember with the greatest solemnity and sorrow, ended that day, far earlier than the narrative conventions we, as a society had established suggested that they should.  Those of us whose lives were not taken found not a single, tragic period at the end of the sentence that morning, but an ellipsis, leading us into our next uncertain chapter.

As a world, as a nation, and, if I may be so bold as to speak to this level, as individuals, we have since entered new chapters, but no event has so dramatically changed the collective landscape we share as storytellers.  (And we are all storytellers.)  Narrative conventions of security and comfort shifted.  New characters were introduced, and the character of old characters changed.  The unwavering voice we once used to tell our stories proved prone to cracking, to breaking, to being utterly at a loss for words.

Eleven years later, the storytelling atmosphere has, erratic and mutable as it is, changed again.  Stories of that day and the days that follow are now told to serve Hodgman's first three functions.  Novels, films, plays, television specials, all exist now that examine that day, and all of them serve to represent the change that occurred in the way we tell our collective story.  The stories are all different, but, even without having read/heard/seen all, or even most of them, I can speak to one common element they share.  These stories, like all stories, work to show that stories, like storytelling, like the presence of and need for storytellers, lives on.

So today, as we reflect on our own stories, perhaps focused on those "I was _______ when I heard," moments, leading into the great ellipsis of our time, we should share them with each other.  Share them not necessarily to inform, to instruct, or to entertain.  Share them so that "we may gather and distract one another, take comfort in our proximity, and know that we are, at this moment, safe."

I am, like John Hodgman, only humbled: to be here, to be alive.