Fluency Made Easy, by Ikenna D. Obi

My greatest challenge in life is maintaining the secret that I’m awesome. Well, that and avoiding sugar. I’m apparently so good at my subterfuge that strangers and acquaintances suspect I’m only ordinary. The truth is I prefer it this way, since I can’t be bothered with the subsequent popularity such knowledge, were it made known, would inflict upon my personal life. Revealing my superpowers, such as my ability to hear in the dark or read without moving my lips, would most likely send the media to my door faster than you could say fiber optics.

Granted, the unfortunate souls who’ll never be graced with that precious gift the select few in a hushed whisper pronounce as my friendship, who’ll never know what they’re missing out on, certainly invoke my pity. However, part of my value rests in my exclusivity. My standards are high. Gaining access to my good graces is rare, a coveted commodity. Plus, my discerning, discriminating taste keeps the membership to my private club I dub High Brow Comradery low.

As an avid reader and writer (not to mention snob and sophisticate), I naturally require a good deal of alone time. Happily, solitude and isolation are my mantras. Which is fitting, since my privacy, autonomy, anonymity, and smugness are ideal for my immersion into my various passions. In short, I’m a soloist. I work alone.

Despite my infectious personality, my quick wit, rugged good looks and amazing talents, not to mention my commendable humility, I’ve managed to maintain this routine without attracting suspicion or rousing unwelcome interest.

Compound this dynamic with yet another quirk. Perhaps as recently as six years ago, I was terrible at juggling. By juggling I mean multitasking, pursuing multiple projects and extracurriculars. You know the sort. Those annoying socialites who take cooking classes, attend their weekly book club, do yoga, jet ski, volunteer at their local church, build canoes from scratch, and shuffle their children off to ballet and soccer practice, all the while texting their friends about their weekend plans for vacationing in Acapulco or Paris or Rio de Janeiro.

For one, I served in the Navy. I vacationed in enough states and foreign countries to last a lifetime – Singapore, Saipan, Hawaii (seven times), Alaska, Bahrain, Kuwait, Dubai, Japan, Australia, and Bali. Keep in mind I mention these places only to boast. And while I can look back fondly on those episodes in my life, those port visits and the subsequent binges, I prefer to look ahead.

Having said that, or rather written it, throughout most of my life, I’ve tended to put the blinders on and zero in on one thing at a time in the hopes of mastering it. I’d delve, you might say. With abandon. For example, when over thirty years ago I decided to learn guitar, I sold my drum set so that I wouldn’t be tempted to spend any of my free time playing the drums instead. 

Again, until recently, apart from my job to keep the lights on, I was reading books and writing and little else. Which was fine until I began to feel as if I were stuck in a rut. Aware of this proclivity for immersing myself in either one or two things at a time, I eventually decided to expand my horizons. 

If you follow my blog, you’ll know this led me to explore Catholicism, read both The Bible and The Catechism of the Catholic Church concurrently, pray the Rosery, attend mass, diet, exercise, etc. This new lifestyle resulted in lots of positive changes in my life, some of which I’ve chronicled on this blog.

Now, with my fascination for gentleman’s fashion (think GQ Magazine sans the youthful socialism), taking up the fine art of pipe smoking, pushing myself to complete my reading list of thirty books this year (nearly there), writing every day, semi-actively searching for a literary agent (don’t ask), and my plans to find a group or organization in town with whom to affiliate – Knights of Columbus? – my free time has become all the more precious.

Nevertheless, despite my already overly busy schedule, I developed a fascination for all things Japanese. This possibly began with my absolute lust for sushi several years ago, culminating into an appreciation for Japan’s colorful and exotic culture, its Samurais, dynasties, Geishas, calligraphy, and its spoken language with its rounded vowels and sultry sibilants, not to mention its perfection in everything from craftsmanship to cuisine.

These features eventually intimated themselves into my waking consciousness. (Historically, Japanese people have a reputation for elevating whatever they do to an art form. I can’t help but both admire and strive to emulate that.) I subsequently grew ever more intrigued as I explored those videos uploaded on YouTube showcasing Japan’s bizarre game shows, commercials, and extraordinary music.

Finally, despite having no intention of returning to Japan and knowing no one in town with whom to practice, I decided to teach myself its basic touristy questions and phrases, something I regrettably hadn’t done while stationed in Sasebo, a city in the Nagasaki Prefecture, in Japan, twenty years ago.

This effort began back in March of this year and within the first month I could speak enough Japanese to say, “Hello, my name is Mark. Yes. What’s your name? It’s nice to meet you. Excuse me. No. What’s that? Delicious! I’m sorry. May I have some water (or juice or coffee)? Thank you very much. You’re welcome. Awesome! Take care. See you later. See you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

Not exactly a conversational repertoire conducive to intellectual engagement about the geopolitical implications of an homogenous, egalitarian people (126 million of them) living on an island half the size of Texas, entrenched in tradition and convention, but a sincere start nonetheless. Besides, I knew I’d have to crawl before I sprinted, in this case speak like a Japanese toddler before engaging in an adult conversation.  

By April, no longer satisfied with basic words and phrases the tourist should know to function in Japan, I decided to get serious about learning not only the spoken language but the written language as well.

I printed out the hiragana and katakana syllabaries (two of the three Japanese alphabets). I explored lessons covering nouns, verb agglutinations, particles, and so on. (Thanks to the internet, one can learn anything and everything one is inclined to study. I certainly couldn’t have taken on this project twenty years ago as easily, conveniently, or affordably.)

To be clear, I don’t pretend to have advanced beyond the bare bones of it all. In fact, I’ve since learned that Japanese is not only perhaps the most difficult language for a Westerner to learn but that it’s the fastest spoken language in the world as well. Spanish is the second fastest language spoken. Study is never ending. We have 26 letters in the English alphabet, 52 if you consider both the upper and lower cases of each letter, 104 if you add cursive.

In addition to the two kana syllabaries, totaling 142 characters (or digraphs), there are also over 50,000 kanji, each of which represents both a concept and what’s known as readings (the sounds each kanji has depending on its context).

To be fair, Japanese people use no more than about 2,200 kanji in their day to day lives reading magazines, books, road signs, ads, warning labels, directions, menus, and the like. Still. I don’t doubt Japanese toddlers are more proficient than I am. But I’ve made significant progress. This progress is due, in large part, to my efforts to learn from a variety of sources.

The trick to learning any language is to immerse oneself in it – reading, writing, listening, and speaking. I initially explored instruction videos uploaded on YouTube by native speakers, Japanesepod101.com, language learning apps, and even writing out the Japanese names I’d learned for items on my grocery list. I also watched j-dramas on Netflix, all with the Japanese subtitles turned on so I could follow along.

This immersion continued. I listened to Japanese music at work. My favorite hard rock band of all time is now Band Maid, although Babymetal is a close second. Give their song メギツネ (megitsune) a listen. I watched videos that broke kanji into their individual radicals, listened to Japanese audio books with ear buds while I slept. Yes, I was on a mission. And, as I say, I drew from multiple sources, since most instructive websites, apps, and YouTube videos isolate and highlight some aspects of the language while failing to address others.

This immersion improved my comprehension, strengthened my pronunciation, and would eventually give me confidence for employing the basics of a second language with potential Japanese speakers. So far, however, I just annoy my English-speaking clients, injecting random Japanese declarations and interrogatives into the conversation when they least expect it. Although at this point they probably expect it at any given moment. After all, I must practice on somebody.

I further explored how language learning works. According to these lecturers, absorption versus memorization is the most effective process. This makes sense. After all, think back to elementary school. First we learned the English alphabet, how to speak and write out the English letters. We then advanced to words and their meanings. Later sentence construction.

And yet, in addition to all this study in the classroom, we enjoyed the added bonuses that no Learn-a-Second-Language program can hope to provide, namely being inundated with that same language outside the classroom, even prior to beginning kindergarten. Family, friends, media – all of this helped shape our comprehension, application, and understanding growing up.

Here’s the thing. Most Learn-a-Second-Language methods rely on your primary language to get the secondary language across. In English, you’re told, both audibly and often with English subtitles, how to speak and or write language X. Despite my initial gratitude for this learning tool, this lacks immediacy.  

I eventually decided, short of having a friend in town who speaks Japanese, I needed something more effective. I’m not suggesting that I’d advanced to a point at which these free resources were rendered redundant or anything. But I’d discovered both problems and errors. Hence I wanted to see what all the fuss was about with the one company hailed as allegedly offering the most effective method for learning new languages: Rosetta Stone.

Three months in, my impressions were mixed. The approach is relatively simple and probably appeals more to the visual learners. The app presents photos of either individuals or groups engaged in an activity (jogging, swimming, eating, driving) while employing inanimate objects – foods, pools, cars, etc. Throughout, native Japanese speakers indicate these images and activities by speaking exclusively in Japanese. Your task is to pair the audible and written Japanese (kanji, hiragana, and katakana) with these visuals.

On the plus side, Rosetta Stone addresses issues I’d had with other methods leading up to that point in my studies, that is, you’re taught a few nouns and other devices before those nouns are inserted into sentences you’re required to learn. Which I’m convinced is better than introducing the student to all these elements at the same time.

A welcome feature is Rosetta Stone’s pronunciation recognition program. Periodically an audible bell prompts you to speak Japanese into your microphone, initially single words, later full sentences. You’re graded based on your pronunciation and your clicking choices.

Perhaps most important, Rosetta Stone’s teaching technique simulates one’s experience learning one’s native language. As such, you’re required to absorb rather than to memorize. This certainly isn’t the worst approach to language learning, but it shouldn’t be the only approach either.

I’m reminded of another immersion method. Suppose you’re a beginner guitar player and you employ the services of a guitar instructor to teach you how to play, only the instructor doesn’t teach you chords or scales or intervals of even songs. Instead, he introduces you to a group of seasoned musicians already in a jam session and tells you to jump right in.

While you might learn a few things about improvisation and tempo and whether you have an ear, even after several sessions, hell, even after a tour, if anyone were to put a chord chart or sheet music in front of you or ask you to play a simple shuffle or ask you how many sharps there are in the key of G major, your brows would knit a shawl. After all, jamming with the best of them confers only a certain amount of practical know-how. It won’t confer academic knowledge or music theory, for example. 

In Rosetta Stone’s defense, this is a decent facsimile to interacting with live Japanese people in a real-life environment. Unfortunately, because everything is written, read, and spoken in Japanese, you learn little as to what qualifies as a verb or a noun or which words make your speech more or less polite or formal or, perhaps most importantly, how to actually break down the grammar of a sentence so that you might ultimately craft your own sentences to fit your particular circumstances.

As a result, you don’t learn how to say things beyond what Rosetta Stone teaches you to say. Sure, if you’re traveling abroad and come across a bicycle and remember the word in Japanese, 自転車 (or jitensha in romaji), you can point and impress your traveling companion. But that serves little practical value in a country that commutes nearly exclusively by train.

In May I discovered Memrise.com, an app that serves as the nearest thing to flash cards. You select the level of difficulty. Then you’re provided with either a word or a phrase, both written and spoken in Japanese (or whichever language you elect to study).  

This is beneficial for learning new kanji, new vocabulary, and some select phrases. It’s not particularly helpful if you want to learn how to formulate your own sentences, which you’ll eventually want to do. Plus, there’s no real structure to the app. I went the paid route, which was only thirty-five bucks for an entire year. However, lesson plans and exercises are created by the Memrise community. Some of these contributors are professional instructors. Others aren’t. Regardless, language difficulty doesn’t increase as you advance. Instead, depending on the submissions provided, the material varies, fluctuates, and, perhaps worst of all, fails to build upon what came before.

Late September, seven months in, I discovered my favorite language learning app of all so far: Duolingo. Duolingo has structure. It’s game-like. The smoothest and most convenient language app on my phone. In fact, it makes learning more fun than necessary.

Lessons are built upon what was taught in a prior lesson until, several units in, you realize you’re learning applicable material relevant to everyday conversation. Which reminds me. I was watching an unrelated video on YouTube recently when an ad for better internet interrupted my viewing. The person in the ad asked in English, “Is your wifi too slow?” I practically gasped as I instantly remembered the translation for “The internet here is too slow” a month before and instinctively said out loud, “Koko no waifuai wa ososugimasu.” Just like that. And I thought, “It’s clicking. I’m getting it.” Which, by the way, is true. The internet here is too slow. Or ここの WiFi 遅すぎる.

Duolingo excels at teaching sentence construction and grammar by way of repetition, variation, and word substitution. These elements are the building blocks to true communication. I remember the elation I felt once I’d completed all three sections of the Japanese unit Time. Now I can read, write, and speak that time in Japanese (hiragana and kanji), regardless what time, day or night, it happens to be. Learn how to tell someone that you love salmon or that you don’t like hip hop, and you’ll likewise intuit, by way of substitution and arrangement, how to craft your own sentences to cater to your own circumstances and interests, likes and dislikes.

To come full circle, this is equivalent to learning scales backward and forward, chord voicings and positions, rather than being taught a couple of three-chord songs and a few riffs. In other words, you’ll learn the building blocks to communication rather than memorizing a few isolated expressions.

So why the fuss about structure anyway? For two reasons. One, communicating in Japanese is all about context. For example, imagine I told you that responses like “me!” and “guilty!” and “I did!” pack more overtones than those isolated words initially might suggest. This would make sense only within the context of, say, someone walking into a room of people sitting round an empty bowl formerly filled with candy and asking, “Who the hell ate all the M&Ms?”

The Japanese language will forgo this redundancy to such a degree as to omit pronouns or other words denoting the subject after its initial introduction into the conversation. For example, if Miku wants to tell you she likes sushi, she might say, “Sushi ga suki desu,” which in English we’re told means “I like sushi,” but literally translated means “Sushi like.” (By the way, the letter u in both the romaji suki and desu is silent and therefore these words are pronounced ski and des, respectively.) The particle ga is used to identify the object. Desu is the copula, the verb form of to be, such as is, am, or was.

On the other hand, Miku might wish to know whether you like sushi, in which case all she’ll do is add the particle ka, which changes her declarative into an interrogative. “Sushi ga suki desu ka?” Which, again, we’re told translates into English as “Do you like sushi?” but literally translated means, “Sushi like?”

Or Miku might’ve already discussed favorite foods with you before and forgotten what you’d said. In which case, she might ask, not rhetorically but more to confirm, “Sushi ga suki desu ne?” which, in English, means, “You like sushi, right?” or “Didn’t you tell me you like sushi?” but literally translated means, “Sushi like, right?” Again, pronouns are implied based on context. Once the subject of you or Reginald or Scrimshaw is introduced, you guys aren’t likely to be directly identified again within the conversation.

The second reason I’m fussing about structure is because unlike English and other Western languages such as Spanish which follow the SVO pattern (subject, verb, and object) as in the sentences “I bought Twinkies,” or “Archibald drove home,” Japanese sentences are structured using SOV, meaning verbs go last.

As you’ve probably already noticed, providing a literal translation of Japanese sentences into English sounds awkward. In fact, it sounds, crudely put, the way Yoda speaks. “Twinkies, bought,” and “Archibald, home, drove,” with the commas replaced by particles such as wa, ga, te, to, no, ni, and wo to indicate the subject, the object, possession, and so on.

But back to my review. I came across Ikenna’s YouTube channel back in September and decided to get his book based on his sales pitch. Fluency Made Easy, otherwise known as the FME Method, is essentially a booklet in pdf form. The pitch, admittedly, was vague, promising to teach the secrets to language learning. It wasn’t until after buying the book that I discovered the secrets weren’t so secret.

I don’t want to condemn Ikenna’s writing. After all, he speaks (and probably reads and writes) half a dozen languages. Who cares whether the average junior high school student can compose better prose? I believe the polyglot means well. Sharing his method with others for a mere fifteen bucks doesn’t strike me as a scam. However, it does seem especially frivolous. Still. I’d prefer to compliment his choice of tie rather than to lament the fact that he can’t button his suitcoat to hide the stain on his shirt.

But this reminds me of yet another music metaphor. When I first began learning how to play the guitar, I didn’t do what I would later discover many beginner guitar players do. I didn’t employ an instructor, show up for a lesson, go over a few chords with my teacher, and then go home with a page or two of homework to practice for an hour.

Instead, I instinctively taught myself by playing along to music CDs. I bought and poured over music books covering chords, scales, modes, arpeggios, theory, and so on. I didn’t do this for half an hour a day. I did it for a minimum of four hours a day, sometimes fourteen hours a day, nearly every day, for years.

I’ve always taken my self-motivated approach for granted. Some people require a sensei, someone to shake them by the shoulders, point to a thing and say, “Lock yourself away and master this!” Whereas if I’m passionate about something, I require no prodding. Instead, I’m going to don the blinders and dash, find a plateau and dive into the deep end at the expense of all else. This somewhat excessive approach has both its benefits and its drawbacks.

As a result, Ikenna had little to teach me. His tricks of the trade, his so-called secrets, were a list of things I’d already instinctively been doing since I began learning a new language seven months before I’d discovered his YouTube channel or his book. For example, he insists you learn from multiple sources. He cautions using not one but multiple language learning apps. Advises watching Netflix shows and listening to music in that target language. Recommends several brief learning sessions a day rather than cramming a few hours on the weekends. 

As you might’ve surmised from the chronicling of my journey above, none of this was new to me. Granted, he suggested a couple of apps I hadn’t heard about, but it was only a matter of time before I would. I got more out of a 2017 polyglot conference a month later that someone uploaded on YouTube for free than what Ikenna provided for fifteen bucks.        

Nevertheless, if nothing else, Ikenna’s pdf booklet confirmed I’m on the right track, that I’m using my study time effectively, that I’m optimizing my opportunities to absorb. Ordinarily, I’d say one can’t put a price on either confirmation or validation, but in my case I can. It’s precisely fifteen bucks. 

I admit this new endeavor (learning to speak, write, and read Japanese) cuts into my other projects. But I’m thoroughly enjoying the process. Besides, none of my extracurricular activities is particularly practical. I mean, I read for my own pleasure and to learn, not to attend a book club. I write because I can’t help myself. I also have outlandish hopes of one day publishing, but let’s face it. Publishing, should I win that literary jackpot, hardly guarantees financial success.

Going to the gym, studying to become a Catholic, reading and writing, biking to work, learning a new language – these are things I enjoy, things that, for me, make life worthwhile.

Life is short. The older I get the more conscious I become of that fact. I see no reason to curb my drive for learning as much as I can about the things that inspire and intrigue me. In some sense, I’m like a guy who studies carpentry if only to one day build a dinner table for his kitchen or a dresser for his bedroom. Dismiss his endeavors if you must, but it’s still a meaningful, albeit limited, contribution to improving himself, his quality of life, and his sense of purpose. Not to mention continuing to grow and to change while remaining fabulous.

真久

Night and Day

The Queen of Blood, Book One of the Queens of Renthia, by Sarah Beth Durst (2016). Although a graduate of Princeton University and an author of over a dozen novels, Mrs. Durst wouldn’t know a character from a hologram. Children’s stick figure drawings have more personality than Mrs. Durst’s own cast of characters. Hell. I’ve played video games whose pixelated protagonist evoked more emotion in its audience. In fact, I haven’t met a more superficial group of characters since my high school days among the drama department. Clearly, Mrs. Durst doesn’t deign to dwell on substance.

In her defense, every reader is different, and some readers seem fine reading stories whose actors are as flat as cardboard cutouts, or with a plotline that steamrolls the cast. In fact, who knows? Maybe this novel is ideal for you, provided the last thing you want is living, breathing characters reflecting the human condition.  

As to the magic in this world, I’ve said it before elsewhere. I can generally spot the agnostics writing fantasy fiction. Their stuff best translates into satire. No consequence for wielding such power applies. Magic is never a metaphor for anything, and certainly never associated with the subtle, the mysterious, or the supernatural. The magic in any number of classic legends of antiquity would steal this novel’s lunch money on the bus ride to school.  

I don’t mean to harp on this, but magic in most modern fantasy fiction novels, including Mrs. Durst’s affair, is reduced to props purchased at a novelty shop. Trick cards, holed quarters, ropes with false knots, and stage knives have little to no bearing on the plot or its cast. Only its world-building element. Which is just as indifferent to solid prose and memorable characters as the author is to her craft.

Years ago, I read a forward to one of Stephen R. Donaldson’s books of short stories in which he wrote about his characters, “I’m the only god they’ve got.” If you’ve read Donaldson, you know he takes this responsibility seriously. If every fiction writer assumed this attitude, characters in novels would stand a better chance of advancing the primary purpose of fiction – to evoke emotion in the audience. Regrettably, such a concept is as foreign to Mrs. Durst as her alternate world is to us. One out of five stars. Rated PG-13      

The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, Howard Pyle (1883). Set aside all animated, abridged, annotated, and otherwise corrupted versions of this classic. Film adaptations, picture book imitations – it’s all the equivalent of a man in a gorilla costume. This is the original tale by the original author, and it was a blast to read. A novel of sheer pleasure. I grinned throughout, and I laughed with abandon. I even cared about the cast.

Pyle does everything right. The writing is superb. The narrative practically frolics along the page. The archaic dialogue is both stellar and character driven, as archaic dialogue should be. Each chapter is full of adventure, as well as insight into human nature and universal truths. My only regret is having waited this long to finally read it. A literary treat. Rated PG. Five out of five stars.

A Fish Dinner in Memison, by E.R. Eddison (1941)

Imagine watching sports primarily for the athleticism. The power, finesse, and agility of a few choice athletes doing all kinds of impressive things on either the field or the court that celebrates the grace and motion of the human form at its top potential. Now imagine these same athletes refusing to cooperate with their teammates or score. Despite your admiration for their talent, you might grow frustrated, particularly if your team ends up losing the game.

That’s how I generally feel after finishing one of Eddison’s novels. A Fish Dinner in Memison, book two of the Zimiamvian Trilogy, is one such work. (Incidentally, book one, Mistress of Mistresses, published in 1935, suffers the same fate.) Both narrative and dialogue offers stunning, spellbinding craftsmanship in language, phrases flowing in a poignant manner so adroitly constructed as to seduce the reader into turning yet another page for yet more linguistic beauty. The seeming ease with which Eddison composes his prose – prose altogether smooth, erudite, lyrical, piercing, tender, perceptive – is unassailable. His characters feel real. Their temperaments are convincing, their desires relatable.

But like lots of wordsmiths of the medium, this is a writer comparable to a cellist providing stunning finger work and other virtuosity but who lacks a song or composition to perform. It’s with only a passing reflection I bemoan the approach Eddison and some other talented authors employ since, focused on attending to the cast, costumes, mannerisms, witticisms, and environment, they nonetheless fail to provide a plot. 

I don’t dispute Eddison is a great writer, but because I would also enjoy seeing these characters move through a story, l ultimately finish the novel somewhat dissatisfied. If one can’t have both, I suppose it comes down to choosing between a rusty clunker rocketing along the Audubon at breakneck speeds (your average high-octane thriller with only serviceable writing), or a sleek, polished Aston Martin forever in park. Of course, we’d probably all prefer an Aston Martin rocketing along the Audubon, but if life has taught me anything, it’s that we can’t have everything. Rated PG-13. Four out of five stars (principally for the writing).

Southern Fried Sushi, by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

Southern Fried Sushi is a sermonizing novel. This isn’t a criticism, per se. Sewell’s Black Beauty, hailed as a classic, is sermonizing. Dante’s classic poem The Divine Comedy is sermonizing. For some Christians, such reads can be edifying, serving to reinforce one’s faith. For the Christian like me who prefers subtlety, however, these authors' approaches are, at times, too preachy.

In Spinola’s defense, she can write. Her narrative is particularly good. The story itself is well plotted, coherent, and touching. Characters are well defined. Several scenes moved me emotionally, including, admittedly, a few of these sermonizing scenes. And that’s what storytelling is all about. But because the protagonist struggles with her disbelief while her new-found friends offer answers to dispel her reservations, sometimes lengthy answers, these numerous scenes serve to address the average nonbeliever’s misconceptions about the faith too blatantly for my blood.

While I can sympathize with a writer inclined to testify to her faith or make the case for Christianity, I’m not this novel’s intended audience since I much prefer a story with a moral rather than a sermon posing as a story. Having said that, I recognize, as a writer who has read several books on storytelling, every good story, religious or otherwise, makes a moral argument.

It ultimately boils down to the individual reader’s sensibilities. For example, I’ve read more than a few novels written by Christians who achieved the same objective in ways I found far more tactful, tasteful. Modern Christian writers such as Lisa Sampson and Tosca Lee, what few books I’ve read of theirs (I highly recommend Lee’s novels The Legend of Sheba and Iscariot), never stop their stories to explore the minutia of their faith. Rather their stories offer a more sophisticated approach by way of hints and suggestions. Their moral argument never hits you over the head.

Indeed, one of the reasons I so love the timeless novels of C.S. Lewis, Tolkien, and George MacDonald is because these guys were writers first. Tolkien allegedly wrote in a letter, ‘The Lord of the Rings began implicitly Catholic and ended explicitly so.’ Yet at no point throughout the trilogy is there a single reference to Catholicism or Christianity or The Bible.

I don’t doubt these men’s faith was of the upmost importance to them in their personal lives, but when it came to their novels, they didn’t compromise their art for the sake of a sermon. Instead, their faith shined through as a result of their sincerity and devotion to their writing craft. Their themes were woven into their stories in thoughtful, suggestive, and never obtrusive ways.

Another good example would be Graham Greene’s exquisite novel The Power and the Glory. Greene (another Catholic) never pauses to remind you of the historical horrors of an atheist socialist who hates the church, rounding up priests and executing them in the Mexican state of Tabasco in the 1930s. Instead, the moral argument is made clear by way of the story itself and the poignant scenes throughout which focus on character and plot development.  

But let’s return to Southern Fried Sushi. Shiloh is a young, modern American woman living in Japan and working for the Associated Press until she learns that her self-destructive mother has died. She flies back home to Staunton, Virginia to attend the funeral. There she discovers from her mother’s friends, most of whom are simple Christians with southern hospitality oozing from their ears, that Shiloh’s mother had found religion and devoted her remaining years to helping the deaf and blind.  

   

So far so good, as they say. Over the course of getting her bearings in a new town and attending her mother’s funeral, Shiloh befriends these hayseeds with reservations. Sure. They’re gracious, generous, and apparently sincere. And she’s humbled by their hospitality. At the same time, she’s irritated by their religiosity. She has convinced herself, as most modern, nonreligious people do, that faith is a crutch, most likely a fiction, and that she can succeed well on her own without relying on some pie in the sky belief.

Meanwhile, Shiloh discovers, by way of phone, text messages, and Skype, that back in Japan her fiancé Carlos, a fiery Spaniard, is cheating on her. We as readers already know Shiloh, pressed for time, plagiarized an article for the Associated Press before boarding her flight from Japan to Virginia. In the interim, her boss back in Japan finds out about her unethical blunder and fires her.

Without a job in Japan, she has no valid visa for returning there. Now she’s stuck with all these backwoods rednecks in Staunton, in mounting credit card debt, unemployed, and bucking at these native southerners’ lack of sophistication and poor grammar.

Despite Shiloh’s smug exterior, however, anxiety has set in. As she prepares to sell her late mother’s house, utility bills accumulate. She needs a job, maybe two. But the prospect of employment at a local Barnes & Noble and then, concurrently, as a waitress at a local restaurant, are such blows to her ego, such steep steps down from her career as an AP writer, she initially feels humiliated and ashamed.  

Gradually, after a series of scenes intended to address the modern secularist’s reservations regarding Christianity, Shiloh gradually discovers her misconceptions were only that. Indeed, as she explores The Bible, she realizes the faith makes sense. She needs God in her life.

It’s a touching story, with a balanced amount of well composed detail. Apart from the sermonizing, my only other complaint is with the format. My Kindle version had errors. (I blame the conversion software.) Words would be pressed together in places, with no spaces between them. At other times, lines would drop arbitrarily midway across the page and resume on a line below it. Additionally, several times dialogue between two people would share the same paragraph.

Such interruptions drew me out of the moment every time. However, excluding these software hiccups and the sermons about Christianity via elongated conversations and testimonials, and instead reminded of the emotionally powerful moments and solid narrative, I give this novel four out of five stars. Rated PG 

Story of O, Pauline Réage (aka Anne Desclos)

Published in 1954, shortly thereafter banned, later hailed as a classic, this was one of the most depraved stories I’ve ever read. O, because of her love for Rene, becomes his and his private club members' willing sex slave. Used to satisfy every conceivable fetish and catering to every sexual appetite under the Parisian sun - from anal sex to chains and whips – she is beaten, debased, humiliated, and defiled. Every orifice is violated. Eventually her derriere is branded like chattel and her labia is pierced and tagged. Tragically, the initial reason she submitted to these horrific indulgences was for no other reason than to please her lover Rene. Rene passes her off to his step-brother Sir Stephen because he wants O to serve someone she doesn’t love and who doesn’t love her. Sad, shocking, and written by a female writer, no less, who kept her identity under wraps for forty years after the novel’s publication.

This novel has been described as erotic by some. I didn’t find it the least bit erotic, however. Instead, I found it utterly tragic. Still, the prose style is phenomenal. Extremely well written. And for that reason and that reason alone, I give it four out of five stars. I don’t recommend it, though. Too heart-wrenching and disturbing. Rated NC-17

Old Greek Stories, by James Baldwin (1895)

This isn’t the James Baldwin of the early to late 20^th century, raised in Harlem, New York, social critic and author of several books and plays, three of which I’ve read: The Fire Next Time, Giovanni’s Room, and Another Country. Instead, this James Baldwin was born in 1841 in Indiana and became a school superintendent at age 24. This James Baldwin died a year and a half after the Harlem James Baldwin was born. This James Baldwin, the school superintendent, wrote and edited so many school text books that, at one point, over half of the school books in use in the U.S. had been either edited or written by him. He wrote primarily for younger students, roughly 50 books, including, of course, this one.

While Old Greek Stories is well written, since it’s geared toward the young adult reader, its telling lacks the more sophisticated style and diction found in the works of Edith Hamilton and Bulfinch. Assuming kids read anymore (though I suspect video games have replaced that pastime), I highly recommend this book for that age group. Five out of five stars. PG

A Glance Behind the Curtain

Writing well requires practice. For me, lots. Practice, that is. I don’t mean the mechanics of typing words on a computer document or putting the nib of a pen to paper. I’m talking about the craft of composing one’s thoughts into sentences and paragraphs that utilize words effectively.

Think about it. Most everything we do involves our five senses and, apart from traffic signs, few words. Good writers struggle to convert or transpose these sensations into an arrangement of words that allow the reader to genuinely experience these moments. When Ignatius turns on the faucet in the dead of Winter and the shower head splits the freezing current into forty-seven tiny needles blasting his chest and causing his body to recoil, we can, hopefully, feel that ice cold water against our own skin, putting us there in that moment.

A good writer is always searching for new ways to describe the ordinary, such as the appearance of the stars in a night sky as pulverized glass. A barefoot child running along the Serengeti as the grass tickles his ankles like a cat’s whiskers. A single engine plane rushing low overhead and roaring like the angry exhaust of a revved motorcycle.    

That’s initially why I began this blog back in November of 2011. My intention was to prod myself to write, to play with words. Similes make me smile. I remember relishing the exercise of describing my journey to retrieve a book from the public library during a Summer thunderstorm in Texas. As you can see, I laid it on a bit thick. “The rain smacked my windshield like pellets. Lightning flared like a heliarc. I finally pulled into the unpaved parking lot, shut off the engine and listened to the terrific kettle drum solo on the roof of my Taurus.”

I figured establishing a modest blog would force me to periodically note the lapse of time, recognize I hadn’t posted anything in weeks, and then sit down and churn out an amusing review that revealed more about me than about the book in question. Instead, the opposite happened. I concurrently immersed myself in a fresh composition, a manuscript for an epic saga, began reading more than I had in ages, and wrote more reviews than I saw fit for posting. I invested my remaining free time in things I regarded as either too personal or irrelevant to a blog I’d subtitled ‘A Blog about Books, Writing, and Anything Else Word-Centric.’

In retrospect, I should’ve opted for the term ‘ego-centric,’ since my pride appears the motivating factor for most of what I post. At the time, I was trying to distance myself from the bloggers who wrote about common everyday occurrences in bland, ordinary ways. Instead, I wanted to write about what I regarded as important and say it in a way hopefully worth reading.

But then a series of things happened in my life, phenomenal things, some of which were related to books I’d read insofar as they changed my life or my outlook. I’d also lost weight, got fit, and switched jobs. All the while, I elected to blog about some of these things while refraining from mentioning others.

Meanwhile I was emailing a friend about things I didn’t consider fit for my blog, amusing encounters I’d had with strangers, acquaintances, and clients on my job. One began “I don’t know what time it was, but the sun was in my eyes. When I said ‘hello’ to her, she smiled wide and giggled, and it was then that I knew she wanted me.” Or this entry from two months ago:

Walked into the office of one of my clients as one of the guys at his computer was telling a fellow employee, ‘I don’t care if you want to wear a dress and heels and take a shit on the floor, you’re still a guy and not a woman.’ To which I, deadpan, rejoindered, ‘Hey! I did apologize for that,’ causing the office to erupt in laughter.    

I’ll never know what impact if any my blog has on anyone. My blog gets lots of hits, but this says nothing about whether these hits represent readers. If someone is searching for a book I’ve reviewed, a link to my blog appears in their search results. They might click on this result, read the first line of my post, ask themselves, “What the hell is this?” conclude, “This isn’t what I wanted,” and close the tab without reading any further. Which is fine. I’ve come to view my blog as more of a diary at this point, chronicling my edited, sometimes ever so slightly embellished, life, regardless whether anyone cares.

This only makes sense, since I write primarily because I enjoy the process. This also explains why I use this medium to reveal my more contemptuous views about society, why I spurn mediocrity, abhor television, mock atheists, and ridicule popular but poorly written novels. I’ve reached a certain age in which I care little about public opinion. I’d much rather tell the truth and risk scorn than ingratiate myself for approval.

Ultimately, I write because I can’t help myself. What I write about isn’t as important to me as the words used to convey it. Hopefully, my eclectic approach, my love for the English language and its malleable properties, entertains and resonates. This blog is my canvas, my practice pad, my vehicle for improvement. That’s my mission, anyway. My impetus. Fuel. Dharma. It’s about time I discuss my extracurricular activities beyond what my current writing projects entail or the books I’ve read.

After recently reviewing some of my old blog posts and catching myself thinking, “Oh! I’d forgotten about that book” or “that event” or “that period in my life” or “that metaphor,” I decided to be a bit more forthcoming about the happenings in my life – my sudden and somewhat endearing fascination with gentleman’s hat apparel, as well as my recent immersion into the Japanese language.

If you visit this blog for the scandal, I can always plead the fifth. If you’ve come for the literary insight, you’ll most likely leave empty-handed. But if you’ve stopped by for an older esquire’s laudable, betimes amusing, efforts to expand, improve, and enrich his life via literature and self-indulgence, please make yourself at home. I’ve left the kettle on. 

To Catch Her Death, The Grim Reality Series, Book 1, by Boone Brux (2013)

I’d like to think of myself as hopeful, optimistic. Will I ever meet that special someone? Probably not. Will I sell ten million copies of my debut novel? Let’s be reasonable. Still, will my investments rise above their double-digits? On second thought, perhaps I’m not as hopeful or optimistic as I think I am. And yet when it comes to art, I’m as eager and as enthusiastic as a teen with fervent hormones on his first date. In fact, I tend to frighten people, particularly non-readers.

Sure. It’s well established that I’m a literary snob. A man of letters, a prose elitist of sorts. However, not everything I read was written a hundred years ago. Not everything else I read is scholarly or highbrow. Indeed, gentle reader, despite my better judgement, I frequently enjoy shutting off my brain and reading a modern high-octane comedy of errors devoid of substance or profundity.

A few months ago, I subscribed to Bookperk, a promotional service from Harper Collins Publishers. The service sends me daily deals via email showcasing ebooks in all genres ranging in price from one to three bucks. To Catch Her Death was one such deal. Based on the cover and the blurb, I anticipated a mildly amusing romp through frivolity. At a mere ninety-nine cents, I figured I couldn’t go far wrong. In that sense, I got what I paid for.

The novel marks my first foray into urban fantasy, and, to its credit, the story provides an interesting concept told tongue-in-cheek. Lisa, an Alaskan thirty-five-year-old mother of three, is a sassy, overweight, unemployed widow whose husband died in a car accident only one year before this story begins. She brandishes sarcasm and wit to cope with all sorts of conflicts, from her mother to her children to her grief to her recent funk. Unfortunately, the humor is extraordinarily predicable, low hanging fruit quality, and hence rarely induces even a grin.  

Happily, the catalyst to the plot happens within the first few pages, when our protagonist witnesses a death and finds herself entangled with the deceased man’s soul. Shortly thereafter, she’s introduced to a secret organization known as GRS (Grim Reaper Services). Yes. Apparently, a secret organization of professionals exist who get paid to reap souls. Lo and behold, Lisa discovers she’s a grim reaper. Not the one and only Grim Reaper but rather one of many.

Obviously for such a premise, the reader must suspend disbelief. Which is fine. Recommended. Commendable even. However, this shouldn’t mean the story abandon its own internal logic. And this is where the eye rolling comes in. Despite my efforts, the analytical part of me kicked in and I couldn’t help wondering, among other things, who funds this organization.

Loved ones of the deceased don’t pay these employees to reap souls. Presumably the government is unaware of the organization’s existence as well, so it obviously doesn’t fund it either. And since income is the primary selling point for our protagonist Lisa who, heretofore unemployed and struggling financially, reluctantly accepts the job, the author should’ve provided some explanation as to how this organization, which works out of a brick and mortar, makes payroll, much less pays its electric and water bills. Hell, tell us a billionaire mystic funds it or that a secret society of millionaire spiritualists contributes proceeds from its share dividends or that the organization poses as a legit bureaucracy the government unwittingly subsidizes. I don’t know. Something.

Unfortunately, the premise, while promising, is a gimmick and nothing more. We’re expected to assume much for the sake of story. This would be fine if the story itself were done well. Unfortunately, the narrative is bland, predicable, and full of clichés. The humor Lisa employs would be better served coming from a teen rather than a 35-year-old mother of three.

Some poor word choices and a stray homonym appear too, such as “… I was not willing to except [sic] more humiliation.” On the plus side, it cost me only a buck and it’s a quick read. But I won’t seek out the rest of this Grim Reality series. Too many other great books are out there I have yet to read. Three out of five stars. Rated PG-13.