It Pours

A wise man once told me a truism about life. (Well, actually, he didn't tell me. He told his daughter, who then proceeded to tell me.) I don't often buy into the notion of little nuggets of home-grown wisdom like that because, by and large, they're schmaltzy bullshit that doesn't pan out under the scrutiny of real life. But this one hit me when I first heard it, and it has hit me time and time again, to the point where I can't call it coincidence anymore.

He likened the bad things we experience to a figurative pile of shit that gets dumped onto you over the course of your life. Depending on the time, you get more shit or less shit dumped onto you, but over the course of a lifetime, everyone gets the exact same amount. It's how we manage and deal with it that dictates our own happiness.

And while there are a great many people that are most certainly far worse off than I will ever be, the fundamental truth stands that it's what we do about our situations, our chances, our opportunities that dictate how our demeanor ends up. Even during the most trying moments of our lives, this concept makes complete sense. I recall four years ago, after my grandmother died, my mother turned to God to help her through. She went and talked to her priest and vented her feelings and frustrations in the confessional. When she was through, Father Kevin looked her in the eye and told her, "You know what they say about how God never gives you more than you can handle? That's bullshit. Sometimes it is too much. But that doesn't mean it can't be dealt with eventually, and with the right help." Same message, different messenger.

All of which is a fairly roundabout way of saying that, after almost a year and a half of doubt, self-loathing, and dissatisfaction, I kind of figured something was due to give. And boy, did it ever.

The other old adage I tend not to buy into is "When it rains, it pours." Sure, the connotation is often negative, but not everything ends up piling on all at once in unmanageable ways. After all, if the wise man's metaphor stands to reason, there will be moments where the shit just sort of dribbles down at a steady pace and you have no problem dealing it when the time comes -- kind of like washing the dishes you use for dinner right after you finish eating, so that you don't end up with a sink full of dirty dishes later on.

But yesterday, it poured, in the most glorious kind of way possible. The kind of storm of good fortune that doesn't have you cowering inside under shelter but begs you to run out and dance crazily in the torrents. (I know about this kind of storm because I've been in one, at a Dave Matthews Band concert in 2001. People were literally trying to run out from under the overhang so they could get soaked along with the rest of us. It was one of the few purely transcendental moments of my life.)

At moments like these, I feel like you have to step back and acknowledge how amazing they truly are. Which is the entire point of this post.

I feel bad saying this, but I get the sense that over time, while this blog has certainly been more about the pensive, well-thought-out side of my mind, it's also been a lot more depressing than A Tournament of Lies. My shit pile has been on the rise for quite some time, and since I see writing as therapeutic, I would come here to reflect on the things that were going on, to try and make sense of the misery and break through the malaise. Sure, I knew in the back of my mind that my life, on the grand scale, wasn't nearly as fucked up as it could be, but no one ever wants to hear that when they're mired in hopelessness. So here I vented, I raged, I reflected, I coped. And it worked marvelously.

But now is not the time for anger or sadness or disappointment. There will be a time for that later, I know this. I've been blessed for the first time in a long time with an overabundance of joy, and it's about damn time that I brought some of that back here.

So that's your official notice. Happy Dave is on the clock, and while he'll be watching the sky for the next shitstorm, he wants to make it perfectly clear that, from the looks of things, there's not a cloud in sight.

Early Review: Going to See the Elephant

LibraryThing sends me free books, I read them and review them, and everyone is happy. That, in case you haven't been able to tell before, is the gist of their Early Reviewers program, but it's been rare that an ER book has elicited a purely wondrous reaction from my cynical self.

Until now.

I present for your approval my review of Going to See the Elephant, the debut novel by Rodes Fishburne, published on the penultimate day of 2008. For the benefit of those who don't typically look at my LibraryThing profile, I've reprinted the review I've written below, in the hopes that it might gain a little more exposure for this unassuming but wonderful work.

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It's often understood that first writers tend to write almost exclusively about what they know. This fact becomes very strongly evident in the first pages of Rodes Fishburne's debut novel Going to See the Elephant, as our intrepid hero, Slater Brown, struggles to find the idea that will capture his imagination and bring him fame as a great writer. Such a metaliterary moment might seem to portend dangerous territory, but Fishburne's novel quickly develops into a charming and entertaining story that flies by almost too quickly.

The novel follows Slater Brown to San Francisco, where he has relocated in search of the perfect story (his "elephant," as the brief Author's Note informs us). He struggles in his first days, lacking inspiration and losing both faith and money at an alarming pace. He eventually finds a job at a low-rent, rundown local paper, the Morning Trumpet, where the disbelieving editor forces him to prove himself by writing a great story. Lacking ideas, he seeks out a local lunchtime mystic who gives him a busted radio and headphones that, unwittingly, allows Slater to overhear telephone conversations on the bus, conversations that give him huge scoops on big stories. Soon, his life takes turns he never could have anticipated.

While that last sentence there was an unapologetically clichéd way of admitting that there's more to the plot I don't want to tell, the novel succeeds by virtue of the fact that it seems constantly on the urge of inviting cliché but never falls into the trap. Fishburne's plot has a certain slapstick quality to it, but it never veers so far off course that it sacrifices plausibility. The tone of his writing is also well-matched to the story being told: the pages flip over at a remarkably quick pace, but the book manages to avoid the curse of page-turners by actually remaining memorable, often due to the occasionally brilliant turn of phrase that Fishburne is prone to.

Similarly, the novel succeeds incredibly on the strength of its characters. Slater Brown is a remarkably relatable figure, even if the reader has no inclination to be a writer. His trials while attempting to manage his dreams with his need to survive are incredibly realistic, and the dismay he feels at his wasted potential in the early pages is remarkably poignant. Many of the novel's characters -- from the chess prodigy Callio to the brilliant inventor Milo -- have quirky characteristics, but do battle with reasonable and expected life issues in a way that never alienates them from the reader's sympathies.

It also helps that, unlike many books that advertise their humor and attempt to be funny, this book actually IS funny. Fishburne has a knack, as I've mentioned, for the well-composed line, and his descriptions are often just wry enough to elicit a giggle at a regular pace. But he also paces the story well, inserting moments of humor and silliness at an appropriate remove from the more emotional moments. Neither the funny nor the serious moments ever feel like cheap shots: they feel like the natural progressions of the character's lives, which is a great testament to Fishburne's young but powerful writing abilities.

If the novel has any weaknesses, they are difficult to identify. Without a doubt, many people will find the novel's absurdity to be a stretch of realism, particularly since Fishburne feels so strongly about setting the story within realistic contexts. The city of San Francisco practically becomes a character in and of itself, and its many moods parallel Slater's in interesting if expected ways. Milo's creations may seem out of place in an otherwise reasonably realistic landscape, but they don't push the bounds of credibility too far. And while the bumbling mayor becomes a parody of himself by the novel's end, the politics really don't matter very much when it's all said and done. It's all in service of a larger narrative about dreams, abilities, and embracing the moment -- and to that end, the novel succeeds with flying colors.

While one typically ought to raise a red flag when one sees fairly unblemished praise of a debut novel, I don't feel like such a warning is necessary here. Going to See the Elephant has no pretense of being more than it is, which is a funny, charming story that has a few nuggets of genuine wisdom hidden within its pages. Like Slater himself, the novel finds its niche and operates masterfully within it; I can't praise it any more than to say it accomplishes exactly what it seems to set out to do. Inspiring, amusing, and heartwarming, it's a novel you'll almost certainly be rooting for -- and best of all, in the end, it ends up being the underdog that wins.