Books Choose Us

There is something magical about books.

Some people remember their formative years through school and teachers. Others, through friends and experiences (first kiss, first cigarette, first beer, first Widepread Panic show, etc.).

I, however, trace my own lifeline through books.

As I’ve said before, my love for reading began at age seven with C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. When curious little Lucy wandered into that wardrobe, only to be transported into a new world— a world of magic and beauty and meaning— so did I. And to this very day, with each new book I open, I am again hoping to stumble into a world as affecting as was that first trip to Narnia.

Soon after devouring all of the Chronicles of Narnia, it was off to the bookstore for books like The Trumpet of the Swan and Where the Red Fern Grows.

A couple years later, I was motoring through the entire Nancy Drew series (embarrassing: yes. Referenced in my book: yes).

At this point, I was shifting into middle school, where, suddenly, it became very cool to own and (at least pretend to) read Michael Crichton books. This was pre-Jurassic Park, so the titles we were fawning over included The Andromeda Strain and Congo and Sphere and Rising Sun (I also owned both The Terminal Man and The Great Train Robbery, simply to prove my superior love for books).

It wasn’t long before 9th grade and To Kill A Mockingbird, when I vowed to be like Atticus Finch when I grew up.

And it wasn’t long after that when one’s reading of his own volition became “uncool,” and I, certainly as insecure as the next guy, craved acceptance more than learning, and I abandoned my love of books in order to fit in.

Years then passed without my shadow darkening the doorway of a bookstore. And, ridiculous as it sounds— and though I’m sure I didnt realize it at the time— I think my soul missed it.

It’s as if my spirit knew, from a very young age, that when entering a house of books, it was entering a world that transcends time and prejudice and mortality. All of those books, all of those words— some written by men as far back as thousands of years— still as alive today as when they were first written.

To me, that’s the beauty of bookstores and libraries: with each new trip, there is the chance of stumbling into a world that can change the way you think, can let you know you’re not alone, can inspire you to take on the world.

It’s what happened when I first picked up Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It’s what happened when I stumbled upon Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. Kidd’s Secret Life of Bees. Lamott’s Traveling Mercies. Miller’s Blue Like Jazz.

And just this weekend, as I stumbled upon a book I’d never heard of, Collum McCann’s Let The Great World Spin, I felt it in my gut: another book had chosen me.

See, that’s my contention: we don’t choose books. They choose us.

So, with my book being released tomorrow, and consequently, available in bookstores everywhere, it is such a humbling, exciting, gratifying thought to consider that maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there, in this big world, some person who’s never met me, never heard of me, might stumble upon my book. And he/she might flip it open, read a few words, begin to put it back down… and then it may happen:

The book might choose them.

It is a magical thing, the way books choose us.

And, for someone who’s life has been measured by books, it is dizzying to consider that someday, my book might be a small part of the timeline that helps measure someone else’s.

1/26-1/31

First Week of Release (1/26-1/31)

After two years of working on this project, High Points and Lows: Life, Faith, and Figuring It All Out, will be released into the world on January 26th. My updated tour calendar is located under the “appearances” link on my site (you can just click the tab at the top of this page). I really would love to see you at a local event!

Meanwhile, I am hoping to arrange a “book bomb” between January 26 and January 31. That meaning, I would really love it for everyone to join me in a concerted effort to buy a copy (or two!:) of my book between those days. This is a great way for the book to spring out of the gates, and alot of authors have been successful using this strategy. It really would mean a great deal to me if you and your friends would join me in this collective effort!

12 more days, kids. I can’t wait to hear from you all with your thoughts on the book!

Austin

Why Russell is a Millionaire?

On this season of Survivor, there was much talk of how Russell Hantz was independently wealthy. Everyone suggested he made gobs of money as owner of an oil company (or something like that).

But my question is this: wouldn’t his gig with Jennifer Nettles in Sugarland have been where he derived the greater portion of his income?

Perhaps the most savvy strategic move he played all season was his hiding the fact that he was a country music star.

From American Pie to America’s Team

Even though my Duke Blue Devils put a whooping on “America’s Team” the Gonzaga Bulldogs this weekend, one has to be so very impressed by how far head coach Mark Few has come since his days as “The Shermanator.”

MASH

Everyone remember this game?

I once had a MASH fortune predict I would live in a mansion in Malibu, work as an actor, and drive a Ferarri.

Let’s check the facts:

I live in a one bedroom apartment.
In High Point, NC.
Working as a very poor writer.
Driving a beat up ’84 Dodge Ram and an even more beat up ’92 Honda Accord.

Thanks alot, MASH. Talk about gettin a kid’s hopes up…

Missed Survivor For Something Better

Yesterday, I posted about my eagerness to watch Survivor last night.

Well, I missed it.

And I’m not even remotely upset about it. Because what I did see was a thousand times better.

My best friend, Robbie Hall, is in his first season as head coach of the Penn-Griffen Hawks, a local middle school basketball team. The Hawks were 0-3 going into last night’s game. Tip off was at 6:15. I figured I’d easily be home by 8.

I wasn’t.

You see, the game was an ESPN instant-classic. It went into double overtime (complete with two rimmed out buzzer-beating efforts) before deciding a winner.

Though it was the third game of the season, it was the first one I’d been able to attend, so it was my first chance to watch Robbie in action. And I wasn’t prepared for how proud I’d be when I got there: seeing him working the sidelines in his dress clothes, hollering out plays, studying his players movements on the court.

Now, I’ve been to a couple practices (serving as a horribly ineffectual scrimmage opponent for his team), so I’ve seen practice, but this was different (i.e. “practice? practice? we ain’t even talkin’ bout a game, we talkin’ bout practice…).

As I watched the game unfold, I remembered playing middle school basketball myself, how important I thought it was: how every game seemed life or death, how everything in middle school seemed life or death; and I knew instinctively that it felt the same for these kids, too.

And it occurred to me how right this all was, how these kids were going to be better people because of having someone like Robbie breathing love and support and encouragement and responsibility into their lives. (And trust me, many of these kids sorely need it.)

In the end, the Hawks lost by 6; but it certainly wasn’t for lack of effort. Most importantly, one could actually see these kids (the majority of whom have never, prior to now, played a day of organized basketball) beginning to buy into Robbie’s system.

For my part, I was able, for the first time, to watch my best friend, the boy I’ve known since I was eight, operating in his professional capacity. And it was just another reminder that we are both adults now, that while there will always be a part of me that feels like one of those middle school boys, that I am now a grown man who has to be responsible for more than turning in his homework.

I have a good friend who often blogs about life’s “moments,” about how they are typically small, everyday things that go uncelebrated. Well, yesterday I had my moment, and I’m not sorry at all that it took missing Survivor to witness it.

That being said, please don’t write to me telling me who was voted out… I have a friend with DVR who’s willing to let me come watch.

Snow, Narnia, and Seasonal Temporality

It is snowing in central North Carolina, which, for those of you unfamiliar with the area, is somewhat rare. We get predictions of “wintery weather” often, but seldom does it amount to much of anything. I’m currently looking out my window, and all I can think about is how beautiful it is. I know that’s not a very masculine thing to say (I mean, one doesn’t typically picture Clint Eastwood or John McClane using the adjective “beautiful”), but it’s the simple truth: There is something so very pure and beautiful about snow. The way it swirls and eddies and suspends before gracing the ground. The way it blankets the earth, hiding all the ugly, bare features of winter.

(… No? Don’t like the Jodi Picoult/Nick Sparks purple prose?)

When it snows, I always begin thinking about C.S Lewis’s Narnia. More specifically, I begin thinking about The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. LLW is the book that made me fall in love with reading, the book that, ultimately, made me want to be a writer; and to this day, with each book I open, I am climbing into my own wardrobe, hoping to find my way back into a world as affecting as was my first trip to Narnia.

Each time I see the snow begin to fall (which, again, is seldom), I invariably begin thinking of the eternal winter that plagued Narnia prior to Aslan’s return. I picture that haunting scene when the White Witch comes upon Edmund, inviting him onto her sleigh and feeding him Turkish Delights (btw, I still don’t know what Turkish Delight is. I always pictured Edmund plucking little Thanksgiving-turkey-bites from a golden, Christmas tin. Still do, I guess).

Ultimately, I begin thinking of how miserable the snow made the citizens of Narnia, of how they pined for sun and summer and flowers. And I begin wondering at how miserable life really would be to never know a world outside of snow and winter.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that thinking about all of this makes me grateful for the temporality of seasons, for how spring and summer and fall and winter find us and grace us and leave us at just the right moments.

Just another thing for me to be thankful for this holiday season.

Survivor

I don’t often bring up Survivor unless asked about it. And while I will always be grateful to have participated on such an amazing show, I haven’t kept up with it very regularly the last few seasons (one of the major reasons for this is that I don’t have DVR or Tivo, so, while the rest of you can record your favorite shows and watch them at will; I am stuck in 1989 and have to be at my television upon the show’s airing.)

However, I have been watching this season. And thank God I have, because this dude, Russell Hantz, has been pure entertainment. Not since my friend Shane Powers have I seen a more lovable, compelling, provocative, “villain.” And not since Shane have I seen a character more compulsively watchable. I come back to the show each week because of this guy (and I suspect many of you once did the same because of Shane).

I know there are countless message boards with “spoilers” that could tell me whether Russell will make it through to the finals (and I know that they are generally right, too), but I don’t want to know. I want to watch and see whether Russell will be able to whip out his magic wand (or hidden idol, as the case may be) once again. And even if he doesn’t, it will be my treat to watch him go down trying.

8 pm tonight on CBS. I will be in front of the television, watching (bunny ears willing…)

Zzsshhyyeeeaaahh Baby!

I’ve loved this brick ever since he told us he was drowning slowly (which, if memory serves correctly, was around 1998). But, I have to say, homeboy looks exactly like my favorite British superspy.