Hey Paula Boon! If you missed last week's edition – the best children's, science, and technology books of the year, human connection and the difference between empathy and sympathy, and more – you can catch up here. And if you're enjoying this, please consider supporting with a modest donation.
After the year's best books in psychology and philosophy, art and design, history and biography, science and technology, and "children's" (though we all know what that means), the season's subjective selection of best-of reading lists concludes with the year's best reads on writing and creativity.
1. WHY WE WRITE
The question of why writers write holds especial mesmerism, both as a piece of psychological voyeurism and as a beacon of self-conscious hope that if we got a glimpse of the innermost drivers of greats, maybe, just maybe, we might be able to replicate the workings of genius in our own work. So why do great writers write? George Orwell itemized four universal motives. Joan Didion saw it as access to her own mind. For David Foster Wallace, it was about fun. Joy Williams found in it a gateway from the darkness to the light. For Charles Bukowski, it sprang from the soul like a rocket. Italo Calvino found in writing the comfort of belonging to a collective enterprise.
In Why We Write: 20 Acclaimed Authors on How and Why They Do What They Do (public library), editor Meredith Maran seeks out answers on the why and advice on the how of writing from twenty of today's most acclaimed authors.
Prolific novelist Isabel Allende shares in Kurt Vonnegut's insistence on rooting storytelling in personal experience and writes:
I need to tell a story. It’s an obsession. Each story is a seed inside of me that starts to grow and grow, like a tumor, and I have to deal with it sooner or later. Why a particular story? I don’t know when I begin. That I learn much later. Over the years I’ve discovered that all the stories I’ve told, all the stories I will ever tell, are connected to me in some way. If I’m talking about a woman in Victorian times who leaves the safety of her home and comes to the Gold Rush in California, I’m really talking about feminism, about liberation, about the process I’ve gone through in my own life, escaping from a Chilean, Catholic, patriarchal, conservative, Victorian family and going out into the world.
Though many famous writers have notoriously deliberate routines and rituals, Allende's is among the most unusual and rigorous. Ultimately, however, she echoes Chuck Close ("Inspiration is for amateurs — the rest of us just show up and get to work."), Thomas Edison ("Success is the product of the severest kind of mental and physical application."), E. B. White ("A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.") and Tchaikovsky ("A self-respecting artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the mood."), stressing the importance of work ethic over the proverbial muse:
I start all my books on January eighth. Can you imagine January seventh? It’s hell. Every year on January seventh, I prepare my physical space. I clean up everything from my other books. I just leave my dictionaries, and my first editions, and the research materials for the new one. And then on January eighth I walk seventeen steps from the kitchen to the little pool house that is my office. It’s like a journey to another world. It’s winter, it’s raining usually. I go with my umbrella and the dog following me. From those seventeen steps on, I am in another world and I am another person. I go there scared. And excited. And disappointed – because I have a sort of idea that isn’t really an idea. The first two, three, four weeks are wasted. I just show up in front of the computer. Show up, show up, show up, and after a while the muse shows up, too. If she doesn’t show up invited, eventually she just shows up.
She offers three pieces of advice for aspiring writers:
- It’s worth the work to find the precise word that will create a feeling or describe a situation. Use a thesaurus, use your imagination, scratch your head until it comes to you, but find the right word.
- When you feel the story is beginning to pick up rhythm—the characters are shaping up, you can see them, you can hear their voices, and they do things that you haven’t planned, things you couldn’t have imagined—then you know the book is somewhere, and you just have to find it, and bring it, word by word, into this world.
- When you tell a story in the kitchen to a friend, it’s full of mistakes and repetitions. It’s good to avoid that in literature, but still, a story should feel like a conversation. It’s not a lecture.
Celebrated journalist and New Yorker staff writer Susan Orlean considers the critical difference between fiction and nonfiction, exploring the osmotic balance of escapism and inner stillness:
When it comes to nonfiction, it’s important to note the very significant difference between the two stages of the work. Stage one is reporting. Stage two is writing.
Reporting is like being the new kid in school. You’re scrambling to learn something very quickly, being a detective, figuring out who the people are, dissecting the social structure of the community you’re writing about. Emotionally, it puts you in the place that everybody dreads. You’re the outsider. You can’t give in to your natural impulse to run away from situations and people you don’t know. You can’t retreat to the familiar.
Writing is exactly the opposite. It’s private. The energy of it is so intense and internal, it sometimes makes you feel like you’re going to crumple. A lot of it happens invisibly. When you’re sitting at your desk, it looks like you’re just sitting there, doing nothing.
A necessary antidote to the tortured-genius cultural mythology of the writer, Orlean, like Ray Bradbury, conceives of writing as a source of joy, even when challenging:
Writing gives me great feelings of pleasure. There’s a marvelous sense of mastery that comes with writing a sentence that sounds exactly as you want it to. It’s like trying to write a song, making tiny tweaks, reading it out loud, shifting things to make it sound a certain way. It’s very physical. I get antsy. I jiggle my feet a lot, get up a lot, tap my fingers on the keyboard, check my e-mail. Sometimes it feels like digging out of a hole, but sometimes it feels like flying. When it’s working and the rhythm’s there, it does feel like magic to me.
She ends with four pieces of wisdom for writers:
- You have to simply love writing, and you have to remind yourself often that you love it.
- You should read as much as possible. That’s the best way to learn how to write.
- You have to appreciate the spiritual component of having an opportunity to do something as wondrous as writing. You should be practical and smart and you should have a good agent and you should work really, really hard. But you should also be filled with awe and gratitude about this amazing way to be in the world.
- Don’t be ashamed to use the thesaurus. I could spend all day reading Roget’s! There’s nothing better when you’re in a hurry and you need the right word right now.
True to Alan Watts's philosophy and the secret to the life of purpose, Michael Lewis remained disinterested in money as a motive – in fact, he recognized the trap of the hedonic treadmill and got out before it was too late:
Before I wrote my first book in 1989, the sum total of my earnings as a writer, over four years of freelancing, was about three thousand bucks. So it did appear to be financial suicide when I quit my job at Salomon Brothers – where I’d been working for a couple of years, and where I’d just gotten a bonus of $225,000, which they promised they’d double the following year—to take a $40,000 book advance for a book that took a year and a half to write.
My father thought I was crazy. I was twenty-seven years old, and they were throwing all this money at me, and it was going to be an easy career. He said, “Do it another ten years, then you can be a writer.” But I looked around at the people on Wall Street who were ten years older than me, and I didn’t see anyone who could have left. You get trapped by the money. Something dies inside. It’s very hard to preserve the quality in a kid that makes him jump out of a high-paying job to go write a book.
"Art suffers the moment other people start paying for it," Hugh MacLeod famously wrote. It might be an overly cynical notion, one that perpetuates the unjustified yet deep-seated cultural guilt over simultaneously doing good and doing well, but Lewis echoes the sentiment:
Once you have a career, and once you have an audience, once you have paying customers, the motives for doing it just change.
And yet Lewis approaches the friction between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation – one experienced by anyone who loves what they do and takes pride in clarity of editorial vision, but has an audience whose approval or disapproval becomes increasingly challenging to tune out – with extraordinary candor and insight:
Commercial success makes writing books a lot easier to do, and it also creates pressure to be more of a commercial success. If you sold a million books once, your publisher really, really thinks you might sell a million books again. And they really want you to do it.
That dynamic has the possibility of constraining the imagination. There are invisible pressures. There’s a huge incentive to write about things that you know will sell. But I don’t find myself thinking, “I can’t write about that because it won’t sell.” It’s such a pain in the ass to write a book, I can’t imagine writing one if I’m not interested in the subject.
Still, his clarity of vision is still what guides the best of his work:
Those are the best moments, when I’ve got the whale on the line, when I see exactly what it is I’ve got to do. After that moment there’s always misery. It never goes quite like you think, but that moment is a touchstone, a place to come back to. It gives you a kind of compass to guide you through the story. That feeling has never done me wrong. Sometimes you don’t understand the misery it will lead to, but it’s always been right to feel it. And it’s a great feeling.
Sample more of this indispensable compendium here, here, here, and here.
2. MANAGE YOUR DAY-TO-DAY
We seem to have a strange but all too human cultural fixation on the daily routines and daily rituals of famous creators, from Vonnegut to Burroughs to Darwin – as if a glimpse of their day-to-day would somehow magically infuse ours with equal potency, or replicating it would allow us to replicate their genius in turn. And though much of this is mere cultural voyeurism, there is something to be said for the value of a well-engineered daily routine to anchor the creative process. Manage Your Day-to-Day: Build Your Routine, Find Your Focus, and Sharpen Your Creative Mind (public library), edited by Behance's 99U editor-in-chief Jocelyn Glei and featuring contributions from a twenty of today's most celebrated thinkers and doers, delves into the secrets of this holy grail of creativity.
Reflecting Thomas Edison's oft-cited proclamation that "genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration," after which 99U is named, the crucial importance of consistent application is a running theme. (Though I prefer to paraphrase Edison to "Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent aspiration" – since true aspiration produces effort that feels gratifying rather than merely grueling, enhancing the grit of perspiration with the gift of gratification.)
One of the book's strongest insights comes from Gretchen Rubin – author of The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun, one of these 7 essential books on the art and science of happiness, titled after her fantastic blog of the same name – who points to frequency as the key to creative accomplishment:
We tend to overestimate what we can do in a short period, and underestimate what we can do over a long period, provided we work slowly and consistently. Anthony Trollope, the nineteenth-century writer who managed to be a prolific novelist while also revolutionizing the British postal system, observed, “A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labours of a spasmodic Hercules.” Over the long run, the unglamorous habit of frequency fosters both productivity and creativity.
Frequency, she argues, helps facilitate what Arthur Koestler has famously termed "bisociation" – the crucial ability to link the seemingly unlinkable, which is the defining characteristic of the creative mind. Rubin writes:
You’re much more likely to spot surprising relationships and to see fresh connections among ideas, if your mind is constantly humming with issues related to your work. When I’m deep in a project, everything I experience seems to relate to it in a way that’s absolutely exhilarating. The entire world becomes more interesting. That’s critical, because I have a voracious need for material, and as I become hyperaware of potential fodder, ideas pour in. By contrast, working sporadically makes it hard to keep your focus. It’s easy to become blocked, confused, or distracted, or to forget what you were aiming to accomplish. … Creativity arises from a constant churn of ideas, and one of the easiest ways to encourage that fertile froth is to keep your mind engaged with your project. When you work regularly, inspiration strikes regularly.
Echoing Alexander Graham Bell, who memorably wrote that "it is the man who carefully advances step by step … who is bound to succeed in the greatest degree," and Virginia Woolf, who extolled the creative benefits of keeping a diary, Rubin writes:
Step by step, you make your way forward. That’s why practices such as daily writing exercises or keeping a daily blog can be so helpful. You see yourself do the work, which shows you that you can do the work. Progress is reassuring and inspiring; panic and then despair set in when you find yourself getting nothing done day after day. One of the painful ironies of work life is that the anxiety of procrastination often makes people even less likely to buckle down in the future.
Riffing on wisdom from her latest book, Happier at Home: Kiss More, Jump More, Abandon a Project, Read Samuel Johnson, and My Other Experiments in the Practice of Everyday Life, Rubin offers:
I have a long list of “Secrets of Adulthood,” the lessons I’ve learned as I’ve grown up, such as: “It’s the task that’s never started that’s more tiresome,” “The days are long, but the years are short,” and “Always leave plenty of room in the suitcase.” One of my most helpful Secrets is, “What I do every day matters more than what I do once in a while.”
With a sentiment reminiscent of William James's timeless words on habit, she concludes:
Day by day, we build our lives, and day by day, we can take steps toward making real the magnificent creations of our imaginations.
Entrepreneurship guru and culture-sage Seth Godin seconds Rubin and admonishes against confusing vacant ritualization with creative rituals that actually spur productivity:
Everybody who does creative work has figured out how to deal with their own demons to get their work done. There is no evidence that setting up your easel like Van Gogh makes you paint better. Tactics are idiosyncratic. But strategies are universal, and there are a lot of talented folks who are not succeeding the way they want to because their strategies are broken.
The strategy is simple, I think. The strategy is to have a practice, and what it means to have a practice is to regularly and reliably do the work in a habitual way.
There are many ways you can signify to yourself that you are doing your practice. For example, some people wear a white lab coat or a particular pair of glasses, or always work in a specific place – in doing these things, they are professionalizing their art.
He echoes Chuck Close ("Inspiration is for amateurs – the rest of us just show up and get to work."), Tchaikovsky ("a self-respecting artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the mood.") E. B. White ("A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper."), and Isabel Allende ("Show up, show up, show up, and after a while the muse shows up, too."), observing:
The notion that I do my work here, now, like this, even when I do not feel like it, and especially when I do not feel like it, is very important. Because lots and lots of people are creative when they feel like it, but you are only going to become a professional if you do it when you don’t feel like it. And that emotional waiver is why this is your work and not your hobby.
Originally featured in May – read more here.
:: SEE FULL LIST / SHARE ::
"Needing to have reality confirmed and experience enhanced by photographs is an aesthetic consumerism to which everyone is now addicted," Susan Sontag wrote in her timeless meditation on photography nearly three decades before the age of Instagram and the selfie. Indeed, the photographic image has not only retained by amplified its power to move, to mesmerize, to usurp power – here are 2013's most exquisite books on photography.
1. HUMANS OF NEW YORK
The ever-evolving portrait of New York City has been painted through Gotham's cats and its dogs, its buildings and its parks, its diaries and its letters. Underpinning all of those, of course, are the city's true building blocks: its humans.
In the summer of 2010, Brandon Stanton – one of the warmest, most talented and most generous humans I know – lost his job as a bond trader in Chicago and was forced to make new light of his life. Having recently gotten his first camera and fallen in love with photography, he decided to follow that fertile combination of necessity and passion, and, to his parents' terror and dismay, set out to pursue photography as a hobby-turned-vocation. (For his mother, who saw bond trading as a reputable occupation, photography “seemed like a thinly veiled attempt to avoid employment.”) Brandon recalls:
I had enjoyed my time as a trader. The job was challenging and stimulating. And I'd obsessed over markets in the same way I'd later obsess over photography. But the end goal of trading was always money. Two years of my life were spent obsessing over money, and in the end I had nothing to show for it. I wanted to spend the next phase of my life doing work that I valued as much as the reward.
In photography, he found that rewarding obsession. Approaching it with the priceless freshness of Beginner's Mind, he brought to his new calling the gift of ignorance and an art of seeing untainted by the arrogance of expertise, hungry to make sense of the world through his lens as he made sense of his own life. And make he did: Brandon, who quickly realized that “the best way to become a photographer was to start photographing,” set out on a photo tour across several major American cities, beginning in Pittsburgh and ending up in New York City, where he had only planned to spend a week but where he found both his new home and his new calling.
And so, in a beautiful embodiment of how to find your purpose and do what you love, Brandon's now-legendary online project documenting Gotham's living fabric was born – at first a humble Facebook page, which blossomed into one of today's most popular photojournalism blogs with millions of monthly readers. Now, his photographic census of the world's most vibrant city spills into the eponymous offline masterpiece Humans of New York (public library) – a magnificent mosaic of lives constructed through four hundred of Brandon's expressive and captivating photos, many never before featured online.
These portraits – poignant, poetic, playful, heartbreaking, heartening – dance across the entire spectrum of the human condition not with the mockingly complacent lens of a freak-show gawker but with the affectionate admiration and profound respect that one human holds for another.
In the age of the aesthetic consumerism of visual culture online, HONY stands as a warm beacon of humanity, gently reminding us that every image is not a disposable artifact to be used as social currency but a heart that beat in the blink of the shutter, one that will continue to beat with its private turbulence of daily triumphs and tribulations even as we move away from the screen or the page to resume our own lives.
The captions, some based on Brandon's interviews with the subjects and others an unfiltered record of his own observations, add a layer of thought to the visual story: One photograph, depicting two elderly gentlemen intimately leaning into each other on a park bench, reads: “It takes a lot of disquiet to achieve this sort of quiet comfort.” Another, portraying a very old gentleman in a wheelchair with matching yellow sneakers, shorts, and baseball cap, surprises us by revealing that this is Banana George, world record-holder as the oldest barefoot water-skier.
Some are full of humor:
Damn liberal arts degree.
Others are hopelessly charming:
When I walked by, she was really moving to the music – hands up, head nodding, shoulders swinging. I really wanted to take her photo, so I walked up to the nearest adult and asked: “Does she belong to you?”
Suddenly the music stopped, and I heard: “I belong to myself!”
Others still are humbling and soul-stirring:
My wife passed away a few years back. Her name was Barbara, I used to call her Ba. My name was Lawrence, she used to call me La. When she died, I changed my name to Bala.
I stepped inside an Upper West Side nursing home, and met this man in the lobby. He was on his way to deliver a yellow teddy bear to his wife. “I visit her every day,” he said. “Even when the mind is gone, the heart shows through.”
Above all, however, there is something especially magical about framing these moments of stillness and of absolute attention to the individual amidst this bustling city of millions, a city that never sleeps and never stops.
Whatever your geographic givens, Humans of New York is an absolute masterpiece of cultural celebration, both as vibrant visual anthropology and as a meta-testament, by way of Brandon's own story, to the heartening notion that this is indeed a glorious age in which we can make our own luck and make a living doing what we love.
Originally featured in October – see more here.
2. VIVIAN MAIER: SELF-PORTRAITS
In 2007, 26-year-old amateur historian and collector John Maloof wandered into the auction house across from his home and won, for $380, a box of 30,000 extraordinary negatives by an unknown artist whose street photographs of mid-century Chicago and New York rivaled those of Berenice Abbott and predated modern fixtures like Humans of New York by decades. They turned out to be the work of a mysterious nanny named Vivian Maier, who made a living by raising wealthy suburbanites' children and made her life by capturing the world around her in exquisite detail and striking composition. Mesmerized, Maloof began tracking down more of Maier's work and amassed more than 100,000 negatives, thousands of prints, 700 rolls of undeveloped color film, home movies, audio interviews, and even her original cameras. Only after Maier's death in 2009 did her remarkable work gain international acclaim – exhibitions were staged all over the world, magnificent monograph of her photographs published, and a documentary made.
But it wasn't until 2013 that the most intimate and revealing of her photographs were at last released in Vivian Maier: Self-Portraits (public library) – a collection befitting the year of the "selfie" and helping to officially declare this the season of the creative self-portrait.
Maloof writes in the foreword:
As secretive as Vivian Maier was in life, in death her mystery has only deepened. Without the creator to reveal her motives and her craft, we are left to piece together the life and intent of an artist based on scraps of evidence, with no way to gain definitive answers.
There is, however, something fundamentally unsettling with this proposition – after all, a human being is a constantly evolving open question rather than a definitive answer, a fluid self only trapped by the labels applied from without. And so even though Maloof argues that the book answers "the nagging question of who Vivian Maier really was" by revealing her true self through her self-portraits, what it really does – and what its greatest, most enchanting gift is – is take us along as silent companions on a complex woman's journey of self-knowledge and creative exploration, a journey without a definitive destination but one that is its own reward.
It's also, however, hopelessly human to try to interpret others and assign them into categories based on the "scraps of evidence" they bequeath. I was certainly not immune to this tendency, as I began to suspect Maier was a queer woman who found in her art a vehicle for connection, for belonging, for feeling at once a part of the society she documented and an onlooker forever separated by her lens. Because we know so little about Maier's life, this remains nothing more than intuitive speculation – but one I find increasingly hard to dismiss as her self-portraits peel off another layer of guarded intimacy.
The beauty and magnetism of Vivian Maier: Self-Portraits is that it leaves you with your own interpretations, not with definitive answers but with crystalline awareness of Maier's elusive selfhood.
Originally featured in November -- see more here.
:: SEE FULL LIST / SHARE ::
Here are the year's loveliest reads about our fellow non-human beings.
1. E. B. WHITE ON DOGS
Literary history brims with famous authors who adored their pets, and E. B. White – extraordinary essayist, celebrator of New York, champion of integrity, upholder of linguistic style – was chief among them. He had a dozen dogs over the course of his long life, including his beloved Scotty Daisy, who was not only the only witness to White's wedding to the love of his life but also "wrote" this utterly endearing letter to Katharine White on the occasion of her pregnancy. In E. B. White on Dogs (public library), Martha White, Elwyn's granddaughter and literary executor, collects the beloved author's finest letters, poems, sketches, and essays celebrating his canine companions.
In the introduction to the anthology, White's granddaughter poignantly observes that her grandfather revealed so much of himself through his writing about his dogs, riffing on his poignant obituary for Daisy:
My grandfather also suffered from a chronic perplexity, I believe, and he spent his career trying to take hold of it, not infrequently through the literary device of his dogs.
In this particular case, it seems, Malcolm Gladwell was wrong in asserting, "Dogs are not about something else. Dogs are about dogs." Dogs, for White, were about dogs, but also about how to be human.
Sample this fantastic collection with some of White's gems here and here.
2. LOST CAT
"Dogs are not about something else. Dogs are about dogs," Malcolm Gladwell asserted indignantly in the introduction to The Big New Yorker Book of Dogs. Though hailed as memetic rulers of the internet, cats have also enjoyed a long history as artistic and literary muses, but never have they been at once more about cats and more about something else than in Lost Cat: A True Story of Love, Desperation, and GPS Technology (public library) by firefighter-turned-writer Caroline Paul and illustrator extraordinaire Wendy MacNaughton, she of many wonderful collaborations – a tender, imaginative memoir infused with equal parts humor and humanity, also among the best biographies, memoirs, and history books of the year. Though "about" a cat, this heartwarming and heartbreaking tale is really about what it means to be human – about the osmosis of hollowing loneliness and profound attachment, the oscillation between boundless affection and paralyzing fear of abandonment, the unfair promise of loss implicit to every possibility of love.
After Caroline crashes an experimental plane she was piloting, she finds herself severely injured and spiraling into the depths of depression. It both helps and doesn't that Caroline and Wendy have just fallen in love, soaring in the butterfly heights of new romance, "the phase of love that didn't obey any known rules of physics," until the crash pulls them into a place that would challenge even the most seasoned and grounded of relationships. And yet they persevere as Wendy patiently and lovingly takes care of Caroline.
When Caroline returns from the hospital with a shattered ankle, her two thirteen-year-old tabbies – the shy, anxious Tibby (short for Tibia, affectionately – and, in these circumstances, ironically – named after the shinbone) and the sociable, amicable Fibby (short for Fibula, after the calf bone on the lateral side of the tibia) – are, short of Wendy, her only joy and comfort:
Tibia and Fibula meowed happily when I arrived. They were undaunted by my ensuing stupor. In fact they were delighted; suddenly I had become a human who didn't shout into a small rectangle of lights and plastic in her hand, peer at a computer, or get up and disappear from the vicinity, only to reappear through the front door hours later. Instead, I was completely available to them at all times. Amazed by their good luck, they took full feline advantage. They asked for ear scratches and chin rubs. They rubbed their whiskers along my face. They purred in response to my slurred, affectionate baby talk. But mostly they just settled in and went to sleep. Fibby snored into my neck. Tibby snored on the rug nearby. Meanwhile I lay awake, circling the deep dark hole of depression.
Without my cats, I would have fallen right in.
And then, one day, Tibby disappears.
Wendy and Caroline proceed to flyer the neighborhood, visit every animal shelter in the vicinity, and even, in their desperation, enlist the help of a psychic who specializes in lost pets – but to no avail. Heartbroken, they begin to mourn Tibby's loss.
And then, one day five weeks later, Tibby reappears. But once the initial elation of the recovery has worn off, Caroline begins to wonder where he'd been and why he'd left. He is now no longer eating at home and regularly leaves the house for extended periods of time – Tibby clearly has a secret place he now returns to. Even more worrisomely, he's no longer the shy, anxious tabby he'd been for thirteen years – instead, he's a half pound heavier, chirpy, with "a youthful spring in his step." But why would a happy cat abandon his loving lifelong companion and find comfort – find himself, even – elsewhere?
When the relief that my cat was safe began to fade, and the joy of his prone, snoring form – sprawled like an athlete after a celebratory night of boozing – started to wear thin, I was left with darker emotions. Confusion. Jealousy. Betrayal. I thought I'd known my cat of thirteen years. But that cat had been anxious and shy. This cat was a swashbuckling adventurer back from the high seas. What siren call could have lured him away? Was he still going to this gilded place, with its overflowing food bowls and endless treats?
There only one obvious thing left to do: Track Tibby on his escapades. So Caroline, despite Wendy's lovingly suppressed skepticism, heads to a spy store – yes, those exist – and purchases a real-time GPS tracker, complete with a camera that they program to take snapshots every few minutes, which they then attach to Tibby's collar.
What follows is a wild, hilarious, and sweet tale of tinkering, tracking, and tenderness. Underpinning the obsessive quest is the subtle yet palpable subplot of Wendy and Caroline's growing love for each other, the deepening of trust and affection that happens when two people share in a special kind of insanity.
"Evert quest is a journey, every journey a story. Every story, in turn, has a moral," writes Caroline in the final chapter, then offers several "possible morals" for the story, the last of which embody everything that makes Lost Cat an absolute treat from cover to cover:
6. You can never know your cat. In fact, you can never know anyone as completely as you want.
7. But that's okay, love is better.
Take a closer look here, then hear MacNaughton and Paul in conversation about combining creative collaboration with a romantic relationship.
3. IF DOGS RUN FREE
As a lover of canine-centric literature and art, an aficionado of lesser-known children's books by luminaries of grown-up culture – including gems by Mark Twain, Maya Angelou, James Joyce, Sylvia Plath, William Faulkner, Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein, Anne Sexton, T. S. Eliot, and John Updike – and a previous admirer of Bob Dylan's music adapted in picturebook form, I was thrilled for the release of If Dogs Run Free (public library) – an utterly delightful adaptation of the beloved 1970 Dylan song from the album New Morning by celebrated illustrator Scott Campbell.
Originally featured in September.
:: SEE FULL LIST / SHARE ::