I just finished three novels that got me thinking about the nature of fiction.

First, How I Became a Famous Novelist, by Steve Hely. Just from seeing the back cover of the book, with its hilarious parody of a New York Times bestseller list, I was pretty sure I’d like it. And, indeed, after reading the first six pages or so, I was laughing so hard that I put the book aside to keep myself from reading it too fast–I wanted to savor the pleasure. How I Became… really is a great book–in some ways, the Airplane! of books, in that it is overflowing with jokes. Hely threw in everything he had, clearly confident he could come up with more funny stuff whenever, as needed. (I don’t know if you remember, but movie comedies used to be stingy with the humor. They’d space out their jokes with boring bits of drama and elaborate set-pieces. Airplane! was special because it had more jokes than it knew what to do with.) Anyway, Hely’s gimmick in How I Became… is to invent dozens of hypothetical books, newspapers, locations, etc. There are bits of pseudo-bestsellers from all sorts of genres. The main character ends up writing a Snow-Falling-on-Cedars-type piece of overwritten historical crap. I have to admit I felt a little envy when he recounts the over-the-top, yet plausible sequence of events that puts him on the bestseller list–I still think this could’ve been possible with Red State, Blue State if we had had some professional public relations help–but I guess that added to the bittersweet pleasure of reading the book.

The other thing I appreciated about How I Became… was its forthrightness about the effort required to write all of a book and put it all together. I know what he’s talking about. It really is a pain in the ass to get a book into good shape. More so on my end: Nick Tarslaw had an editor, a luxury I don’t have for my books. (I mean, sure, I have an editor and a copy editor, but the role of the former is mostly to acquire my book and maybe make a few comments and suggestions; we’re not talking Maxwell Perkins here. And copy editors will catch some mistakes (and introduce about an equal number of their own), but, again, I’m the one (along with my coauthors) who are doing all the work.)

Finally, I should say that, the minute I started reading How I Became…, I happily recognized it as part of what might be called “The Office” genre of comic novels, along with, for example, Slab Rat, Then We Came to the End, and Personal Days. To me, Then We Came to the End was deeper, and left me with a better aftertaste, than How I Became…, but How I Became… had more flat-out funny moments, especially in its first half. (Set-ups are almost always better than resolutions.)

The next book I read recently was The Finder, by Colin Harrison, a very well-written and (I assume) well-researched piece of crap about a mix of lowlifes, killers, and big shots. The plot kept it moving, and I enjoyed the NYC local color. But, jeez, is it really necessary that the hero be, not only a good guy in every respect, but also happen to have rugged good looks, much-talked-about upper-body strength, and of course be gentle yet authoritative in the sack? Oh, and did I forget to mention, he’s also the strong silent type? Does the main female character really have to be labeled by everybody as “pretty” or, occasionally “gorgeous”? Is it really required that the rich guy be a billionaire? Wouldn’t a few million suffice? Etc.

Still, even though it insulted my intelligence and moral sensibilities a bit, The Finder was fun to read. One advantage of having no email for a week is that it freed up time to relax and read a couple of books.

Anyway, before reading How I became…, I would’ve just taken the above as Harrison’s choices in writing his book, but now I’m wondering . . . Did Harrison do it on purpose? Did he think to himself, Hey, I wanna write a big bestseller this time, let me take what worked before and amp it up? I guess what I’m saying it, Hely’s book has ruined the enjoyment I can get from trash fiction. At least for awhile.

Most recently, I was in the library and checked out The Dwarves of Death, an early novel (from 1990) of Jonathan Coe, author a few years ago of the instant-classic, The Rotter’s Club. The Dwarves of Death isn’t perfect–for one thing, it has plot holes you could thread the Spruce Goose through, and without needing any careful piloting–but it’s just great. It’s real in a way that How I Became… is not. This is not a slam on Hely’s book, which is an excellent confection, it’s more of a distinction between a dessert and a main course.

The Dwarves of Death had so many funny lines I forgot all of them. That said, it wasn’t laugh-out-loud funny the way How I Became… was (especially in its . Then again, it didn’t need to be.

P.S. I wrote the above blog entry on a plane. As usual, too lazy to do real work. What would be really cool is if I could write this sort of stuff for the New Yorker or someplace like that and get paid for it. But I understand why that isn’t gonna happen. There are thousands of people better than me at writing book reviews and not that many places that pay for it. Sort of the opposite of my statistical work, which many people want and which I’m uniquely qualified to do. Also, to be honest, I enjoy blogging but partly because it’s something that I don’t have to do: it’s play, not work. I’d much rather teach, do research, and write books for a living and then blog when I feel like it, than the reverse. It would be really really really frustrating to be a professional book reviewer–no matter how well-paid–and want to do statistical research but not have the opportunity to do it.

P.P.S. I also partly read an old book of Nicholson Baker essays. They didn’t grab me at all. I was surprised to see how his obsessiveness shtick, which worked so well in U & I and The Mezzanine (a true classic, in my opinion) fell flat in the essay setting where Baker had too much freedom to choose his topics. Also, in the essays Baker can unleash his moral indignation, which dulls his writing. What’s amazing about U & I and The Mezzanine is how morally-centered these books feel, even though on the surface they focus on what are generally considered value-free topics.

P.P.P.S. to Jeff: I hope you read this far. I don’t know how many people read these entries in the Literature category.