And then the snow and bitter cold trapped us all inside.
I loved the bright moon after the storm, the new snow lit up like the day, but I didn’t love scraping off the inside of my windshield as my car reluctantly warmed itself the next morning. And the sweet little fishtail as I turned out of work across an icy patch of snow, too cold for the road salt to do anything about it. Intractable in the cold.
So I made a mistake googling (we’ve all done it) and I read a book that I believed counted as a book by a journalist, one of BookRiot’s categories. After I was fully committed, subsequent googling revealed that the book’s author was not, in fact, a journalist.
This mistake revealed one of the few pitfalls of book list tackling. There was a hot second in there that I was like, damn, I read this book for nothing. For a few moments I actually thought that maybe I had wasted my time reading because I couldn’t tick off a category on a list!
All my mindfulness training (and years of an ex who complained that if I wasn’t going to marry him I was a total waste of time) rebelled here and said how dare you think that reading a book you have meant to read for like a billion years that’s on a billion other book lists is a waste of time because it does not fit one particular list. One particular outcome in a world of infinite outcomes.
In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
In my defense, this is a serialized true story, so it would be a logical inference that the writer could possibly be a journalist, but the late Truman Capote was a novelist, actor, short story writer, and playwright.
There are a number of things worth noting in this classic work. One, it wasn’t just about a murder, but about America in the late 50’s, early 60’s, a portrait of Kansas and the Midwest. The murdered family was in many ways the All American family, especially Mr. Clutter and his youngest daughter Nancy. Pillars of the community, wealthy by their own hard work, churchgoing, example setters, humble. Nancy was involved with everything and loved by everyone. Mr. Clutter was fair and hard working, sympathetic to his ill wife, supportive of his oldest daughter’s marriages. They embodied the values of the time.
And it wasn’t just the family that provided this portrait. The murderers, both in their own family histories and in the descriptions of their cross country travels together, what it was like to be in the state prison and in the justice system at that time, all painted a vivid picture of America at that point in history. Even the psychological reports of the men reminded me of the still strongly Freudian interpretations of the times. Twelve year old boys were allowed to drive the family car to take girls to dances, the death penalty was on in Kansas, young troubled boys could still be sent away to reform schools and abused there at young ages (kids can get out of home placements still, but at least in NY its a very long process for only the ones who truly cannot manage in the outside world, and then they are heavily regulated).
Also noteworthy was the work that went into this. The care and detail researched and put together a narrative that was not only a mystery but also a psychological portrait. It’s fascinating to trace the factors that lead up to behaviors that step so far out of the norm. The men had different reasons, different vulnerabilities that led them to commit the crimes they did. One was abused from a broken family, one was from an intact family but struggled with impulse control before a car accident, which compounded the impulsivity and judgment with a traumatic brain injury. But the book isn’t just about them. It is about them and their context, the country at the time.
I only had this on audio and I spent hours lost in the narration of this story, at first a mystery, and then a link to the murderers, how they were caught and then their eventual execution. It’s listed among classics, quintessential reads, books some struggled to finish.
I’ve been finding myself reading two from each of the BookRiot categories this year. I’m back to seeking out books by real journalists. I am looking at fiction rather than true crime at this point, especially because there’s already a true crime category. I must be googling correctly now because I’ve come up with Steig Larsson and Laura Lippman. I have not read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo yet. Back when it came out I was reading books another different boyfriend wanted me to read (I spent too much of my youth with stupid boyfriends) and then it was a classics binge and I’m not always so great at reading the latest thing anyway. And then The New Yorker slammed it kind of hard, which further complicates my motivation for an almost seven hundred page novel that only sounded somewhat appealing to begin with. But it’s taunted me on and off as something I really should read if I want to consider myself fancy.
And we all want to consider ourselves fancy.
Laura Lippman is more appealing, honestly.
In noveling news, I finished another draft of my novel, reworking the ending a little better. Which now there’s like one other part that needs revising again, but it’s small, and I will be sending it out for a critique in the next few weeks. This is energizing news for me. I don’t know where to direct my fiction writing now. I have to do my prompt for this month’s short story, because I’m going into my third year of that. I have a few ideas of stories for Wattpad but they need a little more research and, you know, to actually get written. I might write up an idea I have had for a few years now in a short and toss it up there to get started. See how I do.
I miss having a Snow Read. Just a little. An epic novel to get caught up in. But I’m doing a lot of reading for BookRiot and this two on a theme thing is fun. I missed reading, but I still need to be writing. I’ve already finished seven books this year and it’s only three weeks in. Like my boss says when I am seeing too many clients, that may not be sustainable if I want to write. I’d consider quitting my job but I’d go batty at home alone all day.