The Feast of Fiction

It’s been one of those weeks where I am second-guessing everything I say or do, talk about, eat, wear, think, or forget.

Plus, I’m tired.

I’m currently reading Charles Baxter, The Feast of Love.

Last night, I lay in bed reading. Toby was at the computer. I was at the part where Chloé’s life changes forever in a car in a traffic jam on a Saturday. My eyes became plump with tears. But, I kept my composure like it had been awarded to me. Toby turned around and began to speak. “Hey, you know what I wond…” I had to explain why they were there. People don’t usually lay in bed and cry.

“This book is so sad. It’s so sad.”

My composure had been sold. Gone, just like that.

Twice, I have been asked, “What’s it about?” Twice, I have begun to explain. Twice, I have gotten halfway through. Twice, I have wanted to stop myself. Twice, I have gone on in spite of my hesitation. Twice, I have felt desperate. Twice, the synopsis, mine, has come out sounding like a daytime soap opera. Twice, I have failed at selling its words.

With books like Charles Baxter’s, it’s even harder to care about James Frey and his fiction or non-fiction, or absolution at all.

(discussion still going)


  1. Try telling someone what it’s “about” someday. Holy crap, you’ll sound like one goofy bastard. :]


  2. I’m going to have to buy this book. I’ve been looking for a something new to start.


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