So many books, so little time.

Among book readers, I think that there are two basic types. Those who read one book at a time, straight through, and those who have several books going at the same time. Both are very valid ways to read, but I don't think that either type really understands how the other type can read that way. I'm the later type, usually working on three, four, or five books at a time, reading a couple of chapters in one at lunch, a few pages in another while in the bathroom, several paragraphs in another waiting for the microwave to go ding. Right now, I'm stretched thinner than usual, with nine books going simultaneously:

Treason's River by Edwin Thomas, the third book in "the reluctant adventures of Lieutenant Martin Jerrold" series. Sort of a cross between the Aubrey/Maturin series and the Flashman series. Sort of. Not really up to the standards of either of those, but kind of addictive anyway.

Marilyn Chase's The Barbary Plague: The Black Death in San Francisco. Just starting on this, only ten pages into it so far.

Fateless by Imre Kertesz. Kertesz won a Nobel in 2000; Fateless is a novel based on his real-life imprisonment in Auschwitz.

North Callahan's biography of Carl Sandburg. A bit dry, but okay.

Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones, not really a nuts and bolts How to Write book, more of a Things to Think About Before You Start Writing book.

Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, more for a look at Paris in the twenties than because I particularly like Papa as a writer.

Just a Geek by Wil Wheaton. I'm about two-thirds done with it. Well worth checking out, even if you were never into Star Trek.

Peter Clark's Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer, Not really a Things to Think About Before You Start Writing book, more of a nuts and bolts How to Write book.

Baseball: A History of America's Favorite Game by George Vecsey. A wonderful little book. A must-read if you're a baseball fan.

The Man Who Buried Cars

Our neighborhood had its share of characters, probably no more or less than any other, but none of them was as fun to watch as the guy who lived in the big white house as the end of the cul-de-sac. My parents referred to him as Mister Mirovski but we all knew him as the man who buried cars.

He imagined himself to be a mechanically gifted fellow, so he bought junkers and worked on them evenings and weekends. He'd tinker with one for two or three months, occasionally coaxing it to sputter but never quite getting it to move from point A to point B. We never knew when his spirit would break, but we waited for that juncture with great anticipation.

Eventually, he'd admit defeat and bring out a shovel, pick a spot in his backyard and begin digging. We'd gather in Billy Vandergraff's yard and watch. We knew better than to try to get any closer--our one attempt had met with words that could cut through ten-foot-thick titanium steel walls. He'd dig like a man possessed. Depending on the size of the car it would take him either two or three days to dig a big enough hole, weather permitting. Then he'd put the car in neutral and shove it in. The holes were always the right size so that the cars were completely below ground level; this was no Cadillac Ranch. He'd shovel dirt on top and go off to read the want ads looking for a new prospect.

We wished that he'd erect grave markers (Chevy Coupe 1938-1969 RIP) but he never did.

© Copyright Erik Kosberg 1992, 2007

Just open a vein.

I've dinked around with blogging in the past. Had a blog once that was pretty much just links to other blogs and odd news stories. Then another blog that was political stuff. Oh so lame.

This new one will be mostly about writing and books. Probably a few days until I start adding content, will start with some of my old stuff found via archive.org and assorted ramblings.