Brian D. Meeks is the author of Two Decades and Counting: The Streak, The Wins, The Hawkeyes: Thru the Eyes of Roy Marble, about their ‘86-‘87 team that went 30-5. He mostly writes fiction, though. His first book in the Henry Wood Detective Agency series, came out last year and has sold very well to the guinea pigs in Australia that Brian converses with on Twitter. One such guinea pig, Billy, described his writing as “Wheek wheek wheek.” Which is believed to mean, the paper was easy to chew, and I found the book very filling. You should be hearing a lot more from this author, if you are part of the cavia porcellus community. Brian feels he has tapped into the greatly underserved rodentia market and expects to have a long career.
I love reading in bed. I don’t love how annoying it is to get comfortable or get the lighting right or how if I get up for a minute the pages flip on me (Someone should invent a thin rectangular device for marking a book). I have one book, which has been by my bedside for a while, Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. On the cover, Lawrence Durrell writes, “American literature today begins and ends with the meaning of what Miller has done.” I’m about a fourth of the way through and have developed a deep-seeded dislike for the opinions of Lawrence Durrell. The book isn’t very good (he said in a British understated way that is intended to equate the writing to a pile of cat sick), but I keep reading, because so many people claim it is a classic (of course, I don’t know these people, they may be stupid and find math “hard”). I find that I have a white hot hatred of every character in the book. And yet, I continue to push through, hoping but not expecting there to be some good parts. That is the thing about classics. Harper Lee, Ray Bradbury, Turgenev, Kafka, Nabakov, Kipling, Falkner, J.K. Rowling, Vikram Seth, all tell a good story that I get joy from reading. Then there are others, who, well, don’t. I suspect those people had friends in publishing who were very influential.
The other book by my bed is my iPad with its very handy Kindle reader app. It is full of books that are good to read . . . and some James Joyce. I love books. Their feel, smell and taste (I’ve been told by one of my readers on Twitter, a guinea pig, that my books are yummy, so I assume all books are similar. I’ve not actually snacked on one, so I probably shouldn’t have included taste. I digress…) all make them wonderful. I like how they look covering my walls or in stacks on the floor. I love the printed book.
Of course, I can’t be bothered to read them much anymore, as my iPad is so very cooperative, especially in bed. If I am in the mood for Harper Lee, I just pop open iPad with my Kindle reader and pull the covers up to my nose. The pages stay where I want them until my finger pokes out into the cold winter night and flips them. I’ve started re-buying all my favorites for just that reason. So, really, I have hundreds of books by my bed. My go-to author, though, is Rudyard Kipling. His writing truly is wonderful. I like to read and re-read Pig and The Maltese Cat. A close second is Candide by Voltaire. It is the one book that I have re-read more than any other.
For many years, long before the iPad, I always had a copy of the five books in the Douglas Adams trilogy, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe. The first page I’ve read so many times that I can almost recite it verbatim . . . almost. If I ever write anything this good, I’m stopping.