27

David Bowie passed away today. The entirety of my social media feeds have been filled with tributes to him. An endless stream of tweets have linked to essays, quoted lyrics, or simply shared a favorite song; the majority of what my friends have listened to on Spotify today has been something from every era of Bowie's 40+ year career; Facebook friends from different social circles that have never met each other (and probably never will) are posting the same links to music videos or articles about the Thin White Duke. The anecdotes that have been shared aren't morsels, but a nourishing feast to honor the legacy of David Bowie.

I am no different. A friend texted the news this morning. I woke up, read some responses online, then wrote my own tribute. David Bowie released 27 studio albums*. I wrote a short story, inspired by the album covers of these records. Each record gets one line. If you want to follow along, I recommend scrolling through NME's chronological list of albums with proper credit given to the  photographers, fashion designers, and other artists that contributed to the myriad of mystique personas that Bowie donned.

*Includes two albums with Tin Machine. Does not include soundtracks, live albums, compilations, etc.

☆☆☆

Judge a Book by Its Cover

Dragged kicked and screaming into the digital age (ie, born in 1987), I am forced to admit when some technological advancements are absolutely necessary. The most recent case came from when I was looking at book previews for new releases for the coming year. The Millions massive book preview is always a great resource, and Flavorwire's list wasn't so bad itself. Obviously going straight to a favorite publisher (like Curbside Splendor or Other Press) is the most comprehensive way to find out what new releases are coming out.

You know what's sadly the most helpful out of this whole process though? Book covers. That adage, that cliche, that lie. It may have held weight in the past, but this is the age of design that is inherent in everything. The copies of my books that I inherited from my grandparents, leatherbound copies of Longfellow and Keats and Shakespeare that are too fragile to turn the pages, are absolutely beautiful in their minimal classicism. But they are literature from another era.

Year in Reading 2015

End of year lists. A bit played out and commenting on them being played out is too. But I think it's important to look back on what this year meant for me, literaturely. Along with starting to volunteer at Open Books as well as working on an event with Asymptote (stay tuned!), I've been writing more, sometimes for money, sometimes creatively, sometimes not at all (more often than I should). But the bones of a novel came out of it. If you're reading this blog and are interested in reading a surrealist tale about language, identity, memory, and perception, with indulgent experiments in form and more namedrops to philosophers, writers, musicians, and other pop culture references than I probably should have made, I will absolutely let you read it while I figure out where to go with it next.

But enough about what I wrote, here is what I read: