SLiM: Did you even read At Home?

How does a writer know they have been granted access to that group of elites whose writing will be bestowed great accolades solely by virtue of the fact that said writer wrote it? Is it by getting to the #1 spot on the New York Times Bestsellers list? Is it when they must dunk their hand in ice for three days following each book signing session? Is it when they are interviewed on a total of fifty SiriusXM channels? (Considering how much space they must fill, that last qualification probably isn’t all that hard to achieve. Just call them up and tell them you’re willing to be interviewed. It doesn’t matter who you are, I’m sure they’ll leap at the opportunity.)

While all of these things are certainly enjoyable and gratifying, I think that there are two apparent ways to verify whether one is in this exclusive club: The Bryson and The Clancy.

We shall first deal with The Bryson. I’m going to take a look at some of his his books first, and we’ll see where we go from there.

   

The Lost Continent was published in 1989. If you manage to get past the overly busy cover, you may note that the author’s name is no more than a small note near the title. The Mother Tongue (not pictured) came out in 1990. Even then, the O of “Mother” is a good 33% larger than that of “Bryson”. His sequel to this was Made in America, published in 1994. Here, the title name is bigger too, so I guess we won’t blame the publisher for pumping up the size of the author’s name too. Then we get to his next published book, called Bill Bryson, authored by Notes from a Small Island. “Oh,” you say, “you just made a mistake, SLiM. I thought we were dealing with books by Bryson, not about Bryson.” To which I may likely respond (if you are kind enough to send me your comment so I can respond to your negative conclusion) “No, the publisher made a mistake.”

It continues thusly.

  

Wow, all these different guys had to write their own biography on Bryson? Maybe it’s a series; one is a short history of nearly everything about him, while one deals exclusively with tales of his domestic achievements!

Okay, probably not. More likely Mr. Bryson hit The Bryson, which makes a lot of sense if you think about it. The Bryson, as summarized by some prestigious society, is:

When an author’s name is printed larger than the title of the piece written, said writer has reached The Bryson.

Once an author accomplishes this, the doors are wide open for him, for he hath arrived. Let’s say Mr. Bryson is sitting around at home, when suddenly the idea occurs to him to write a 400-page book on the history and proper techniques of radish farming. All he has to do now is jot some random blathering on a page and send it off to the publisher, who will get back to him in a week with a cover like this:

It will then hit the shelves. CNN, ABC, and NPR will all be rushing to be the first to interview Bryson on his new book. Reviews will be gushing with “Bryson’s only flaw here is that he only covers radishes,” and “In that inimitable style, Bill has done it again!” Thirty copies of it will be in your local library within the week, and by the time you get to putting in an order for it, you will actually have to wait upwards of ten months before you can get to it. Fans will be swooning in the streets, the police will be rushing to clean up the mess left by a truck bombed while carrying 15,000 copies of Radishing Around, and hoodlums dressed as turnip-zombies roaming the streets with their shirts off will be reported by the dozen.

But ask anyone what the book is about. If they manage to get that correct, ask them if they read the whole thing. And they still respond yes, chances are they would fail to extol it under hypnosis.

Please note that I don’t mean to bash Bryson. All I’m saying is that The Bryson is a sure sign that one could get away with a Radishing Around if they wanted to. This is in contrast to The Clancy, which is in and of itself a little unethical. I’ll be getting to that soon.

Keep in mind, by the way, it doesn’t count as The Bryson if you have your name larger than the title on the cover just to say you have arrived.

SLiM: My Triumphant Return

To my dear readers who have faithfully checked this site every now and then over the last two years, hoping something would show up to support their notion that the beloved runner of this blog was not, in fact, dead, I have an announcement to make.

It would now behoove me to explain just how shocking this newsflash will be. If you have high blood pressure, or have experienced a seizure before, just take note of the fact that I have just taken the time to single you out to yourself. If you happen to be sitting next to a doctor, you may consult his opinion as to whether you ought to read on. Otherwise, just give yourself a hearty round of applause and try not to have a heart attack or seizure; because if you do, I don’t plan on holding myself responsible. This means that I will ignore any lawsuit your relatives bring up against me – and I won’t even have a guilty conscience – because your medical problems have nothing to do with me or my blog.

If you are pregnant, I wish you mazel tov and request that you finish reading this just like any other person.

If you are a nominee in this year’s presidential race, you will probably finish reading this and proceed to blame the poorly written parts on your enemies while taking credit for my good grammar and sentence structure. You will then give a speech detailing your catchphrase and your enemy’s Achilles’ heel while saying nothing of substance about yourself or your plans. (With this established, what, exactly, do you want my $25 for?) Because I know this will not change, I’m not even going to bother giving you any advice.

And if you are just a reader, I expect that my announcement will surprise you at least as much as when you heard that Newt had officially ended his incredibly powerful, Mitt-crushing campaign.

  I am returning to my post as Conversations at the Dinner Table’s writer-editor-director-coordinator-dictator!

At least for right now.