Photo © 2009 Trevin Chow CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Authors and publishers, in my opinion, spend way too much time sucking up to literary critics, which is why I decided to become a book reviewer.

Of course, no critic actually deserves the respect he gets (myself included), not for his opinion in any case. And I dare say, publishers wouldn’t give critics the time of day, were it not for the fact that bad reviews can severely hurt sales of a good book, and that good reviews can severely boost sales of a mediocre one. That’s why it’s more important to pander to the tastes and whims of the critics, than to publish books that would actually please ordinary readers.

Authors are not much better, because most authors believe, on some level, that literary critics actually know what they’re talking about. So when a critic doesn’t like the book she wrote, she believes that there’s something wrong with her, because the critic said so. Fortunately, there’s a simple antidote to this line of thinking: the 5 rules of book reviews, which I’ll get to in a moment.

Some years ago, a critic reviewed a piece of my work. He mocked and derided, not just the work, but me personally. In his opinion, I was a hack and a huckster, who couldn’t put two words together to save my life. And in his view, I should go back into the hole whence I came, only coming out after I had actually proven my value to the literary community. Moreover, he made all these pronouncements—and he plainly admitted this in his review—without reading a single word of the work in question, based solely on the back-cover blurb and other marketing materials.

It was then that I realized three things about reviewers—and this part is actually true: Firstly, they are writers in their own rights, with fans of their own. Secondly, their job is not to give an honest evaluation of your work, but to pander to their own readers’ desires and prejudices. Thirdly, if they can do so without actually reading your book, they will, and with impunity.

If I sound a little bitter at reviewers, that should tell you something about how I feel about myself (since I too write reviews, sometimes very opinionated reviews). Factor in the fact that I’m also an indie publisher who is genetically incapable of sucking up to literary critics, and you’ll finally understand why I should probably be in a mental institution.

The reason I’m not in a mental institution is because I have discovered and follow the 5 rules of book reviews, which all authors and readers alike should memorize, for the benefit of society as a whole:

1. If the reviewer gives the book one star, he’s an opinionated jackass who would have condemned Tom Sawyer for being too trite, Huckleberry Finn as too racist, and Mark Twain for having a stupid pseudonym.

2. If he gives the book two stars, he has no passion, can’t get worked up enough even to condemn the book. (Two stars is the worst rating a book can receive: at least the one-star reviewer hated it; that’s something.)

3. If he gives the book three stars, he’s saying he’d like to rate it lower, but he would feel bad about doing so; so he pads his review with tripe about the author being a good writer, even though he didn’t like this particular book and doesn’t plan to read any more books by that author if he can help it.

4. If he gives the book four stars, he’s trying to appear diplomatic, knowing that the publisher expects a 5-star rating, but also that his readers would suspect foul play if he didn’t find at least something wrong with it.

5. If he gives the book five stars, he’s probably pandering to the author’s ego, hoping that the author will in turn recommend him on her blog to her fans, or mention him in an interview, or—best yet—when he writes his book, give it five stars in return. (Some reviewers don’t even review books that they can’t rate favorably, knowing that what goes around comes around.)

So while I still read, and I still comment on and review the books that I read, I give little weight to reviews by others, knowing that they say more about the reviewer than they do about me. (And that is also actually true.)

Instead, I find books to read that I think I myself would enjoy, and to hell with what the literary critics say!

-TimK

P.S. This piece was supposed to be funny, and I guess it is, in a sardonic, “funny ’cause it’s true!” sort-of way. If you find it angry or bitter, I apologize. I’ll try to post something better next week.

P.P.S. Please also note that there are some reviewers out there who actually do give unfettered, honest opinions about the books they review, regardless of what their fans think (or whether they even have any fans). Their reviews still say more about them than about the book, but at least they’re not trying to suck up to anyone in the process.

Photo © 2008 Rachel James CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Today, I had planned to publish a piece making fun of book reviewers and literary critics. Because in my opinion, publishers spend way too much time sucking up to them, which is why I decided to become a book reviewer. Unfortunately, I was unable to make fun of them without sounding bitter at them, which should tell you something about how I feel about myself. Factor in the fact that I’m also an indie publisher who is genetically incapable of sucking up, and you’ll finally understand why I should probably be in a mental institution.

So instead of publishing that post, I figured I’d let it sit for another week, see if I can do something constructive with it. In the meantime, I’m linking to a few funny, interesting, and inspiring pieces that I’ve read on the web this week.

A hilarious, true story of a customer who got the wrong idea about a worker in retail store who was putting away girls underwear. No, the customer is not always right.

Why women read more than men: NPR reports.

A cute, humorous, though-provoking anecdote of an old woman trying to be young, and a young woman becoming old, over at the Blog Jar.

For an old fart like me, this brings back so many good memories, and some pretty terrifying ones. (You mean I actually used to watch those shows… And I liked them?!) Neil Shurley’s list of the five greatest spaceships of all time.

The Surly Writer, Michelle Hickman’s classic post about her lighter- and darker-gray friends. Must read! Finally, a sane voice among the cacophony!

Good news for us, reports Lenore Skenazy, which means bad news for newspapers and politicians: Child abuse is down, WAY DOWN.

An interview of one of my favorite contemporary authors, Holly Lisle, in which she talks about her history, becoming a writer, current projects, and more: at the Dallas Speculative Fiction Examiner.

Two interviews of yours truly this week, featuring From the Ashes of Courage: one by Jess C Scott, author of EyeLeash: A Blog Novel, whom I will also be welcoming over here at this blog next week; the other by Lori A May, poet, novelist, and freelancer, whose latest book stains: early poems has just recently come out. Please show them your support!

That’s it for now. Have a wonderful, life-expaning weekend!

-TimK

One of the most pressing issues of the members of today’s generation is what they should do with their lives. In generations of old, social and family pressures kept people in line. You took up the same occupation as your father before you, or else you’d become a heretic. You married and raised children like your mother before you, or else you’d become an old maid. But today, the whole world is before you, too many options, and it can get rather confusing.

This is especially true for the young woman of today, who can literally do anything she wants to, and sometimes she feels as though she must in fact do everything—succeed in a career, become rich and famous, and manage a family, including a useless, good-for-nothing slob of a husband, all in her spare time.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not necessarily easier for young men, just different. Both sexes come to adulthood with dreams and ambitions, but with no means to achieve them other than focus, hard work, and perseverance, which is boring, difficult, and boring, respectively.

This state of affairs has given renewed rise to a class of books, which I honestly think may be the silliest man has ever known. They are more exciting than the most explicit romances, more far-fetched than the most absurd science-fiction, and more boring than the dullest religious tome. But romances are at least about love (or at least about sex). And science-fiction is at least about science (or at least someone’s conception of it). And religious tomes are at least about religion. But these other books are about nothing. Or rather, they are about SUCCESS.

In every bookstore, you can find shelves and shelves of books telling people how to succeed. They’re usually categorized as “inspirational” or “motivational,” or sometimes under “business.” They are books showing people how to succeed in everything (though they are authored by people who cannot even succeed in writing books).

Of course, there is no such thing as SUCCESS. Or to look at it differently, everything is a “success,” every last thing. If a thing is successful, that means it exists. A millionaire has succeeded at making a million dollars. A donkey has succeeded in being a donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living, and any dead man has succeeded in passing away.

But despite the useless logic of SUCCESS, I admit that SUCCESS writers probably mean “success in obtaining money or achieving your life goals.” They claim to tell the ordinary reader the secrets of how he can succeed in his career: how, if he’s a contractor, he can get in on the next Big Dig; how, if he’s a stockbroker, he can get rich trading stocks. They also say they’ll show him how, if he’s a grocery store clerk, he can become the next Tiger Woods; how, if he’s a blogger, he can become the next Stephen King; and how, if he’s a German Jew, he can become African-American.

People who buy these books have a moral—if not legal—right to ask for their money back. Nobody would dare put out a book about electrical engineering that literally told you nothing about current and wires, but did enable you to electrocute yourself. Or a cookbook that showed that its author does not know the difference between crème brûlée and ramen noodles. Yet our modern stores are full of books about SUCCESS and successful people, which literally contain no concrete ideas and little meaning.

If a book about SUCCESS, for instance, talked about winning the high jump, it would go something like: “You have to have a clear aim, a goal. You have to want to jump higher than anyone else. Envision jumping higher. Let go of your feeble feelings of mercy for the other competitors, because they can only prevent you from trying to do your best. Remember that a competition in jumping is supposed to be competitive. Remember that the loser will lose, and you don’t want that to be you!” That’s the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it would be, no doubt, to read out in a low and tense voice to an athlete just about to try the high jump. (NOT!)

In any occupation, there are two ways to succeed. One is by doing well. The other is by cheating. If you’re trying to win the high jump, either jump higher than everyone else, or else find some way to bribe the judges. If you want to succeed at poker, either be a good poker player, or play with marked cards. Now, you may want a book about jumping, in order to help you hone your technique. You may want a book about playing poker. You may even want a book about cheating at poker. But you cannot want a book about SUCCESS. You may want to jump or play cards, but you cannot want to read wandering statements about how jumping is jumping, or that games are won by winners.

Suppose that the SUCCESS writer talked about playing poker. His top advice would be: “When you’re seated at the table, you must never permit your opponent to win the game. You must have courage and determination and go in yourself and win! We no longer live in days of fantasy and superstition; we now live in the days of science. And modern science has proven that in any game where two are playing, if one does not win, the other will!” This stirring prose is all, of course, very… er… stirring. But if I were playing poker, I would rather have some decent little book which told me how to bluff.

-TimK

We have a fresh-water turtle, a red-eared slider, which we’ve raised from a tiny baby. Back then, he lived in a small tank, about the size of a fishbowl. Now, he’s outgrowing his grown-up-sized tank, and we’re thinking he may need an even bigger one.

As he is cold-blooded—all turtles are—he spends a great deal of time sunning himself on his log. Unfortunately, today, his log seems to have drifted under the water filter, and the filtered water is spilling out over it. That didn’t stop him from sunning there, however ineffective that must have been.

-TimK

Photo © 2005 Thomas Hawk CC BY-NC 2.0

I’m remembering my 20’s. Because everyone remembers his 20’s. I dropped out of school at 20 years old, met my wife at 22, married at 24, had my first daughter at 27, and my second at 29. Yes, the average American’s roaring 20’s are full of growth, choices, excitement, and dirty diapers, usually in that order.

Twenty is the age of true adulthood, finally. When you’re a 20-something, the whole world is before you. You can be anyone you want to be (if only you could figure out who that is), do anything you want to do (if only you could figure out what), achieve anything you want to achieve (if only you weren’t such an imbecile).

For me, the 20’s began with college. Or more precisely, dropping out of college, which I finally did after failing Materials Science for the second time in a row. I was attending Northeastern University, an Electrical Engineering major, which was fun my Freshman year, when I was 18. Then I turned 19, and it became less fun, but I was still learning stuff in class, and working in an electronics lab elsewhen. By half-way through my third year, however, I had been writing software at work—instead of doing electronics—and I was terrified of academics. (Still am. Terrified of academics, that is. And that’s completely unrelated to writing software, just for the record.)

The thing is, I never actually quit school. I just sort of… stopped going. Now, decades later, I still occasionally dream at night that I suddenly realize I’ve missed a good portion of the semester’s classes, and I can’t remember what I did with my class schedule, and I don’t know where my classes are, and I’ve not so much as cracked open any of my textbooks, and I worry that I won’t be able to catch up on all the coursework I’ve missed, and I’m about to take a midterm exam and I have no idea what’s on it. In some variations of this nightmare, I end up standing in a long line, anxious for them to print me a copy of my class schedule, because I’m already late for class. In others, I drift from classroom to classroom, wondering whether my correct professor will even recognize me, or (sometimes) whether I’m even in the right room.

In another recurring dream, I have to navigate through numerous buildings on a college campus, up and down staircases, past classroom after classroom, in and out of entrances and exits, in order to get from one end to the other. Yes, I have mundane dreams. But in the dream itself, this all seems so very important. I end up lost in a dark, underground tunnel lined with lockers, near a cafeteria, and I’m hungry.

In retrospect, it was probably best that I dropped out when I did. Because if I had followed the tradition set down by my father, which both my brothers followed, I would have paid for an entire bachelor’s degree in my chosen field, before deciding that I wanted to do something completely different for a career. As it was, I only paid for half a bachelor’s, so I effectively got a 50% discount.

Of course, after college comes marriage, which was very fun. Then we decided to have kids. That meant that we had to move out of our tiny, three-room attic apartment, to move into a tiny, four-room upstairs apartment. By this time, I had a steady job programming embedded software and fixing people’s computers. And so when the second daughter came along, we could move downstairs into an even larger apartment. (I’m still looking forward to the day when I can move into my own basement.)

It was here, at this even larger downstairs apartment, that I started writing fiction. But that happened a few years after I had turned 30, when I realized that during my 20’s I had accomplished so much less than I had wanted to. So that’s a different story.

-TimK

Drunk Cat, © 2005 Ibrahim Owais CC BY-SA 2.0

As a writer, I often get asked, how do you revise a novel? Actually, I don’t get asked that. Someone does often ask me what word he wanted to use, as though I as a writer should have a command of words. (I don’t. But that’s a different post.) Of course, if I knew what word he wanted to use, then he would have already put his his thoughts into words for me, and he would already know what word he wanted to use, all by himself, without me telling him.

But no one ever asks me how to revise a novel. Yet it’s a process every great novelist needs to master. And as I happen to be in the middle of revising my latest upcoming novel, I thought I’d spend a little time today demystifying this essential process for you. Fortunately for all budding authors, revision is as simple as 1-2-3, if you just follow the following steps.

1. Finish the manuscript

This is harder than it sounds. First of all, when you sit down to write, something else will always be more important, such as surfing the web or playing FarmVille. (Hey, those cows won’t milk themselves!) This is especially true for people like me, who work at my computer, typing my novel directly into my word-processor. One solution to this problem is to write with pen and paper, but that leads to a whole other set of maladies, such as writer’s cramp and trying to read your own writing.

Another way you can finish your manuscript is to participate in NaNoWriMo (pronounced ˌnanōˈrīmō), or “National Novel Writing Month” for short, which happens every November. NaNoWriMo is when thousands of writers and wanna-be writers all sit down at their computers at the same time each year and put words on virtual paper. The goal is to write 50,000 words by the end of the month, including Thanksgiving, using any means necessary. Through NaNoWriMo, you can learn numerous tricks for increasing your word count, tricks such as:

• Use lots of verbose description. Describe everything, from the color of the carpet to the height of the grass. The more meaningless it is to the actual story, the more description it requires, because it has to make up for not doing its fair share.
• Use lots of dialogue, including hello’s and goodbye’s and long talks about the weather. Especially, include long conversations with cameo characters that have no significance and never appear again in the story. After all, even the cameos have to do their fair share to pad your word count.
• Always split up contractions into two words. So “don’t” becomes “do not.” See? You gained a word! Better yet, use the passive voice instead of the active. So “I wrote the book” becomes “The book was written by me.” That’s two extra words!
• Have your characters engage in side-stories, such as waiting for the clock to strike twelve, or counting the number of tiles on the bathroom floor.
• Have each character stutter, or always need to say everything three times before he’s satisfied that he’s gotten out what he wanted to say.
• Describe everything your characters do, including walking, driving, or just sitting and watching TV. Detail every errant thought that occurs to your character, no matter how boring it may seem.

If you’ve done these things well, you’ll be ready for he second step in revising your novel…

2. Print it out

Once you have your manuscript completely typed into your computer, you’ll need to print it out, because all real editors work with paper and ink. Seriously, though, it can make the revision process easier, and it’s an editing style that all writers should try at least once.

So you need to connect your printer up to your laptop, install any one of a number of obscure drivers to get it to work, and then discover that your kids used up all your paper making flyers to pass around the neighborhood about Snuffy, who is little Emily’s lost turtle. But you didn’t have the heart to tell little Emily that Snuffy had died, and now you’re regretting it.

After returning from the office supply store with a new ream of primo discount paper, you are now ready to print your manuscript. Of course, you’ll only get about 50 pages in before the text on the page begins getting light, and then almost so that you can’t see it. So it’s off to the office supply store again, this time for a new ink cartridge at $15 a pop.

Now, by the time your printer reaches page 150 or so, it will begin to get tired. Seriously, my printer gets tired in the middle of a large printing job. I almost always print in “draft” mode, because it uses less $15 ink and it goes much faster. The printer will be chugging along, spitting out pages— and if I’ve forgotten to set the paper catch, it literally will spit them out halfway across the room. And then at some point, it will slow down. Its printing will begin to sound more laborious, and it will begin to make loud groaning noises as it pulls in each new page, and as the printing head slogs back and forth, squeezing out ink along the way. And it will get slower and more tired, until it finally gets its second wind. Then all is again right with the world.

A bit of warning, something they don’t tell you in the printer manual: never leave a printing printer unattended! You’ll need to sit there, watching it, taking each chapter off as it finishes (because your cheapo printer isn’t designed to work with a 1-inch-thick stack of paper), always being careful to keep the pages in the right order. You’ll also need to refill the printer with more blank sheets when it runs out, and it will, over and over again. You’re printing a novel here, remember, not the Three Little Pigs!

By the way, when you print your manuscript on your cheapo inkjet printer, you should probably click on the “reverse pages” option. That way the last page will come out first, at the bottom of the 1-inch-thick stack of finished pages. I did check the “reverse pages” option. I hope you remembered to as well. Otherwise, now you have to reverse 250 sheets of paper manually. In the middle of doing that, you’ll no doubt accidentally drop or bump your manuscript, causing papers to spray all over the living room floor. (By the way, you did include page numbers in your manuscript format, didn’t you?)

Then, after you finally get all the pages in order, you’ll realize that you could have just reversed them while you were actually reading them during the actual revision process.

3. Mark up the manuscript

Last but not least, you need to read your manuscript, making notes on the pages where you need to make changes. There are many kinds of changes you’ll need to watch for, and I don’t have time to go into them now. But it hardly matters, because as soon as you begin reading, you’ll see how boring and pathetic the story actually is, and you’ll give up, go get a tall glass of something alcoholic to drink, and get smashed.

So there you have it, revising your novel in three easy steps.

As for me, I need to get back to my own latest. I’m missing page 172. It’s gotta be around here somewhere…

-TimK

P.S. In all seriousness, I’m very satisfied with what I’ve written so far. Yes, I’m making lots of scribbles on the manuscript, issues to address, including some broad issues of story and theme. But I’m actually finding it a joy to read. They say that you should write what you would enjoy reading, and I think I’ve succeeded in that.

P.P.S. I’m using Holly Lisle’s one-pass manuscript revision process, exactly as she describes it. I’ve always used a variation of that process, going from first to final draft in one pass, but this is the first time I’ve done everything she recommends, exactly as she recommends it. I’m finding it workable, but the jury’s still out on whether—for me—it’s really necessary to print out the manuscript and work on paper, as she recommends. So far, I haven’t done anything that wouldn’t have been easier to do right on the computer. That may have something to do with how I write, or maybe with my preferred working style. Don’t know for sure yet.

The letter goes on to explain that certain of our prescriptions, we could get them home delivered for $00 less than what we pay to pick them up! How cool is that! The flip-side lists the prescriptions, in a completely empty list, with the proviso (denoted by the double-asterisk) that if our doctor prescribed any prescription for short-term use, it may not apply.

-TimK

I was watching an old Columbo episode, “Etude in Black,” in which conductor Alex Benedict murders his star pianist Jenifer Welles, to prevent her from revealing their secret love affair.

As a musician myself, and knowing a little something about the piano, I thought it might be fun to rewrite one of the scenes of this episode, thusly:

Columbo: I’m very upset by this Jenifer Welles thing.

Alex Benedict: Yes. So am I.

Columbo: You know I was up half the night. I couldn’t sleep. I kept going over it in my mind. I couldn’t figure it out: why, why, why would a girl like this, young, beautiful, talented girl with everything to live for, why does she take her life like that?

Alex Benedict: Well, it was not widely known, but Jenifer Welles couldn’t actually play the piano.

Columbo: Really!?

Alex Benedict: Yes. See, she played back a recording, and then she moved her fingers over the keyboard to make it look like she was playing, at least to the untrained eye.

Columbo: Are you sure?

Alex Benedict: Absolutely! I mean, she wasn’t even holding her hands in the right position. The keys weren’t going up and down. It was obvious that she really wasn’t playing it.

Columbo: So then, why did you allow her to continue to sit in the orchestra?

Alex Benedict: I had a soft spot for Jenifer. I wanted to give her a chance, and I thought that if we handled it quietly, that she would have a chance to start playing honestly.

Columbo: I see.

Alex Benedict: And she was about to. But then the fame and accolades started coming, and critics started calling her a “world-class pianist,” and she just couldn’t turn back at that point, couldn’t admit the truth, because she was in too deep. Maybe her conscience just got the best of her. She couldn’t tell the truth, and she couldn’t bear to lie about it any more.

Columbo: Yes, it could have happened like that.

Alex Benedict: I never thought she’d commit suicide, though. And the ironic thing is that now, this is all bound to come out, now that’s she’s gone.

-TimK

Sign for a rotary in Jamaica Plain. © 2007 "Kingdafy" on flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The situation is exacerbated at rotaries. For those of you who may not be familiar with the Boston rotary, it is a complex, multilateral intersecting way, with no stop signs, at which everyone goes at the same time, and the biggest vehicle always wins. This is why so many Boston drivers, especially those from the suburbs, drive SUV’s.

A rotary usually has three to five entrances, and up to 30 exits, depending on how many times you go around before getting dizzy. This is usually only a problem for out-of-towners, who get on a rotary and then frequently get lost. So they go around and around and around, always looking for the right exit to take, but never finding it. I once heard of a man from Nebraska who couldn’t find his way off a Boston rotary and continued driving around it until he grew old and died.

Then there are traffic signals. You know, those multicolored lights posted or hanging near an intersection. To the Boston driver, the green light, as elsewhere, means “go.” The yellow light means, “You’d better speed up, or you might not get to ride in the ambulance.” And the red light means “I bet you wish you had gotten here first! Ha!” This is why, during rush hour, cars will pileup, backed up through red lights, blocking traffic going in the transverse direction, causing those streams of cars also to pileup, and so forth, in a gridlock pattern. In Boston, this is called “getting through the intersection.”

That’s a kind of intentional pileup. There are also plenty of accidental pileups, especially on the interstate. These happen usually during rush hour, when half the drivers are late, late, for a very important date.

Now, as you know, you should leave at minimum a gap of at least five car-lengths between you and the car in front of you, at least when you’re going the speed limit of 55 MPH on the highway. Of course, on the highway, only the very old or the very slow are going “only” 55. The rest of us are doing 70, 80, or even faster. And when you’re late, you can’t leave a gap in front of you, for two reasons. Firstly, this might cause the guy in front of you to slow down, because as you know, riding his tail pressures him to hurry up. (Conversely, leaving a space will remove the pressure, thereby allowing him to slow down.) Secondly, and more importantly, if you leave a space in front of you, some other more astute driver might pull into that space, thereby getting in front of you, which is a prospect almost too horrific even to mention.

Of course, the driver in front of you is thinking the same thing, and the driver in front of him, and in front of him. And at the front of this line, 10 cars in front of you, there’s some poor lady just trying to get to her lonely office job in one piece. Unfortunately, she foolishly left a space in front of her. Along comes a more astute driver, who with shrewdness and cunning cuts her off going 85 MPH, and then promptly slams on his breaks.

And that’s how we make a 10-car pileup.

Accidental pileups are not confined to the highway, of course. When I was but a teenage lad, one of my cohorts told me of an accident that he had witnessed. (And this is actually true.) A car had stopped to make a left turn onto a side street. The car behind him stopped. The next car behind also stopped. The lady in the next car after that, unfortunately, was drinking a cup of hot coffee. She reportedly got out of the car, drenched and burnt and ready to sue the guy at the front, who had “stopped short.”

On the other hand, maybe she had a point. There seem to be two kinds of Boston drivers: Those who need to move, fast, now! And those who are afraid of running into invisible objects and small animals. She was clearly of the former type, and maybe the other guy was of the latter.

To the latter I say: It is possible—quite easy, in fact—to make a right turn without running into the curb. You do not need to be afraid of this phobia. You do not need to swing out 6 feet from the curb, come to a complete stop in the middle of the road, and then inch your way around the turn. Trust me: even if you were to drive like a normal person, you still wouldn’t run into anything. (Spoilsport.) And you should also know that slowing down to 15 MPH while merging onto the highway, when everyone else is zooming by you going 70… That can actually make it more likely you’ll get hit.

Of course, the other type of driver is not much better, the kind of driver who has to get ahead at any cost, to whom even a $150 speeding ticket is “way too slow.” To them I say: See, here! My I do not have to go faster than 85 in a 55-MPH zone, just because you’re late for an appointment. My pending fatal accidents are not dictated by your poor planning. I’m quite capable of instigating my own accidents, thank you very much. After all, I am a Boston driver.

See? I even have the license to prove it!

-TimK

© 2006 Josh Ward CC BY 2.0

Nothing requires so keen a notice, so focused a concentration, so large and intimidating a vehicle, as does driving in Boston.

When we first moved to Boston from western Pennsylvania, we were both intrigued and horrified to see public roadways under construction, with potholes dug the size of the Great Lakes and manhole covers raised as tall as Flathead Mesa. Well, since I was just a boy at the time, maybe the potholes and manhole covers seemed a little bigger than they actually were. But the roads were conspicuously marked with signs–and this is actually true–”Danger! Proceed at your own risk!” Well, perhaps the signs didn’t have exclamation points, but they might as well have, because they made me feel as though we were about to drive off the edge of the continent and might fall into the ocean. (I had heard that Boston was close to the ocean.)

(As I’m sure someone is going to mention, these signs are only posted in some areas on New England, such as Connecticut. In the Boston area, the roads and construction and possibility for automobile damage is the same, but the explicit warning is missing.)

I recall my father oh so cautiously proceeding down these roadways, carefully weaving between potholes and manhole covers, the tires grinding against the unfinished roadway as we putted down this dangerous avenue. Meanwhile, the native Bostononians flew by us at highway speed, cursing us as they went, clearly unafraid of falling into the ocean. But then again, having grown up in the area, they probably intuitively knew where the edge was.

That was almost 25 years ago, and since then I’ve gotten my own genuine Massachusetts driver’s license, learned how to navigate the roads here, and even how to assert myself behind the wheel of a car. And in the process, in all my years of driving in the Boston area, I’ve only gotten into five accidents.

The first happened shortly after I got my first car, while I was pulling into a parking space. And it wasn’t my fault, because the other guy should have known better than to park his car right next to where a new Boston driver was going to be pulling in.

The second also wasn’t my fault. My car ran into some lady’s car from behind, because she failed to pull out into the rotary fast enough.

In the third, I totaled my new Chevy Geo Prism. Some idiot changed lanes on 128 without signaling properly. I swerved to compensate. And still getting used to the steering mechanism on my new car, I overcompensated. I was wearing no seatbelt at the time, and it was only by the grace of God that I got a second chance, in order to share with you this injunction: Gonna make a turn? Tell the world about it!

My fourth accident also wasn’t my fault, because they shouldn’t have put that pole there.

My fifth and last accident truly wasn’t my fault. It couldn’t have been, because I wasn’t even in the car at the time. I had parked my car on a side street, near the corner. Clearly, some idiot then swung the corner wide and barreled into the side of my car. At least he had the courtesy not to leave a note, because for all he knew, I probably would have torn his head off. And he might have had to pay for the damage, too.

But the basic problem with Boston drivers is that they have no social skills. This is no accident—so to speak. Boston drivers acquire their rudeness, ignorance, and self-centered egotism only after a lifetime of careful practice.

Take the four-way stop as an example. There’s nothing magical or mysterious about the four-way stop. Four roads meet at a common point. We obviously can’t all drive through the intersection at once, or else we’d get into a massive 10-car pileup, which indeed would be fun, but 10-car pileups are only for the Pike. So at a four-way stop, we have a simple rule: the first person to get to the intersection goes first. In other words, we take turns. Now, we teach our children from the time they can say, “Mine! Mine!” how to take turns. This basic social skill does not require an advanced degree in particle physics. The four-way stop is a system any four-year old could master. There’s a big red sign, in the shape of an octagon, emblazoned with the letters S-T-O-P. You drive your car up to the sign, stop for a few seconds, wait for your turn, and then go through.

But alas, this is too complicated for the average Boston driver. So even when he notices the big red sign, he rarely follows its instruction. You see, unlike you, he knows it’s just a suggestion: “Stop, if you feel like it. But not if you can get through first!” This is why when a Boston driver approaches a four-way stop, he first drives past the stop-line and into the intersection—even before slowing down. Then if there are other cars also vying for the right of way, he continually inches forward, daring them to run into him. Only when one of the other vehicles seems to have accepted his challenge does he proceed through the intersection.

(to be continued next Friday)