Yesterday was rough. The weather sucked, my arthritis was really acting up, I’ve hit a wall in trying to get my book published, and I had to go to the grocery, a weekly task which is never pleasant, but managed to sink to new lows yesterday. It was all extremely frustrating, and those of you who know me know my natural response to frustration is complete, all-encompassing rage. It was a real treat for the lovely and longsuffering Jess to come home from her work at a real job to my irrational, yet deeply felt, temper tantrum, I’m sure.

When I got up this morning, I decided today was going to be different.

Once I got through my morning chores, I had some time before I had to clock in at my work-from-home job as a writing consultant at IU East, which is generally not something I consider a real job (I’ve had real jobs and didn’t care for it), but is the first job I’ve ever had that I liked and was really good at, so I thought I’d watch a movie.

Instead of my usual fare of violence, bloodshed, and light depravity, I chose Cyrano, My Love, which tells a fictional version of the writing and making of one of my favourite stories, Cyrano de Bergerac, by Edmond Rostand. I’ve loved the story ever since I was a kid and saw the 1950 film version with Jose Ferrer, laughed my ass off at 1987’s Roxanne, starring Steve Martin, was blown away by the 1990 version starring Gerard Depardieu, and really enjoyed the 2019 musical version starring Peter Dinklage (it didn’t quite work, but Dinklage was impressive, as always). I’ve even read the play itself a couple of times, and I’m delighted to report that Cyrano, My Love did not disappoint.

It is laugh-out-loud funny, and pretty deeply touching, traits it has in common with Rostand’s play. The writing, acting, costumes, and sets, are all first-rate. The only drawback I can see (for some) is that it’s in French, with subtitles. If you love Cyrano, don’t let that stop you (if you don’t love Cyrano, I can only assume that you’re not familiar with it. Any of the adaptations I mentioned above would be a great starting point, but keep in mind that the Depardieu version, while the most visually stunning, is also in French).

But enough of plugging Cyrano, My Love (although seriously, you should see it). What I really want to write about here is my love of stories about telling stories, stories about stories, and stories about the magic of stories and books. Two examples that I’ve already written about are Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind, and Robin Sloan’s Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore. A series I may have written about is Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next series, in which Thursday, a literary detective has to find out who is kidnapping famous characters from their books. The Next novels are a wild, surreal ride through a literary amusement park – A lot of fun.

Sorry, but apparently it’s impossible for me to write about books without plugging those I really love. I’ll try to stay on track, but make no promises.

Anyway, all that got me thinking about the genre (?) of books about books, storytelling, and writing, which I’ve loved since long before I decided to try being a writer myself. I’ve been trying to figure out exactly WHY I love them so, and, to be honest, I really don’t think it’s all that complicated – they’re stories about my first, truly undying love, written by (generally speaking) really talented people in love with the same thing I love. They take characters I love in unexpected directions, while (also generally) remaining (reasonably) true to the original characters. It’s just FUN.

Then there are the books about books, which is to say books about why books matter, how a good one affects us, and what they give us. They bring books alive. Zafon’s book does that, beautifully. Another such story is John Connolly’s short story (novella?) The Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository, in which a book lover ends up interacting with both books and characters in mysterious, funny, and intimate ways. Connolly is best known for his Charlie Parker mystery series – sort of like if Stephen King started writing Philip Marlowe novels, and my favourites, the Samuel Johnson series, in which a young boy and his pet daschaund, aided by a couple of incompetent demons have to save the world from Armageddon (repeatedly) – really funny stuff – but I digress (again!). Anyway, The Caxton Private Lending Library and Book Depository is available as an e-book for $5 or $6 bucks on Barnes and Noble, and Amazon. Money well spent.

Then there are the books about writers writing (or at least trying), a sub-genre which I can really relate to. One of the best examples is Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys which, I’m a little bit ashamed to admit, I haven’t read yet, but I did love the movie. It’s about a literature professor struggling with writer’s block (among other things). The great Stephen King has dipped his toes (talons?) into this pool a few times, with Misery, The Dark Half, the underrated Duma Key and the non-fiction On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. I know I can personally relate to feeling like something I’m writing is trying to destroy me.

It’s not just books though. Jess and I recently watched George Miller’s awesome Three Thousand Years of Longing. You probably know Miller from his awesome Mad Max series, or from the pretty-much-equally-awesome-but-in-a-totally-different-way family film (and Jess’ all-time favourite movie) Babe.

Three Thousand Years of Longing is about a scholar (Tilda Swinton) in the fields of stories and mythology who, while in Turkey, buys and accidentally breaks a vase containing a Djinn (Idris Elba). While she tries to figure out three wishes that won’t backfire on her, he tries to convince her he’s not a trickster by telling her stories of his life. Jess and I both loved it. It is funny, moving, and hypnotically beautiful.

It really reminded me of a very “for adults only” version of another favourite family movie, Secondhand Lions, starring two greats, Michael Caine and Robert Duvall. Chances are you’ve seen it. If you haven’t it’s a great, funny, and heartwarming movie about two cranky old coots telling tall tales about their lives to a neglected nephew. Both Caine and Duvall are on top of their game in this one.

Another great recent movie about storytellers is Babylon, with Brad Pitt and Margot Robbie, about the hedonistic chaos that ruled Hollywood right at the changeover from silent films to talkies, and before the Hays Code that amounted to self-inflicted censorship. It is very funny, a little heartbreaking, and very raunchy.

Of course, movies about making movies is a whole sub-genre of its own with a lot of standouts: Tarentino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Barry Sonnenfeld’s Get Shorty (based on a book by the immortal Elmore Leonard), the Coen Brothers’ Hail Caesar!, Ben Stiller’s hysterical Tropic Thunder and, of course, one of the greatest musicals of all time, Singin’ In the Rain. There are innumerable others, good, bad, and indifferent, but those are my favourites.

Anyway, I could go on forever about this, but I’ll wrap it up with the book I’m currently reading: Guy Vanderhaeghe’s The Englishman’s Boy. It takes place in two separate timelines, one in the Old West, the other in 1920s Hollywood. You may recall me waxing rhapsodically about another Vanderhaeghe book, The Last Crossing. This one is just as good, maybe even better. If you haven’t read anything by Vanderhaeghe, you really, really should.

Well, I guess I’ve beaten this dead horse enough, although just thinking and writing about this has put me in a really good mood (or at least better than yesterday). I think I’ll stop now, and maybe take a shower (a pleasant little after-work surprise for Jess – Yes, I am just that sweet).

Thanks for reading!