Book review on "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck" (9/4/17)

This book arrived in my life at just the right moment. Originally, I was a bit hesitant based on the title. I'm glad I didn't give in to judging a book by its cover because this book did not disappoint in the slightest. Once you keep laughing and get past all the blunt F bombs more so in the beginning (which only adds to its humor and charm), "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck worms its way into your psyche if you allow your heart and soul to go down the rabbit hole with Mark Manson.

It's part hero's journey, part helpful suggestions, and part (non-bullshitty type) self-help insights on life drawn from psychology, philosophy, and a mindful stance of "not giving a fuck" (ie, choosing what to give a fuck about and more so what NOT to give a fuck about in the overall scheme of things). It's nothing that I don't already know on some level, but it's his delivery and particularly the way he integrates it all that drew me in. This book is like a wake up call when you need a swift kick in the ass in your life.

I also strongly identified with his life changing event that he mentions towards the end of the book: how a close friend of his suddenly and unexpectedly died and how that then redefined him as "before" and "after." While it can profoundly transform a person, tragic events don't have to happen for us to alter our perceptions, the choices we make, and the way we live. It can happen right now. Mark Manson emphasizes that we all have choices and we will always have problems. A problem free life is boring, unavoidable, and leaves no room for growth. It's about choosing the good problems to have that will lead us on a journey of meaning and fulfillment, even in the midst of pain.

Halfway through the book, I was curious how other readers on Goodreads felt about this book. Not surprisingly, there were people that either loved or hated this book. If you're wanting a book that will make you feel good about your sense of self, your life choices, and let you know that you're an exceptional/special person....well, this isn't the book for you. And this is why I fucking loved it. Refreshing, honest, emotionally intelligent, thought-provoking, and real....this is something severely lacking in society these days. Everyone needs to read this book, especially in the United States of Entitlement. Perhaps the best book I've devoured in less than two days in years.

Read. This. Fucking Book. And if you don't, well....I just don't give a fuck. You're missing out.

"Writer-reader" and nerdy fantasies

If it was possible for me to read a book in utero, I certainly would have done so. It's the only stage of my life that I haven't been a bookworm, and that was only because I didn't have a choice. No matter what is or isn't going on in my life, books are one of the very few constants that remain. As bizarre as it may sound, books bring me the utmost comfort and stimulation....almost always more than people. How many people would say that? Like I said, bizarre...but true! I find things in books I cannot always find in family, friends, or lovers: Honesty. Grit. Inspiration. Diverse perspectives on "uncomfortable" subjects. Passion. One's true inner thoughts and feelings. Wisdom. Acceptance and understanding.

When I'm curious about something and want to learn as much as I can about it, I read. When I want to get a feeling for what an individual has gone through in life, I read. When I'm feeling disgusted or discouraged by the things I don't like about humanity and need to feel hopeful, I read. When I need an escape from reality, I read. When I need to feel grounded, I read. When I need to feel like someone (ie, a writer) understands me because he/she has gone through "it" too, I read. Yes, I read, read, READ!!!!

Considering my love for books, I suppose it was inevitable that my voracious appetite would morph into it's other half: writing. I started writing in a journal when I was a teenager. Nothing noteworthy or thought provoking, of course....but it got my pen in hand busy across the pages. It wasn't so much that I wrote something great, just that I was writing at all. I've read books about creative writing, writing non-fiction and fiction....and various books will tell you it's crucial to write every day, even if it's more worthy of going in the trashcan than in your notebook. I used to think that was a bunch of nonsense, however, I'm starting to believe there's truth in there. It's not a coincidence that the most writing I've done in my life thus far has been during the time I wrote in the aforementioned notebooks and while working at a bookstore (Can a bookstore be a muse?). Altogether, this constitutes...15 years of my life?! I need to discipline myself to get back into writing as much as I did back then. I miss it deeply. *Sigh*

Writing down the mundane on a regular basis exercises your writing muscles. You can "sculpt" yourself into being a better writer....one that focuses on details, one that writes by showing rather than merely spitting out an otherwise great story in a boring cookie cutter way. It has also been my experience that keeping journals/notebooks for several years allowed me the freedom to be totally honest with myself. I knew no one else would read what I wrote; there was something liberating in that. I could reveal things in writing that I wouldn't or couldn't speak aloud to any person.

Writing and reading go hand in hand for me, two sides of the same coin. Writing allows me to speak, to give, to let go. With reading, I can listen; I can be a voyeur. Writing is giving; reading is receiving.

This brings me to "nerdy fantasies." I wonder if anyone else out there is like me in this regard. When I read a book that consumes me with intense delight, I have a tendency to become a little borderline weird fantasizing about the author....and I don't mean sexually. It doesn't matter if it's a male or female author. I have a sudden and strong urge. It goes something like this inside my head (what my favorite authors would hear if I could speak to them directly): "Am I related to you?! I thought I was the only one that felt that way. Why can't I know people in my life like you that think about the same crazy and weird shit as I do?! You're hilarious/smart/bold/creative. You have balls to be totally honest! Your writing shows a likeable quirky side; I wonder if that's a side of myself I could as easily convey? Can we be friends?! Maybe if I were to write in your midst, it could be this weird osmosis kind of thing that just being in your presence would trigger some amazing writing material from within me! I really wish we were best friends. Really. You're my hero. I love you. Is that creepy that I love you? I guess I don't really know you, but I feel like I do because of your writing..."

This is usually followed by my fantasizing about having lunch with the writer, picking his/her brain with my own selfish agenda...either for entertainment or knowledge. At the same time, in my fantasy the writer wants to know just as much about me as I want to know about him or her. I fantasize about what the writer does in his or her everyday life. Is this person as fun and interesting as the writing indicates? Nice or arrogant? Just as passionate and inspiring in other ways as in what he/she writes? Would I like this person as much if I did really know him/her? Is the fantasy better than the reality? What if the reality is better?!

Screw celebrities. They're so boring and overrated. I can't help but roll my eyes when a celeb stubbing their toe or planning their wedding makes headline news. Who cares? Not me. Sure, they can be attractive to look at on the big screen...but writers are the ones with true grit, true substance. Writers are the only "famous" people I truly yearn to meet and know.

I want to write my own book someday...and I secretly hope there's a "writer-reader" (a term I just now coined: an individual that has a passion for both writing and reading)) of my future book out there who will be having the same nerdy fantasies about me.