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WTR (What’s Toby Reading)? provides unsolicited and unsponsored (I don’t get paid) opinions of books I have recently finished.
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Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs
I often pick out books based on an obscure cover, title, or caption.
The picture of a young person with a cardboard box over their head drew my attention to Augusten Burroughs’ 2002 memoir Running with Scissors.
If you didn’t know this was autobiographical, there is NO WAY you’d assume this story to be true. My reading was filled with repeating the phrases: “What the hell?” or “No way!”
The story of Augusten’s upbringing consistently has the reader balancing between feeling awful for the life he leads, and asking themselves if these crazy anecdotes could have really happened. Burroughs certainly has lived a life few have – or would.
Augusten’s mother, by any account, is nuts. The book, in fact, documents his life living in the dingy, grotesque home of his mother’s psychiatrist. Everyone in the house is off – WAY OFF.
From Augusten’s love affair with one, older house-sibling twenty years his senior, to the Christmas tree deteriorating in the living room until May, to his contrived suicide attempt to earn a two week break from school, Burroughs’ life is unbelievable – MIND BOGGLING.
Through the disobedience of his upbringing, Augusten finds a love of writing that, to me, saves his life. When I read a memoir, I generally know where the book ends in the beginning. In this case, I wanted to get to the end – to Augusten’s career – as soon as possible. I didn’t want the book to end, just for this poor child to find his way.
Running with Scissors was a welcome distraction from my incredibly routine, mundane Christmas break. I’d recommend the book as a quick read that will make normalcy feel pretty damn comforting.
Three Weeks With My Brother by Nicholas and Micah Sparks
I miss my three brothers all the time. The group text messages we share just don’t provide the face-to-face comedy that I have so missed over the past few years. Anymore (and without a global pandemic), we’d be in the same room maybe once a year. Sigh.
Knee-deep in this nostalgic feeling, and longing for a family Christmas that was not to be, I saw Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas and Micah Sparks on the top shelf at the library. I had to pick it up and was glad I did.
First, I did not initially realize that the author was THAT Nicholas Sparks – the guy whose rich stories routinely dot the New York Time Bestsellers’ List.
The memoir begins with Mr. Sparks. Stressed, over-working, facing multiple deadlines, and slugging through the everyday ups and downs of parenting five children. Taking a break to gather the daily mail, a brochure caught Sparks’ eye. The pamphlet documents a three week trip around the world.
Initially skeptical of pitching the idea of entertaining such a trip given his responsibilities at home and work, Sparks simply couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to go. So, he speaks to his wife, calls his enthusiastic brother in California and, WHAM, they’re off to see the world!
The book chronicles Sparks and his older brother, Micah’s (listed as the co-author), travels to see some of the world’s treasures – Easter Island, the Taj Mahal, the northern lights, Manchu Picchu, Lalibela (Ethiopia), and many more.
While the memoir details the sights of the Sparks’ brothers stops, more interestingly to me are the stories that pop-up as they spend time together.
I learned that Sparks’ life is filled with tragedy – the untimely passing of his dear mother after a horse-riding accident, his sister’s long battle with brain cancer, and having to work through his own struggles with his son’s learning disorder.
The features memories the brothers share as they traverse the world and has them doing some serious introspection about how they have chosen to live their lives.
Three Weeks with My Brother had me compelled to call my three brothers and line up a trip right away.
Maybe I wouldn’t leave for three weeks, though.
And, maybe after I meet this next work deadline.
Just then, I remembered – COVID. Maybe next year, I guess.
