Beg, Borrow, Steal: A Writer’s Life reminded me of On the Road – a little wordy for my internet-addled ADD brain, but good, just good, and written in a tone that makes you want to meet the narrator, if only so he could be someone you met that one time that was intimidating, but very, very interesting. To be honest, I had a hard time getting through this book in the busy, dizzy end-of-the-year crunch going on. I had to make myself read it, and, like forcing yourself to go to the gym, I enjoyed every second of it once my rear was on the couch with the book light on and my email was closed down and in another room. I know that hardly sounds like a ringing endorsement, but it really is a great read, and it wasn’t the book, it’s me – I have a tiki drink attention span, and Michael Greenburg is a 25-year-old scotch, neat.

It helped that the book is broken into pieces – each chapter is an essay by itself, and they all make up the entire novel. The story is a memoir of Michael Greenberg’s life. He is invited to become part of the family scrap-metal business but refuses; he wants to be a Writer. Odd jobs become his way to survive, and in each he is introduced to different characters in New York City that he observes and writes of with a skill that makes them interesting, and sometimes beautiful, even if they are not. He also manages to capture the absurdity of living here in a way that I wish I could because, my god, this place has the most ridiculous people! Even the city itself (herself?) becomes a character in the novel; he imagines that the streets have feelings and seek their revenge if he changes his nightly course home.

The book is a documentation of the journey to becoming a successful writer and will be assigned to literature classes, I am so sure, in the years to come.

They’ve developed an interactive site (MichaelGreenberg.org) meant to recreate the spirit and experience of the book visually including a fineart map featuring some of the places mentioned in the book, and you can appreciate it whether or not you’ve read the book yet.

Rob hates driving in the city. HAAAATES. (For those not hip – “the city” is Manhattan. Brooklyn driving is cake.) He also hates paying parking garages. Still, I asked if he would consider driving me to Heather Armstrong’s book signing. I figured if I could sit in the car, slither out of it and into the bookstore and then slither back into it and be driven back to my bed, I could go for the hour or so. Taking the subway in this state of sickness is out of the question.

“No way!” he said. I figured.

But later: “If we leave now, we can be there on time.”

Yes! He is so awesome.

I put on pants (torture) for the first time in ages and dragged myself to the car.

It was so worth it.

I didn’t bring my camera because it would be a picture of Heather all dressed up pretty signing my book while I smiled pitiful and pale, with a bird’s nest on my head (I’ve got about half the knots combed out, by the way, but there are dreadlocks that are going to need a lot more time, attention, and possibly scissors if the universe decides to really stick it to me).

There’s a mini movement on Twitter to bump her book over Ann Coulter’s on Amazon. Go help.
Amazon.com, $16