How I ended up reading this book: Brandon Sanderson was getting a bit of buzz a while back on Hubby’s group blog. I noted it, figured I’d get around to reading something from him eventually. But when I was in the library searching for something for M to read (not unusual), I noticed this one, picked it up, and gave it to her to read. M devoured it, laughed uproariously, couldn’t stop talking about it and now insists that we need to get it. Well, with that big of a reaction from her, I couldn’t resist throwing it on my pile. Especially after reading the author description on the jacket:
Brandon Sanderson is the pen name of Alcatraz Smedry. His Hushlander editor forced him to use a pseudonym, since these memoirs are being published as fiction. Alcatraz actually knows a person named Brandon Sanderson. That man, however, is a fantasy writer — and is therefore prone to useless bouts of delusion in literary form. Alcatraz has it on good authority that Brandon is actually illiterate and dictates his thick, overly long fantasy tomes to his potted plant, Count Duku. It is widely assumed that Brandon went mad several years ago, but few people can tell because his writing is so strange anyway. He spends his time going to science fiction movies, eating popcorn and goat cheese (separately), and trying to warn people about the dangers fo the Great Kitten Conspiracy. He has had his library card revoked on seventeen different occasions.
Who could resist something like that? Not me. I devoured it, laughed uproariously, can’t stop talking about it and agree that we should probably get this one.
Alcatraz Smedry is a thirteen-year-old orphan who’s been bounced around from house to house. The reason? He keeps breaking things. (He can’t help himself. ) His life takes a turn for the interesting when he gets a bag of sand on his birthday. It’s his inheritance, which is pretty weird. It doesn’t get much better: soon his grandfather shows up, babbling about the Free Kingdoms and evil Librarians and Alcatraz is sucked into infiltrating the downtown library in a desperate attempt to rescue the bag of sand. He just has no idea what he was in for.
I’ve talked about humor before: how it’s an individual thing, and how what I find amusing some others (like Hubby) might find benal or pedantic. I won’t even go so far as to say there are universal funny things. It’s all a matter of your mood, your history, your tastes… I have to admit that as I was talking up this book at breakfast, reading passages to Hubby this morning, his comment was, “Sounds a bit precious to me.” I thought about it: it is a bit precious — walking the line between snarky and smart-aleck — but it worked for me.
And maybe it’ll even work for you. Besides, how can you not want to read a book with an author blurb like that?