An idiot,Placements and IntervYou

Author: Toffee
Publisher: Times group books


A school topper. Joins college. Gets into the thick of things. Forgets about academics. Terrifying grades/GPA aka grade point average. This is a story line familiar to almost all the engineering students of India. Well, if you can point out to me someone who is unfamiliar with this, I can show you someone who is an exception to the general rules. So, till now, the story runs along the beaten track. Where is changes its tune, is when Mr. slacker wakes up, realizes there is a life after this, collects his wits, gets placed and finally decides to write a book about it.  And as a fellow engineering student, I could not resist picking up this book, even though much of my previous experiences with these sort of books were hardly what you will call encouraging. 

When I heard the name, An idiot, Placements and IntervYou, in all its deliberately misspelled glory, I had no idea what to make of it. A memoir of messed up college days? The blurb doesn't help much as well. But I decide to take the proverbial plunge.

The first couple of chapters don’t provide much scope for hope. They include an acknowledgement, an about this book, a “not a prologue” and a story behind this book. All of them expressing sort of similar sentiments peppered with bad philosophy cum poetry. 

This is the gist of toffee’s story. He was a school topper. He spend the mandatory years of boarding education studying enough to get into a prestigious, if not top, college and promptly forgets about studying. Then comes an expected love story, followed by the break up which forces him to re-think some of his priorities. He works hard from then on, gets placed in a top notch MNC, identified here only as DWELL and writes a book about how to crack the coveted placement drives. All in all not a bad outcome from a break up. 

Then all of a sudden book changes tracks. It becomes a sort of self help book. Something like “How to get placed for dummies”. It walks you through the generic phases of a recruitment drive. The pre-placement talks to the HR interview through aptitude tests and GD and what not. 

Most of the time the analogies are awful and the case studies are clichéd. But this itself provides a ringing authenticity to the book. After all it was written by a self confessed screwed up. Surprisingly this fact makes the book endearing. It is not the kind of book that is in a suit and tie and is looking down at you with disapproving eyes while dishing out advice after advice. No, this is a book that has been exactly in the position of a hapless engineering student. In fact it has that awesome been there, done that, got it right attitude. 

The tips and discussions in the book are, for all its laid back nature, as good as any of its more academically proud compatriots. It touches almost all core issues and addresses them from a cent percent practical stand point. 

Another thing I quite enjoyed about the book was its unapologetic engineering college lingo. From compsci for computer science to commski to communication skills. Hunks and bunks and guys and gals. Trust Toffee to completely nail it. 

Do give this book a try to get to know about the mad world called engineering education in India. :)


This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at  BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Guest Post - Lorne Oliver

Here we have, a guest post from Lorne Oliver, author of Red Island. You can contact him at his blog, or his facebook page. An extract to the novel is as well added at the end. 

Writing for Emotion

I wrote a scene in Red Island that still scares me.  I can’t close my eyes for long in the shower without feeling a swelling of panic inside my chest.  I feel the killer’s eyes on me.  With my eyes closed I can see him staring at me through the steamed glass.  I have to keep them open.

I love stories that make you go, whoa!  Stories that make you feel some sort of emotion with an amazing explosion inside you.  Stories that make you see and feel and shiver or force yourself to look away or make you want, no need, to read on to see what happens.  You may not always be able to recall the entire novel, but that one scene is what you can remember.  It is stuck in your memory.

Stephen King is good at this.  He is the king of getting emotion out of the reader.  The one that comes to mind is the scene in Misery when Anne Wilkes “hobbles” the writer.  I’m not talking the sledgehammer to the ankles like in the movie.  In the book she takes an axe to his ankles.  The way it is described with the pain and the sight of his ankle being held on by a string of flesh gets you right inside and makes you cringe.  You feel the pain.  You can’t read any more.  Your ankle suddenly hurts as if you were the one who just got chopped.  And then you find yourself reading on.  I saw Stephen King once on a TV interview.  He said just a few words about what it would feel like to have a rat climb in your mouth – the feet scraping, the fur, the whiskers tickling your lips, the taste of its flesh, and then the feeling as its sharp teach start to gnaw on your soft pallet.  You can feel it can’t you?  Taste it? 

It is the writer’s job to mention the simple tiny details that the common man would never think of.  If said common man was discussing what it was like to say, slam their finger in the car door, they would talk about the amazing amount of pain that shot right up their arm and how their finger was flat like a pancake.  For most that is enough.  The common friends of the common man express how they think it would feel with some sound or word.

The writer would mention the little things that the common man would pass over.  The sudden thought of “what the hell am I doing” in the last millisecond before the door slams your finger into the frame of the door.  The sound of the door slamming against flesh and bone.  The change of colors your finger goes through – fleshy pink then red then white then some version of purple and blue.  The shards of pain shooting through your hand, your forearm, your upper arm, right to the nerves in your brain.  The sound builds up inside you then bursts out like a screeching train whistle.  The common man will focus on one or two of the human senses while the writer throws in everything to create an emotional response.

Does it take all five senses?  Nope.  Norman McLean in A River Runs Through It does a damn fine job at getting an emotion out of the reader without a big explanation of all five senses.  In describing about these men that spend most of their lives in the woods, any man reading it cringes.  He writes that upon these men’s death they had been wearing their long underwear so long without changing it that their short and curlies grew right through the fabric and had to be peeled off.  Shiver.

 

It’s the emotional response that is the thing a good writer looks for.  “That one scene was so frightening, hilarious, made me shiver (whatever) that I just had to tell everyone about it.”  Oh, heaven to a writer’s ears.  The emotion is what the writer puts into the story.

As I said I wrote a scene that scares me.  Strange right?  Below is that scene.  I may not be Stephen King but I do my best.  If you know of a scene from any novel out there that gives you the reaction I am talking about I would love to know about it.

Red Island on Amazon:  http://amzn.to/KSs0f3

Red Island on Smashwords:  http://smashwords.com/books/view/167847

EXTRACT

I test the water coming out of the main faucet before turning on the shower.  The old hotel pipes whistle.  The hot water hits my body and instantly my muscles want to give in.  It wasn’t until getting to the hotel last night that I realised how tired I was.  I locked the door, checked my phone to see if Hillary called and for some reason I missed it, dropped to the bed, and instantly fell asleep with all the lights on.

            My hands rub White Rain shampoo into the stubble on my scalp until it foams before.  The stubble on my scalp is growing.  I scratch the foam in behind my ears like Mom always told me to do.  The spray pelts against my chest.  My hands move from my armpits to chest to groin spreading the soap around.  My fingertips caress the small scar in my abdomen left over from my run-in with the Playground Killer in BC.  My only other substantial scar is on my right thigh where I got kicked when I was with the musical ride.  I squeeze my muscles to try and alleviate the pains.  It has been a while since I put some serious time in the gym.  I still have good muscle tone, but I should probably see if the guys want to go a few rounds in a boxing ring somewhere just to get some work in.

            The hotel room door is locked, dead-bolted, and chained.  I thought about moving the dresser across the room to block the door, but I’m a cop.  I shouldn’t be terrified.  I shouldn’t be looking over my shoulder.  I shouldn’t have to check the back seat of my car before getting in.  I shouldn’t see a shadow figure with a knife when my eyes close.  The bathroom door is locked.  My Smith & Wesson 9mm sits on the back of the toilet under a folded towel just outside the shower curtain.  In the night I woke suddenly and my hand went instantly to my hip.  I fell back asleep, as restless as it was, with my pistol under the pillow.   

            I want this guy.  He knows how to play us.  He knows how to play me.  When I was a teen and my parents went out of town leaving me alone someone called and hung up when I answered.  It scared me.  How dare they.  How dare that reporter put it out there for everyone to hear and read.  I don’t want to think about what today is going to bring us all.  The island is going to panic.

            Soap seeps into my right eye.  Both close on instinct.  I swear I hear the door open.  I can feel him enter the bathroom. 

He’s here.

 I push my face into the waterfall and rub my eyes.  In my mind I can see his shadow outline through the white shower curtain.  I can see his head and shoulders shadowed through the curtain.

Oh god, he’s here. 

My throat constricts.   I can’t breathe.  He has a knife.  Drip.  I pull open the curtain with eyes wide, fist up high ready to fight.  Both retina burn from the soap.  There’s nobody in the bathroom with me.  The door is shut and locked.  I take a breath.  My knees tremble like there is Jell-O inside.  Water splashes out onto the white tile.  My ears perk and strain to try and hear if there are any noises out in the room.  It’s stupid, I know.  I can’t help it.

            To finish showering my head I lean back so that the water falls over the back of my head while my eyes can stay open.  Now this guy has me feeling like a total idiot.

In the Hot Unconscious

I don't like the books I read deviating  much from my expectations. Because, my previous experiences have taught me, they normally deviate to the disappointment side of things. Exceptions to this rule had been far and few between. In the Hot Unconscious is a book I am delighted to add to that exceptions list.

All I expected was this book to be another travel memoir. Another book written by a foreigner who visited India. With the customary dash of religious enchantment and mysticism thrown in. Along side the other cliched motifs of heat and dust and chaos, only with a bit more prominence. And I am happy to tell you that I was pleasantly surprised.

Yes, here we are travelling with Charles Foster, the author through the mainland of India. Author assures you, it WAS NOT his dream to travel to India. He preferred the jungles of central Africa and South America. Still, he cannot stop being spell bound by India. The best part? He retains his sense of cynicism even in this love struck state. :)

The narrative is crisp and engaging.The cynic in me was impressed by the unrelenting questioning spirit of the author. Some of the anecdotes are pretty boring. Sure. But most of them manage to hold your attention. And actually manage to transport you to the India of Charles Foster. The myriad characters he met throughout his journey becomes the leads of the play.

I am an agnostic myself and is hardly qualified to comment on the underlying religious discourse in the book, but I liked its presentation. Well, this statement is as good as telling someone who asked how the chef's fare tastes, that it looks good. Trust me, it does look good. The best thing I loved? The irony of sending 'doubting' Thomas to spread the faith of Christianity to India?. Maybe, contrary to popular belief, God does have a sense of humor.A sadhu aka holy man named Bob. The themes covered, ranging from yetis and existential dilemmas to Zen and Mahayana Buddhism, are wide in one sense, woefully restricted in another. And to top it, all the people author meets, well most of them anyways, are ready to dish out long and deeply profound philosophical conversations.


The most of the characters who meet are familiar but slants to the stereotypical sides, a tad bit too much. The village rich man trader who immediately launches a tirade about his illustrious grandfather. Ticked. Uptight Sahibs reading hard core English literature? Ticked. A foreigner packing his pack in the spur of the moment to spend rest of his life wandering through forests in search of nirvana? Even that sounds familiar. Perhaps what works for the book is its ability to somehow mix everything of this together and come out with a pretty new looking concoction. Because, and you have to trust me when I say this, the overall mixture is refreshing if anything.


Well, on the flip side, some of the anecdotes are borderline insensitive. But then, personally I did not find it much offensive, but as they say, it depends on a lot on how you take in stuff. 

Yes, I would recommend you people give this book a try. :)

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at  BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Praise of motherhood - guestpost!!!

Please enjoy this guest post by Phil Jourdan, author of the touching memoir, Praise of Motherhood. Then read on to learn how you can win huge prizes as part of this blog tour, including $500 in Amazon gift cards and 5 autographed copies of the book.

 

The Story behind this Real-Life Story

by Phil Jourdan

 

Back in late 2009, when I began working on Praise of Motherhood, I had envisioned a book very different from what I ended up submitting to my publisher. I'd just lost the woman who'd raised me, and when I wasn't sitting around numb and brooding, I was frantically trying to contain the universe of loss and suffering in a single Word document on my laptop.

I wanted to write a book that expressed the impossibility of letting go. We're often told, when someone close to us dies, that we have to move on, that things will get better. I couldn't accept this back then: I didn't think it was possible to let go of my mother, who had been so patient and kind during my weird teenage years.

The first two versions were entirely different from each other in form and tone, but they did have a certain delight in chaos in common. I was mourning the only way I knew how: by adopting a hundred different voices, each trying to say something about my mother that the others couldn't say. One chapter was pure dialogue; another was a series of letters; for a while I wrote in breathless page-long paragraphs because it was the only way I could feel "honest" about what I felt. I'd swing from rage to self-pity to sadness to bliss to sheer bafflement.

It was only when I decided to turn this book into something that others could actually read without going insane that I figured out how to structure a book like this. I cut a great number chapters because they were "honest" but unhelpful. I tried to make myself a sort of antagonist, so my mother's qualities as a human being could be emphasized. I left things relatively ambiguous instead of offering anything like words of wisdom to my readers. I tried to leave the book as open as the wound that stayed after my mother died.

This has irritated some people. They ask why I don't provide a real sense of what my mother was like on a day-to-day basis, or why I focused so much on how she affected my life instead of just writing about her, as a person in her own right. Fair questions — but I never set out to just "write about my mom". I wanted to write about the struggle of losing her, and what made losing her so painful. That's why I ask questions in the book that I never really answer: because I was never able to answer them myself. They are questions that will remain.

Praise of Motherhood isn't a book praising all mothers across all ages. It's not meant to praise the idea of "motherhood" itself as some glorious ideal. I wrote this book because I wanted to transmit something of my mother to those who didn't know her; those who, perhaps, need to hear that it's okay to say you love your mommy and you wish she could still be here when you feel like crying.

 

As part of this special promotional extravaganza sponsored by Novel Publicity, the price of the Praise of Motherhood eBook edition is just 99 cents this week. What’s more, by purchasing this fantastic book at an incredibly low price, you can enter to win many awesome prizes. The prizes include $500 in Amazon gift cards and 5 autographed copies of the book.

All the info you need to win one of these amazing prizes is RIGHT HERE. Remember, winning is as easy as clicking a button or leaving a blog comment--easy to enter; easy to win!

To win the prizes:

Purchase your copy of Praise of Motherhood for just 99 cents

Enter the Rafflecopter contest on Novel Publicity

Visit today’s featured social media event

About the book: Praise of Motherhood is a son's tribute to the woman who not only gave him life, but helped him live: through various psychotic breakdowns, tumultuous teenage years, and years of feeling out of place in the world. Get it on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

About the author: Phil Jourdan fronts the lit-rock band Paris and the Hiltons, runs the fiction press Perfect Edge Books, and occasionally works on a PhD. Visit Phil on his blog, music site, Twitter, Facebook, or GoodReads.

The Complete Prose of Woody Allen

Author: Woody Allen
Publisher :  Random House Value Publishing

Have you ever read a 450 page book that warrents a laugh every other line? Well, if you'd love that I will recommend you give The Complete Prose of Woody Allen a try. Because, mark my word, this ia sarcasm at its level best from the word go. It does not even waste its time on previews and reviews and whatnot. Straight to class A humor.

This is a collection of satirical essays written by Woody Allen over the course of time and contains works from three different collections, without feathers, getting even and side effects. The essays offer a sharp and critical humorous outlook on various aspects of the society. Even in the midst of a laugh riot you are aware of the social criticism subtly or not so subtly contained within the prose.  But then, if you don't want to deal with them, fine. You can just leave them alone and enjoy the sarcasm.

Just to let you know the wide array of topics covered, in the trade mark humor of the author, you have analysis of Laundry lists of a play writer to UFOs. From the moral corundum of an adulterer to graduation speech. One particular piece I loved was a series of letters written by a dentist, fashioned after the Van gogh's letters to theo .

It is hard to review this book for the simple fact that it is almost consistently good. In fact if some or the other essays were felt a bit wanting by me, it was more due to the illustrous standards set by their counterparts elsewhere in the book. I am almost sure, I would have enjoyed them had I read them alone. And that, marks the height of my opinion about this book. Well, that and the fact that I was sad that the book finished....

My rating...

An olympic guestpost!!!!!!!!!!

With Olympics in the air,here is a guest post from Shannon young about her experiences during the last Olympics to celebrate the opening of the London Games..... Enjoy!!!!!!!!!

Storytelling and the Olympics

By Shannon Young

Olympics stories are filling the media right now. I’m sure you know the type: inspiring tales of athletes overcoming obstacles, incredible accounts of the oldest and youngest competitors, anecdotes of the bonds forged between nations through the friendships of their teams. Storytelling has been linked to the Olympics ever since the ancient Greeks competed in poetry competitions alongside wrestling and discus.

In addition to the tales of athletic prowess, each Olympic city has a story. The cities have a hook, a mission, something that sets their Olympiad apart. The story of Athens 2004 was that it was the first time the Games had returned home to Greece since the first modern Olympics in 1896. It was a celebration of the history of the Games. The story of Beijing 2008 was that it was the “People’s Olympics”, China’s coming-out party after a generation of hardship.

The athletes and the cities have stories, but there is also an Olympic story inside each spectator. Whether we are watching on TV, listening on the radio, or sitting in the stands, we have a story too.

My own Olympic story started when I was a child, sitting cross-legged in front of the TV for hours. I dreamed of one day becoming an Olympian, gliding effortlessly into the water from a high platform, defeating an opponent in a nail-biting sparring match, sticking a perfect landing on a balance beam. When I was 14, I took up fencing, one of just eight sports that have been included in every modern Olympics since 1896. I was never good enough to be an Olympic contender, but it was my first tangible connection to the spirit of the Games.

My Olympic story became more exciting in 2004 when I flew to Athens to witness my first Olympics in person. Athens was full of stories and histories, and each moment was a celebration of what the Olympics have been since ancient times. From the moment the Olympic torch erupted into flame just a hundred yards away from me, I knew I had the bug.

In university, I received a fellowship to study anything I wanted anywhere in the world. It was just in time for Beijing. China had spent $40 billion on its Olympics, and I got to witness firsthand the most expensive, elaborate Games in history. The stories being written around me were of optimism, energy and the possibilities of the modern world.

The London chapter in my Olympic story is playing out differently. This time, I’m watching from the outside. Social media is allowing me to follow the thoughts of the athletes, explore the opinions of the Londoners preparing to host the Games, and listen to the Olympic stories being made from afar. Still, I know there’s nothing like being there in person.

I’ve written a travel memoir about the Beijing Olympics called The Olympics Beat. It’s a spectator’s account, a type of story that often gets lost in the excitement of the medals and mettle of the athletes. I can’t go to London, but I’m sharing a piece of what it’s like to be in the stands. My goal is that it will inspire someone else to start creating their own Olympic story.

Shannon Young is an American writer currently living in Hong Kong. She is a determined 20-something exploring a changing Asia with optimism and a stack of e-books. She writes a blog called A Kindle in Hong Kong, which features her walking tours, book reviews and bookspotting adventures. 

The Olympics Beat: A Spectator’s Memoir of Beijing
The drama, the variety, the spectacle - Shannon can't get enough of it. She is an American student who has always been fascinated by the Olympic Games; her father has a lifelong love affair with China. They team up for the Beijing games and the adventure of a lifetime. Without the filter of a small screen, Shannon and her father are hypnotized by the passion of a great nation unveiling itself to the world. This mini travel memoir is a picture of a new China and the experiences that would change one American girl's life forever.

The missing rose

Author: Serdar Ozkan
Publisher:  Timas

Have you ever read a book that was recommended by so many and ended up wondering why you did not like it? Because that was my precise feeling after I read The missing rose.  The good reads page of the book said it to be "Compulsory reading for all who are thrilled by The Alchemist, The Little Prince and Jonathan Livingston Seagull." Well, I loved the three of them. Absolutely. In fact, The little prince and Jonathan Livingston Seagull rank top in my all time favorites. But, for some reason or other, I found the missing rose to lack it's charm.

The story is simple. A girl is left a letter from her dead mother, explaining she has a twin sister who may be suicidal. The plot progresses through the search for this missing sister, the only clue being the name of a palace and a resort owner,who taught her to " speak to roses".

The book depends heavily on coincidences, but is neither able to explain them away, like an ordinary mystery work, nor give them a mystic charm or aura like Coelho's works. At times, the book does rises to its claims, but mostly the whole spiritual business discussed is below the mark. What I felt was that the book missed the crucial ability to transcend the metaphors used to the greater scheme of things.

There were points in the book where I truly enjoyed reading it. Like the anecdote about the sultan's roses. Or the self  search of the girl. And I did like the  twist given at the ending. It took me completly by surprise. But more often than not, I was left with too many questions.

So, I'd say, I did not like the book. But It is always upto to you to try it out. You may like it!!!!