The Digested Read: EAT, PRAY, LOVE by Elizabeth Gilbert

Yep, it’s that time of the week again. Herewith be the latest in an increasingly improbable line of Digested Reads, aka the Book du Jour in 300 words. This week: EAT, PRAY, LOVE by Elizabeth Gilbert. To wit:

No one understood, y’see. I was married, I had a nice home, I was a successful New York-based writer. Ladies - how could I not be unhappy?
  I believe it all began with a conversation with ninth generation medicine man in Bali. “I’m very much afraid, Elizabeth,” he said, “that even primitive tribes know that the sun shines out of the East in the morning, as opposed to the fundament of any one puddle-shallow New Yorker who should spend some of her new book advance on a ladder and just get over herself.”
  Men, eh? But such ancient wisdom. How could I not divorce my beloved husband (oh, the sacrifice!) I’d been screwing around on and blow a book advance on a trip around the world in 80 prays?
  I could:

(a) make an Alp-sized dent in the EU food mountain in Italy;
(b) unfavourably compare my new muffin-belly with the skinny beggars and cripples of caste-ridden India;
(c) maybe score myself a Brazilian in Bali.

  A Brazilian man, ladies, not a wax (oh, the humanity!).
  So off I go to Rome to find myself, but lo! there’s no mirrors in Rome, so I have to be content with my reflection in the eyes of luscious Italian language tutor, Giovanni.
  “I don’t know how to be here,” I wailed whilst stuffing myself with deep-fried Marza Barz.
  “Erm, that-a doesn’t make-a sense-a in any language-a,” he flirted outrageously.
  Men, eh?
  They’re only after one thing.
  Pity I don’t have it.
  Still, upwards and onwards to an ashram in India for some spirituality that’s not even slightly a quick-fix superficial status symbol. I mean, I scrubbed actual floors (oh, The Oneness of All Things!).
  Okay. One floor. But a big-ish one.
  And so to Bali. Sun, sea and (lawks!) Brazilian factory owners.
  Okay. One Brazilian factory owner. But a big-ish one (fnarr).
  Men, eh?
  Where would a smart, educated, independent, successful, spiritually enlightened woman be without one?
  The End.

  The Digested Read, In One Line: What’s Eating Gilbert’s Grape?

  This feature first appeared in the Evening Herald

The Digested Read: THE JOURNEY by Tony Blair

Yep, it’s that time of the week again. Herewith be the latest in an increasingly improbable line of Digested Reads, aka the Book du Jour in 300 words. This week: THE JOURNEY by Tony Blair (hey, is it just me, or does Tone look a lot like John McEnroe these days? No?). Anyhoo, roll it there, Collette …

THE JOURNEY

“Wotcher, mates!
  “Tone here, Tony Blair. I haven’t gone away, y’know! Just like my bestest buddies Gerry ‘n’ Martin. Lovely guys. I like them more than I should, really. But hey, everyone makes a few mistakes. Am I right? You know I am!
  “So I met Cherie at Oxford. Like an animal in bed, I was. A ring-tailed lemur, to be precise.
  “Ah, Oxford. I even played a little pick-up guitar. Rock ‘n’ Roll! Hey, did you know Bill Clinton played sax? I’m just saying.
  “So, yeah, New Labour. Jeez, it’s not like I set out to destroy the party. And anyone can make a mistake, am I right? You know I am!
  “Gosh, though, when I think back now. The Queen, eh? Lovely woman. I liked her more than I should have, really. But that’s us closet Conservatives for you. Hey, anyone can make a mistake, right?
  “Anyway, that whole New Labour wheeze … Look, what I actually said was, ‘Let’s run a Con past the electorate.’ Was it my fault Gordon thought I meant ‘con’? Mandy knew what I meant. Eh, Mand? Down, girl, sorry, boy!
  “But listen, while we’re on the subject of Gordon … He was a politician, okay? Of all people, he should have known what a politician’s promise is worth. Caveat emptor, chaps. Am I right? Rock ‘n’ roll!
  “So, yeah, Iraq. Look, between you and me, there’s what you know and what you believe you know and what you know you believe you know you believe. And you weren’t there at that meeting. Me, George and God. I can’t reveal the deets, obviously, but let me put it this way - Saddam don’t play no pick-up guitar. Iraq ‘n’ Roll!
  “Northern Ireland? Don’t mention it. No, seriously - don’t mention Northern Ireland. Cherie gets a migraine. Big Ian’s accent, apparently.
  “Gosh, peeps, it’s been a journey. Not entirely unlike that band, Journey. All together now: Don’t stop / be-lee-vin’ / Hold on to the fee-e-lin’ / Streetlights peeps …
  “Rock ‘n’ Roll!”

  The Digested Read, In One Line: The Blair Snitch Project.

  This article first appeared in the Evening Herald.

The Digested Read: 61 HOURS by Lee Child

I had a bit of fun messing about a couple of weeks ago with some drafts for a project called ‘The Digested Read’ - basically, you take a novel and condense it into 300 words. Given that I had a lot of fun reading Lee Child’s 61 HOURS, I thought I’d take a crack at it first. To wit:

The Digested Read: 61 HOURS by Lee Child

Hi, me again. Jack Reacher. Can’t say much more than that, we only have 61 hours.
  Just don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Or happy. Or sad.
  Don’t you find that emotions just confuse stuff?
  Anyway, there’s this snowstorm, and a snowed-in town, and a killer on the way. Well, two killers if you count me. But I’m a good killer. Hey, I’m ex-military. Killers don’t come much better than that.
  Where was I? Oh yeah - 55 hours to go. Jeez, the cops in this town are hicks. I don’t think they’ve even killed anyone before. Amateurs.
  God, it’s cold. And just look at all that snow. Can you imagine High Noon set in Fargo? No? Good. 47 hours to go.
  Did I mention the frail old lady who’s testifying about a hand-off she saw that could bring down an international drug-smuggling ring involving Mexicans and Hell’s Angels and Russians? She’s a librarian, but whoa - feisty! 39 hours to go.
  This Mexican drug lord - ay, caramba! He’s one tough guacamole. But enough about him, how about that snow? Hold up - is one of the hick cops a stooge for the bad guys? Say it ain’t so, Joe. 28 hours to go.
  Snow, snow, go away / Come back another day. 14 hours to go.
  Lemme see, that’s three corpses so far. Two bad guys, one good. Isn’t it time for me to start shooting yet? Note to self: get a gun from the frail old lady. 8 hours to go.
  Hmmmm. Dead cops all over. More snow. The librarian’s a book, she’s just been checked out. Time to get angry? 1 hour to go.
  Badges, Mexican drug lord? I don’t need no stinking badges! Bang. Bang-bang.
  The End. 0 hours to go.

  The Digested Read, Digested: Jack’s back. Bang-bang. The End.