(My full review of this book is longer than GoodReads' word-count limitations. Find the entire essay at the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com].)

I don't think it's any secret by now that I'm not a big fan of short stories, and even less so of bound story collections released as full-length books. I mean, I don't dislike short stories per se, just that I don't particularly go out of my way to read them either, and in general find most to be there and then gone again before I've ever really gotten a chance to sink my teeth into them, a frustrating thing for someone like me who really likes to do a deep, analytical reading of all the projects I consume in my life. But I also acknowledge that this is merely my personal biases shining through, and that there are in fact lots of things to admire about the short-fiction format as well, and lots of reasons to like stories precisely because they aren't full-length novels. For example, it's undeniable that in Western culture at least, short stories are one of the only narrative formats where one is allowed to ditch the traditional three-act structure (the framework behind most Western fictional projects since the times of the ancient Greeks), one of the only places where artists are allowed to be truly experimental without automatically having their work tossed into the "artsy mess" ghetto that so many of the general populace refuses to enter. It's a thing I've been thinking more and more about this year, in fact, of where the balance should lay in a person's life between longer traditional stories and shorter experimental ones; that while it's true that a well-rounded person should have a little of both as part of their intellectual diet, it's also true that most of us by human nature are going to vastly prefer one format over the other.

Take as a good example the first story collection I've now read for review here at CCLaP, the engaging and sometimes deeply disturbing No one belongs here more than you., the first traditional book by non-traditional artist Miranda July; it is in fact a perfect example of what I'm talking about, with the stories on display being both greater as a whole than any traditional novel and so much less as a sum of its parts, an experience that feels like being on a moped on an urban street full of start-and-stop traffic. Although ultimately a worthwhile publication, full of stories that I think really stand out among the world of contemporary literature, the book is unfortunately a fitful read as well, with certain pieces that will yank your brain right out of the made-up world that July so carefully slipped you into during the previous story. That's frustrating to me, as someone who likes getting caught up in the fictional projects I take on; it's frustrating to lose oneself in one of July's deceptively intense stories on display, just to be yanked back into the real world with the subpar writing or plotting of the next.

So why take on this book in the first place? Well, because...