Cloud 8 by Grant Bailie

"But always the girl is pretty or beautiful, it seems I am saying, and sooner or later you must question my judgment. But to me it is true; they are always pretty and beautiful." - from Cloud 8 by Grant Bailie

Okay, so not every book I read is pretty or beautiful. Some are annoying and some kind of suck. Some are dull and some are boring. Some, eh, I just don't like. Of course when I only talk about the books I do like, I do wonder if I'm a credible witness to what I see in literature. But, hey, that's not going to stop me from glossing over the unmemorable to focus on the good stuff--wouldn't you rather find books you want to read than wade through the stuff you wouldn't?

Cloud 8, by Grant Bailie, is a pretty good book. It's not astounding. But it's pretty. It's funny in absurd, understated ways, and sad in a delicate sort of fashion. It's the memoir of a dead man, living an afterlife almost as senseless as the life he's left behind. And it's populated by office managers, bartenders, and taxi cab drivers who dress like Abraham Lincoln.

James Broadhurst dies in a car accident to find that the afterlife is a pretty hum-drum place. It's a city. It's full of Abe. The beer is free, and the television is reality at its most real--a one-way conduit to those you've left behind. It's not heaven, but it's not hell, either. It's just a place with senseless office jobs, no weekends, and cigarette butts stomped into the sidewalk. And James has lots of time to think: to think about the life he lost, the people he loved and knew, the marriage that wasn't great, and the software product he proofreads the manual for. (Omega-Beta software: it does everything, but nobody really knows what it is.)

The book is an enjoyable read, written in good old-fashioned clear and concise prose; James our Everyman, narrating us through life in the almost big-city in the sky. It's a bit surreal, but in a sort of "I need something to ease me out of the Steve Erickson canon" sort of way. (Or as just a sort of "I need a good book" sort of way.) Grant Bailie's got an eye for the fun, offbeat detail, the kind of things that elevate a story about the hum-drum above the status of a hum-drum narrative. At one point, I thought of the book as something like Steven Dixon meeting Douglas Adams. Sort of. In a good way.

If you act fast and order the book straight from the publisher, Ig Publishing, you can snap it up for a bargain. Plus, Grant Bailie lives in Cleveland, and if you buy his book and tell all your friends to buy his book, you'll give me hope that Cleveland writers can possibly do okay with the whole "writing" thing. And, the cover is really cool, and will look good in your collection. Ig Publishing is a small, indie press, so, you know: cred points. Who doesn't need a few more of those?