I am, I suppose I should admit up front, probably the last living person to discover Leif Enger's startling novel Peace Like A River, but I do have good reasons why. Okay, perhaps not good reasons, but reasons. First, the praise for Peace Like a River has been so universally wonderful, I always assumed I'd dislike it. Call it a character flaw: if everyone loves it, I usually dislike it, if for no other reason than everyone loves it. Second, I have to admit in a bit of a whisper, I just don't like contemporary literary fiction all that much. An uncultured swine? Guilty as charged, I suppose, but I read to escape. Novels that celebrate the minutiae of detail, focus on generally aggravating and unlikable characters, and shout, "Hey, everybody, I have a thesaurus, and I like to use it!" on every page don't provide much of an escape for me. Gimme a tight plot and a character I can root for, and I'm with you for 100,000 words.

That said, Peace Like A River is, in my mind, one of those rare works that manages to be literary without stooping to navel-gazing, and manages to be plot-driven without stooping to formulaic crutches. In a word: wow. The pages of Peace Like A River are filled with miracles, and I certainly mean that in two senses. The book itself is filled with miracles, as seen through the 11-year-old eyes of Rueben; at the same time, the writing is miraculous. In the first chapter, Rueben tells us he didn't breathe for 12 full minutes after being born, until his father commanded him to do so. Then:

I believe I was preserved, through those twelve airless minutes, in order to be a witness, and as a witness, let me say that a miracle is no cute thing but more like the swing of a sword.

If he were here to begin the account, I believe Dad would say what he said to Swede and me on the worst night of all our lives:

We and the world, my children, will always be at war.

Retreat is impossible.

Arm yourselves.

How could I not keep reading after this? Every page of this novel is filled with passages most writers would aspire to craft in a lifetime of work; that Enger seems to do it so often, and so effortlessly, is ... well, I already said it: miraculous.

I won't bore you with a plot description, as that would spoil the fun. Just go find a copy of Peace Like A River and read it yourself.

Just in case I'm really not, as I fear, the last living person to discover this jewel.

Atlanta Nights/Publish America and the Song Poem Industry have had me thinking a lot about talent and its importance in our American culture. And mainly, what I've been thinking is: it isn't. And, lest you think I'm going to use that as a launchpad for a long rant, let me surprise you by saying I think that's a good thing.

Yes, talent is something we all admire, something we hold up as a grand standard. I recognize and admire talent--somewhat jealously, at that--when I read a short story by George Saunders, or listen to a song by the Pixies, or watch a film by Errol Morris. These people, and many more, have built their careers around talent.

But how to explain people such as American Idol also-ran William Hung or American Movie subject Mark Borchardt? They've achieved a measure of notoriety and success, and yet I'm quite sure neither of them has been called "brilliant" in their chosen fields. Indeed, some have called them the exact opposite.

And yet, that's what makes them special. They're so damned passionate about what they do that we as a society find ourselves in their corners. Desire and determination trump mere talent; we celebrate hope and possibility, and that includes artistic hope for people who rightfully shouldn't have any.

I find that admirable, on some level.

If you're an aspiring author, chances are, you've run across Publish America at some point--a company that promises a new way to publish and print your book. The only problem is, they will publish anything--and I mean anything, along the way ruining your budding writing career: to any legitimate publisher, the words "Publish America" are the equivalent of a scarlet letter on your arm.

In a successful attempt to unmask Publish America, several authors pooled their talents to write a truly awful book called Atlanta Nights, then sent it to Publish America under the pseudonym of "Travis Tea." Of course, Publish America agreed to publish it--until they found out they'd been tricked. (Read all about it on Teresa Nielsen Hayden's excellent "Making Light" blog.)

I won't write about it, because Ms. Nielsen Hayden's post explains it better than I ever could. However, I can't resist commenting on how the whole Atlanta Nights project--and indeed, the Publish America scenario in general--reminds me of the "Song Poem" industry so popular from the 50s to the 70s.

If you read comic books during that era, you probably recall seeing ads proclaiming "Song Writers Needed!" and "Your Poem Set to Music!" scattered throughout. The ads were designed to capture the interest of wretched souls who wrote wretched poetry that could be set to wretched music; in turn, the companies who produced the Song Poems (they called them "Song Poems" because they felt their audience was too dumb to understand the word "lyrics") wrote a letter, telling the authors they were sure it was going to be a hit song. For the low, low price of $400 (or whatever), they could get dozens of copies of the songs pressed, and the Song Poem company would promote the song to the music industry.

Of course, this always meant that the Song Poem company simply took the poet's $400 and shipped said poet a box of records that could only be given to friends and family.

Did any of this ever result in a hit record? Of course not. But the Song Poem industry did produce musical gems such as I Like Yellow Things, Do You Know the Difference Between Big Wood and Brush?, and a host of other songs so awful, they're kind of catchy.

In 1975, in an attempt to prove the Song Poem companies would take anything, John Trubee sent in a poem entitled Blind Man's Penis, with the immortal lyrics (excuse me, song poem words) of:

"The zebra spilled its plastinia on bemis
And the gelatin fingers oozed electric marbles
Ramona's titties died in hell
And the Nazis want to kill everyone.

Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind."

Guess what? The Song Poem company produced the song, which became the best-known of all Song Poems. (If you're interested, Bar None Records has released The American Song Poem Anthology, filled with more than a dozen horrid selections that will--I swear--make you laugh while sticking in your mind.)

Atlanta Nights, to my mind, is the Blind Man's Penis of the 21st century.