I just finished The Hunger Games…and it gave me indigestion.

This review will likely make me unpopular among many of my peers, but I couldn’t resist the urge to say a few things about this novel. Any time a creative work tops the charts for this long, I want to know what the fuss is about. Plus, I’d like to make literary analysis something of a routine around these parts, so stay tuned for equally forthright vantage points in the future.

After finishing the first work in this particular series, I have a lot to say.

First, I want to praise the author for penning a book that is written entirely in first-person. This is a daunting task and should not be ignored – Stephen King was correct in that respect. Her craft style wins her points; unfortunately, that’s about where I have to stop handing out accolades. Upon completing the work, I really didn’t think this one had been worth my time. There wasn’t enough to keep me going, aside from my desire to see it to completion so I could say that I read it.

It’s a nicely woven (though highly predictable) tale, placed in a setting that we can identify as similar to the history of our own nation. The inspiration for her work is founded in our own Great Depression, for starters. There are “districts” that function much like our early colonies, each with their specializations and flaws based on their location or trade. This is not a nation of people seeking new life in a new land, however; the common thread here is much more…personal.

Each section is full of hungry people. Each year these hungry people must send two of their children to fight in an arena to earn food for the people of that district. This is not a voluntary or particularly noble mission, but one of forced-submission by a ruling class that holds all the cards. “Reaping Day” is sort of their version of the Super Bowl, except sponsor dollars go toward medical supplies for wounded “tributes” instead of Doritos and David Beckham.

I couldn’t really get into the pacing of this work from the start. I found the narrative easy to follow, even engaging at times, but the action felt like I was already watching the highly-anticipated film. Kudos to Collins for her show and tell, but I mentioned on Twitter that I felt like I should have kept a log of memorable “shots” that would certainly be shown on screen. I decided not to waste time or money on the movie, however, so I guess I’ll never know how much I got right on that front.

Part of me wants to like this book, especially with the recent exposure and sustained popularity spotlight. There are many books that I read to understand their readership (see also: Twilight) and some I find to be quite interesting because of their style or craft expertise. However, in The Hunger Games, I find only a kids-that-would-be-kings competition that becomes a simple fight for love and honor as the book continues. There’s nothing wrong with these elements; actually I admire the basic motivations of the characters.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “What about novels like Ender’s Game? Did you dislike that book as well?”

No, not at all; Ender’s Game is one of the few titles that I re-read at least once per year. I find a fundamental difference between these two works; there were adults to do the dirty work in Orson Scott Card’s masterpiece, children were battle-trained only for their fresh ideas. The Hunger Games shows adults working only to preen or provide; children compete in the most popular event of the year, making them more akin to a prized cock fight than genius minds. (Or, I don’t know, children?)

I can’t completely endorse either scenario, but even Ender’s erroneous exploits are easier to stomach than this teenage gladiatorial bloodbath. When we have to watch children rip each other apart at the whim of a government and high society of adults that are too haughty to help starving people all around them…I have to turn my head. On top of that, I detect the arrival of flimsy Twilight-like romance triangles unfolding between Katniss/Bella, Peeta/Jacob, and Gale/Edward. No thanks.

As a Christian, I have to read any work of fiction with both eyes wide open, taking every thought into captivity. This doesn’t mean we can’t consume anything but the Bible, but it does mean that we have to temper our intake with at least an equal balance between the two. I look at books like this though the lens of Scripture and cringe; I just burned a bunch of my balanced-intake-quota on a sub-par title.

There are many books from my past that I never should have read. No, this isn’t one of the worst, nor do I completely regret the careful inspection. That said, every time I pick up a new written work, I have to look harder for messages written between the lines. I feel that there is an intrinsic connection between our acceptance of entertainment countering the Law of God, and drifting further away from a firm standard of what we choose to consume in media. I will have (much) more on this later. For now, I urge my fellow readers to walk/read/watch worthy of your calling (Ephesians 4). There are so many better titles out there than The Hunger Games if you want a good read. Drop me a line and I’ll gladly recommend them.

So I ask you: why is this series still topping the charts? Perhaps this book hits close to home here in America, which is why everyone likes it. Perhaps there is truth to the seemingly distant struggle for survival within the lower class. Perhaps we’d like to ignore our fat-fisted feasting on food and frivolous entertainment, but not in trade for something like The Hunger Games in our own society. We certainly wouldn’t admit that openly, but I fear that our mass-consumption of books like these may say more than we ever could in words.

I don’t smoke.

Actually, that’s putting it too mildly. Not only do I not smoke, but if I were around anyone who was smoking, I’d have a really hard time sticking around. I’m pretty allergic to the stuff.

Needless to say, my home does not smell like smoke. At least, it shouldn’t.

Every night, after the cares of the world have been abated once more by yours truly (note: author’s actions may or may not actually be helpful) I arrive at home and begin working on things. It doesn’t matter what kind of things that I work on, only that I must be present in my home for this part of our story. As my college writing teacher used to say: “Our hero begins by doing something.” This was one of my favorite classes in college, and not just because of the great writing advice I learned; it was a time when I could sit down and make sense of the world. Things just worked when I was in those classes, because we had to hammer out words even when we didn’t want to, when we didn’t know what to say. We had to write, because we were paying for the class. We had to write, because our teacher would ask us to.

I felt like I had to write because I had no other option. Everything works better when I’m writing.

I’ve started, but not finished, a lot of articles about writing. There have been times when I mused over quirky approaches, marveled at humble sayings, or just plan wanted to scream because someone was cranking out words faster than I was. These were all good reasons to start something, but not good reasons to finish anything. It wasn’t the same as being back in my college writing classes, when you had to crank out words. It was more like being stuck in a room with way too many people all yelling for your attention. My hands would – and still do – fly to my ears to try and block out the noise. This meant that they were not on the keyboard, however, so very little writing ever got done. Which also meant that crowd in my room got louder and louder every day.

I live alone. I don’t smoke. Just the same: I can’t hear, smell, or see anything in this part of the film. The negatives have been seared, snipped, spoiled.

Every night, when I get home, I put on my jacket. This may seem strange to you, but I have a very chilly apartment right now, so I need to wear it. Try not to be distracted by the odd costume change for our main character in this scene.

My apartment has been chilly as of late thanks to two factors:
1) My neighbors smoke.
2) It has been chilly at night.

The apartment building that I moved into this month has central heating and air. I have a nice little closet with a nice little unit, which promises to heat and cool my atmosphere for a small fee. I pay this small fee every month, but only if I use the nice little unit. So far this month, I have not used it much at all. Therefore, it has been chilly in my apartment.

Why haven’t I used this little unit? Because my neighbors smoke. I don’t smoke.

Every night, as I don my jacket, I pick up a slight scent of smoke in the sleeves. I can’t stand that smell, which usually means that I grab my trusty Febreze bottle and try to keep smiling even though I smell terrible. I generally have a brief spout of depression, ranging somewhere between Hamlet and Eeyore, which passes in moments. This happens almost every night, whenever I wear the jacket.

Because, you see, I don’t smoke. My jacket just smells that way. Really.

I recently told one of my friends that I have a near-irrational intolerance of smoke smells. Not the fun cook-out-on-the-grill-with-family kind of smoke smells, but the kind that is reserved for cigarette fumes passed through central air ventilation systems in recently populated apartment buildings. You can smoke if you like, but I don’t want to own a smoking jacket.

One of the completely irrational things that I think about, every night, as I don my smoking jacket, is what would happen if my family or friends were to be around when I wore those clothes. I work really hard to make sure that smell isn’t an issue when anyone else is around; the very idea that I have a smoking jacket really bothers me.

I don’t smoke.

Perhaps this seems odd to you, dear reader, who is neither forced to smell my smoking jacket nor deal with the emotions that crash down on me every time I wear it. That’s fine, really. But for the last week and change (since I moved in to the nice new apartment building) I have only dared use the nice shiny unit in my nice little closet two times – one of those times was the night I woke up to 56 degrees and very few blankets. Not good. Still smoke-ridden.

I’m working on the problem, but I still have to wear that smoking jacket every night, right after coming home from saving the world (note: author is definitely not telling the truth this time).

Every night, I think about that smell. I sit and work, stand and clean, pace and think, wondering the whole time if this bothers anyone as much as it bothers me. Then I stop moving my hands for a few moments, just long enough to hear the chaos of the crowd in my room, and get back to work. As long as my hands are moving, I don’t have to listen to them tell me how awful it smells, how disappointed everyone must be that I haven’t figured out how to fix this problem yet. That’s what our hero does: fix problems for people. Yet, every night, he goes home and puts on his smoking jacket, which is pretty much driving him crazy. He’s a patient guy, even if a bit irrational at times.

When I was in college, my writing teacher taught me about making the people in the room calm down so we could do some work. These voices could be the opinions of others, or perhaps fear of success or failure, but it’s more likely that those voices are just little wisps of smoke in my jacket. I sit there, pondering how to save the world tomorrow (note: this is getting out of hand) and all I hear, see, and smell are those tiny bits of someone else’s ashes that drifted into my apartment. These voices managed to work their way up the pipes, float right past my shiny little heating and cooling unit, then fix themselves firmly onto my smoking jacket.

It didn’t used to be a smoking jacket. I don’t smoke.

One of the best things I ever learned about writing was not to quiet the voices, but to learn how to truly hear what was being said. The idea that we have to ignore the sources of noise or confusion is completely unhelpful. Sometimes there is a room full of people because they all have things to say, because there are real issues that need to be addressed, because the main character in this flick hasn’t been listening. If all he does is cover his ears and try not to breathe, how long is that going to last?

I don’t smoke, but right now I do have a smoking jacket. With a little time and effort, I think that can be fixed. It’ll take a lot of cleaning; working to fight the infection at the source, instead of refusing to acknowledge the nice little closet this new apartment has. It’ll take some growing and learning to take my hands away from my ears (when I can really smell my smoke-ridden sleeves) and putting them back where they belong; in front of me, doing the work. I don’t guess that it’ll be easy – like admitting a room full of voices – but I’d really like to not wear this smoking jacket any longer.