the book is ‘work’ by bud smith and every moment of relief, every moment bud’s head comes up for air, feels like an invitation for catastrophe. jobs are lost, cars are crashed, bones and car radios break, fireworks are set off in newly finished kitchens, and in their midst is bud smith, writing books on his phone and living from job to job, interaction to interaction, victory to setback, soaking in every inexplicable chaotic detail with a big smile and hands in the air. “jesus, how much fucking blood is in the world and how much of it is in this book?” he writes. there’s a lot of blood in both, and bud seems to have a lust for it — not for the blood that pours out of us in meaningless accidents, but the blood racing through our bodies for all the years of our lives propelling us to make something of it. ‘work’ zigzags through bud’s life of sublime mishaps and revelations and draws a conclusion: that life is blink and you’ll miss it, it’s all or nothing, it’s turn the page and the teenager fucking around in the woods has morphed into a married man typing a story on a bluetooth keyboard in the back of an oil refinery because his blood is too precious not to. this isn’t just a collection of anecdotes. it’s a high functioning philosophical novel that’ll teach you to laugh when life hits you over the head with a club and spills your blood everywhere. you’ll learn to pick up all the blood and put it back where it belongs and make everything you do a little more magical while you wait for it to happen again.