In my head, I destroy things.
I see myself, the anger that flows through my veins, spurting out in an open wound.
I can no longer take it. I take the chair and throw it through the window.
Once it was a mirror, glass on glass crackling, creating designs so fragile I saw my soul within.
I see myself punching people.
I walk up to the ones who have wronged me, the ones I still have not found the energy to forgive.
They preach forgiveness, but how do you forgive the man who killed one of your best friends?
Is it even possible?
I can say I forgive you all I want.
But in the end, I still see myself, a parallel universe me, walking up to him and punching him in the face.
The blood spurts from his nose.
His head jerks back.
I smile, content.
And walk away.
In my head, I destroy things.
After two years, two years worth of frustration and emotion and a perpetual critic in my head, I stood up to the bully and began to write.
I’m working on a novel. Have written every day since the first of September. It’s shitty at times and I have no idea what’s happening, but I’m doing it. And it’s taking all my writing energy.
So the Blog is on Permanent Hiatus.
I’ve been avoiding this. I’m so far behind. I’m exhausted. I really haven’t been doing any writing, so it’s all been building up inside of me and I’ve been thrusting it back down, until it creates a new layer of dermis.
But tonight, with my plans to go to bed early shattered, and no one returning any texts– it’s what happens when your Saturday night is everyone elses’ Wednesday– I find myself in need of an outlet.
I could discuss Great Expectations as that’s next on my list, but as much as I enjoyed Pip, I do not think I could keep my mind on him tonight.
Truth is, I’m unsettled.
I started reading Game of Thrones and… I just… no. That’s my reaction about every fifty pages or so. The feminist in me objects. The humanitarian in me objects. The animal lover in me objects. Every little bit and a new part of me objects and I begin to feel… unsettled.
It’s why I’m still awake as the clock ticks even closer to midnight.
There’s a reason I moved on to the so-called Classics. Modern books tend to piss me off. They try to be edgy. They try to take risks. But no. They are poorly edited. They just make me go “That was a waste!” (I’m looking at you, Suzanne Collins!)
And then other books and authors *ahem, Wally Lamb* seem to think “Hey, what is the worst thing that could happen to my characters? I’ve done that already, so what next?” and make an 800 page tome (I almost wrote tomb… sometimes it feels like that…) turn into a long slog-fest of drama, drama, DRAMA! We get it. Your character’s life sucks. Can you cut out 200+ pages of whining and unnecessary “God is pissing on my life!” events, PLEASE?
And now I’m just rambling. You can see what I mean by unsettled though. Is this even coherent?
Sometimes when I’m bored, I go to Target and just wander around the store. As I am bored at least once a week, this happens pretty regularly. For the past few months, my boredom also leads to a giant mistake: I walk into the book section.
And this is how I ended up with a copy of Priscille Sibley’s The Promise of Stardust.
It also didn’t help that it was a signed first edition.
I had a hard time putting this book down. It has to do with a man whose (unknown to anyone but her) suffers a fall and has irreparable brain damage, the kind where the doctors tell you “There is no hope for any sort of recovery” and you have to make the God-awful decision of pulling the plug.
So what happens when you throw a pregnancy into the mix, especially when the woman in question, while really really wanting a child, also really really did not want to be kept alive by machines?
This story explores that conundrum, touching on legal aspects and all the people in a victim’s life that crawl out of the woodwork in order to demand a semblance of control, an idea that yes, they were there and mattered to this person.
It also deals with who has the final say in what happens, and how it affects families. It was a really good read, and sadly, one good read leads to more “Target book club may be on to something!” selections.
My boredom and my addiction has only managed to increase my to-read pile.
It took several years, but I finally got around to reading Slaughterhouse-Five. Whenever I would go to Half-Price books (and remember) I would look at the V section under Kurt Vonnegut. Never was there a copy of any of the books I wanted until one day… one crazy day where I went in with no thoughts of any books and walked out with an armload… I found not one, not two, but all THREE of the Vonnegut books I was looking to read.
And so it goes.
I spent half of Slaughterhouse-Five reminiscing about my day spent in Dresden in 2010. It’s been completely rebuilt– a gorgeous city once more. I tried to take what I had seen of modern day Dresden and use it when they talked of the bombing in the novel. I wasn’t able to, too much.
And so it goes.
Slaughterhouse-Five is an anti-war novel. It’s about a time traveling man and his life, especially concerning WWII. Some of the experiences, if I remember correctly, are based on Vonnegut’s own. (Wiki confirms). It’s an interesting read; a bit confusing at times, but it’s sci-fi fiction.
It’s how it goes.
What is it with modern day books depicting unmarried woman as leading sad lives that involve never leaving their childhood homes? And more importantly, what is it with me finding these books?
Kate Morton’s The Distant Hours revolved around both a modern young editor and three older sisters. It was about the sisters lives during WWII (with the editor’s mother) combined with the modern tale of the editor and her meeting the sisters. It wasn’t a bad read but… seriously? Why must it be SO depressing?
Moreover, is there an issue here with twentieth century women who do not marry? It’s a motif I have stumbled upon at least twice now, and I have to say, I’m not a fan.
So a woman has sisters who are close knit. So she does not marry. So life gets fucked up when they’re in their late teens/early twenties. That does NOT MEAN they have to forget their dreams and sit at home singing “woe is me” songs. Ruing their lot in life. It was their choice to stay there.
But why is this even coming up repeatedly? Is it a leftover mentality from the age of spinsterhood, that a woman without a husband is deduced to a depressed shell? This is definitely a topic that needs more thought and, more importantly, more evidence. Are there any other books about unmarried sisters not leaving home and leading depressing lives? Are there any about unmarried sisters who still remain close despite living content and independent lives?
I may be on a hunt now.
(I had a dream the other night that ended up with me yelling at people about never discussing the cultural significance of books, that they only looked at tearing things apart. Remnants of my college life still follow me…)
Speaking of college… I remember working on my senior paper, finishing it, and being disappointed by the grade. My adviser wished to speak to me about it, so I obliged. In said meeting, he told me how the English department found themselves in a funk of sorts. See, my paper was a long story, and while it was not full on fantasy, it did have fantastical elements (i.e. mysticism, journey to another realm, elves, magic, etc). Mine was not the only one to touch on that genre; others had written in the fantastical or science fiction worlds. According to my prof, none of the professors in the English department were really sure on how to grade sci-fi and fantasy stories; it was an unexplored genre to them.
The way he was talking, even then I thought to myself that it seemed like this entire department was under the illusion that sci-fi and fantasy were baby genres, that they did not have the high set caliber that other genres have ascertained. All I could think about was how sci fi and fantasy have been around longer than we think, and each has respected, classic books THAT ARE TAUGHT IN SCHOOLS. We all know Tolkien and his influence, but even before him, and before C.S. Lewis and Narnia, we had the wonderful Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, Jules Verne, and, for the purpose of this entry, the magnificent H.G. Wells.
I’ve known about The Time Machine for a long while, even seeing the version from 2002, without ever having read the book. That changed one night at work out of boredom. I wanted lights off, but I wasn’t ready to sleep. What should I find in itunes but a free version of The Time Machine? I devoured that novel up.
Even though it is most definitely a social commentary, it is also one of the first sci-fi books. At least, that has lasted to critical and cultural accord. Can you imgine where we would be without this novel? Countless novels and novelists influenced by this novella would not exist; sci-fi as we know it may not exist. (And I know a LOT of Syfy/Sci-fi fans…) Our entire society would be different if not for H. G. Wells and his tales.
I loved reading The Time Machine. I knew the general synopsis, but it was nice having the cracks filled in. After finishing it, I instantly found a copy of another of H.G. Wells infamous novellas: The War of the Worlds.
Even more than The Time Machine, The War of the Worlds has influenced our culture. Without this one, we wouldn’t have had the infamous tale of Orson Welles presenting it on the radio. We wouldn’t have the amount of adaptions. And can you imagine our take on aliens nowadays? Would we have all the creepy and cheesy movies of aliens vs humans? Would we have our cult movies and tv shows?
H.G. Wells thought outside of the box. Tonight, of all nights, when I’m lamenting how it can suck to be alienated (intended) by being outside the box, it helps to know H.G. Wells existed and his works and legacy live long after him. And to my profs, I cannot help but think: Are you really missing a bunch of really influential novels? Do you really not see the amount of achievement in those respective fields? There are bars in both sections; they’ve been set high. You have no reason not to know how to grade them.