“Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.”

I wrote this poem a couple of months ago. I don't really write poetry ever so don't judge me too harshly.




Brought to you by the number 5.

Fifth in line. The last
The mistake, mistaken
for those who came before.
Can I be judged on my actions alone?

One, two, three, four
They were the lesson,
I was the result.

You grow, learn, watch
One, two, three, four
Hate, love, like…
Ambivalence is a part of life.

I am my own person, though I am a product
The assembly line child
Number Five.
One, two, three, four
Made mistakes and I learned
Imitation is the highest form of stupidity.

I make my own mistakes
Can I be judged on those alone, or must I always pay for
One, two, three, four.

In youth we learn; in age we understand.

           

I read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for the first time a couple months ago. It is one of the books on my list of classics and since my parents already had a copy I figured, why not? It is also a whopping 103 pages so I figured I would read through it quickly, making it the perfect book to begin during the final weeks of my final semester in college. Yup, I read this book for the first time while I was in college, while my sister read this book for the first time when she was in Jr. High. Why is this relevant? I was reading her book, complete with all of her excessive highlighting, and notes. The notes were almost more entertaining than the actual novel. According to the back jacket of the book this was her “8^th grade first real reading assignment.” She was utterly confused by half of what she read and if the blue highlighting indicates the words she didn’t understand than she must have had to look up at least 5 words on every page. “These are very hard words!” is written in my sister’s handwriting; right alongside the words “I’m confused and unconfused all at the same time.” I felt as if my sister and I were reading the book at the same time and I so wanted to explain to her everything that was going on. I’m happy that I waited to read this book at my advanced age of 26 so that I could fully understand it. It was less than I expected and it was also more.

             Everything I knew about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I knew from popular culture and much of what I knew was wrong. Mary Reilly anyone??? A movie starring Julia Roberts as Dr. Jekyll’s timorous maid??? That character doesn’t exist in the original tale. The portrayal of a diminutive Dr. Jekyll and a hulking Mr. Hyde in the ridiculous A League of Extraordinary Gentlemen? Reverse that image and you would have a correct picture of the characters actual physiques.

Everyone knows that essentially the story is about one man and his transformation into another. More than that, the story is about man’s struggle with the two parts of his nature. Dr. Jekyll believes that “man is not truly one, but truly two.” He tires of the struggle between his two selves and longs to separate these two beings inside of him so that each can live free of the other. Mr. Hyde is at first small and weak because he had lost in the moral struggle for so long. Dr. Jekyll is himself strong and robust, considered to be a good man, in good health. As the story progresses Mr. Hyde gains strength and stature, Dr. Jekyll exercises and empowers his immoral side and weakens the side of his nature that is good. In the end he becomes permanently Mr. Hyde—purely evil, despicable Hyde. He had lost his original self; evil had finally triumphed over the good in the internal struggle.

Would I have understood this book so well if I had read it when I was 12? 13? Would I have enjoyed it? I think that I read this book at the perfect time. This last semester all I did in one class was talk about the nature of good and evil, write about the nature of good and evil, philosophize about the nature of good and evil. I was mentally prepared for this book. It represented more than it would have had I read it before. Now I just have to see the musical. Do you think the musical has a timorous maid as well??

So long and farewell

This is my last blog post for my Literature Editing and Publishing class. It’s a little bittersweet to realize that the semester is almost over and with it the end of my college career. As much as I dislike homework I know that I’ll miss all the class discussions, the fellow students and even most of the teachers. Whenever I walk on campus these days it hits me that I am finally nearing the end of what has been a very long and windy road. Oh college, I’ll miss you.

            I have no idea if I’ll keep up with this blog, or even if I’ll start a new one just to keep in the habit of writing. It’s been an experience that I have loved and loathed for the past couple of months. I have enjoyed being able to write about the things that I love but at the same time I feel that much of my writing is forced. This blog is a must-do, which in a lot of ways sours my enjoyment in the writing process. As much as I love to talk, I do realize that I don’t always have that much to say.

            I think I will continue to blog. I have enjoyed the experience more often than not. Why give up on a good thing? It’s most likely true that not that many people will read it, but I don’t need an audience. I can write for myself. I think that’s when I do some of my best writing anyway.

            

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

William Shakespeare has over 800 credits to his name on the Internet Movie Database web site. That is truly mind boggling to me. Apparently, he holds the record for having the most screen adaptations by a single author. Stephen King, who holds the record for most adaptations by a living author, has close to 150, not a very impressive number in comparison. Shakespeare lived, wrote, loved and died over 400 years ago and yet the stories he created still resonate with audiences today. Now that’s what I call talent. Who will remember my name even a century from now, beyond my great grandchildren if I happen to have any?

He is considered by many to be one of the, if not THE, greatest writers of all time. I enjoy both his work and the works he has unknowingly inspired. Not only do I enjoy his play, The Taming of the Shrew, I also like the musical inspired by it, Kiss Me, Kate and I love the movie 10 Things I Hate About You, which is a modern retelling of it. I have watched numerous versions of Shakespeare’s work on film and though his work is old, his words are still fresh. Nobody writes like Shakespeare. There is no playwright living today who writes lines that can be delivered with more passion than the dialogue written by Shakespeare. Do you think he knew, even then, what an impact he would have on the world? I would love to make such a lasting impression. To leave something behind that said I lived. An everlasting I was here. I better work on that. Life is too short to only think of what you want, eventually you have to go out and do it.

Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of everyday life into a golden haze.

I’ve decided that romance novels should be moved to a different section of the bookstore. I feel that they would be more appropriately placed right smack dab in the middle of fantasy, because let’s face it, romance authors are masters at putting fantasies on the page. Every woman, whether she is plain or pretty, fat or fat free, finds the love of a successful, desirable, wonderful and fantastic fantasy man in every book. Someone who is not only good-looking but comes equipped with a big bank account and an even bigger heart. Have all the fictional men I’ve read about ruined me for romance with a real man?? Most definitely. But you know what they say: The first step to recovery is to admit that you have a problem. My problem is that I want an ideal that no real man will ever live up to. I’m picky. Shallow even. Everyone says that I’ll find love when I least expect it. In romance novels this is most certainly true. They never expect it in the beginning and then bam! It smacks the unwitting lovebirds right in the kisser. Literally. Why can’t life be like a romance novel? A funny one, not one of the aforementioned Fabio-on-the-cover novels; I’m not a masochist. I want life to be like a light and frothy romance novel where the worst thing that happens to you is you get caught in a rainstorm outside an inn that only has one room available and (gasp!) the room only has one bed! Awkwardness ensues, ends in ruination, forced marriage and happily ever after. Not that I specifically want something like that to happen… but even good girls like a little ruination every now and again. Just kidding. Maybe. Romance novels are meant to be about an ideal, they provide an escape from life’s all too real disappointments, but its important to have those feelings of disappointment because it means you’re really living. When that story is done you have the opportunity to go and live a new one, which one can only hope, will be better than the last. A story rife ruination and sparse in disappointment.

Insert thought provoking status here

            The professor for my Classics and Cinema class always goes off on the strangest tangents. It is not uncommon for him to lead a discussion in class about some topic that has nothing to do with what is actually going on in class. In the third week of the semester we were watching a very cheesy made-for-TV miniseries, The Odyssey. There was some discussion about the movie and the original story that it was based on and then somehow (the processes of his mind makes no sense to me) he segued into a discussion about Facebook. He wanted to know our thoughts on how social networking sites will affect the intelligence of my generation and generations to come. Are we smarter because of it or is facebook contributing to the “dumbing down” of society? This has nothing to do with The Odyssey, but it is an interesting question and each time I log onto the site I think about it and I make more of an effort to pay attention to the way that I express myself. I write more now than I ever have before. It’s true that what I’m writing isn’t the next great American novel or all that significant, but I feel that if you get into the habit of lazy writing the only writing you will ever do will be lazy. I see it everyday; prolly in place of probably, def over definitely, all the LOL’s, LMAO’s, BFF’s and more take the place of actual words in our fast-paced society. We no longer have to spell words correctly because the computer’s spell check will do that for us. We don’t even spell the words out. There is no editor reading status updates or comments to correct every misplaced comma and deleting every excess word (much like this blog). At the same time though there are more people writing and reading and more people actively engaging in discussions that, some of the time, actually matter. Facebook can be used as a forum for debate. I have many friends who engage in debates every day regarding religion and politics. Everyday I do feel like I learn something new, or get introduced to something that I never knew existed. Sure, the new thing is often some web site that deals with drunken texts or the sadly unfashionable people who go to Walmart not realizing that anyone with a camera phone is liable to snap a picture of them and post it on the internet for people to chuckle at on their work breaks… that’s beside the point. It’s new! It’s different! And it fills me in on not only what I shouldn’t wear, but what I shouldn’t do while drinking…cough, cough…like texting. When will I learn?!

I believe that facebook and other sites like it can make people smarter, depending on how they use it. I feel smarter already and thanks to the hours spent typing all those LOL’s and LMAO’s I’ve increased my typing speed by 30% (rough guesstimate that makes my point). I write every day, and though what I write is never going to be turned into a novel, the words I put on the page entertain the people who read them. They might even inform them as well. It’s a nice thought.

I write and I write and I... you get the picture.

I am at this moment taking a break from writing an impossible paper. I know, I know, who writes when taking a break from writing? I can't even necessarily say that the difference lies in the category of business or pleasure because, though it may not seem like it, this blog is all business. But as far as work goes, it definitely provides more pleasure than most. Though this blog is supposed to remain within the realm of the literary (literary realm?) I have nothing truly literary to write about... though I did open with a sentence about writing. Minus the books I have read for school, those would be the books I've previously written about, I have not been able to read for pleasure in months! And there in lies my topic for literary discussion. I have rambled my way into an acceptable literary blog, how I long for summer so that I can lay out at the beach and read! I have 30 unread books just sitting on my shelf, calling me constantly, their spines straight and standing at attention hoping that one day I'll be able to actually give them attention. Oh books, how I miss you. One day soon we’ll be reunited. Specifically, in three weeks. I graduate then and will have tons of free time to get reacquainted with the books on my shelves. But until then, I have to focus on that other thing I have been neglecting for weeks—homework. So back I go to continue writing my paper…who am I kidding? I’m going to bed.

Memoirs are a well-known form of fiction.

I am currently reading the memoirs of a young hermaphrodite who lived in the mid-1800s for my Sex in Literature and Film class and it made me wonder… If I wrote a memoir would it ever be worth reading? The young man who wrote these memoirs committed suicide when he was 25 years old, a year younger than I am now. His memoirs are as short as his life, covering just a little over a hundred pages and yet his story is compelling. He was raised as a woman, in a boarding house ran by nuns. Herculine Barbin, tells of her young life surrounded by adoring nuns and loving schoolmates. She explains how her body was different from everyone else’s, how it was gangly and straight, while all the other girls were rounded and where they were smooth, Herculine was starting to grow hair. She seems to always have been attracted to women. In the book she describes multiple girls that she had a true passion for. During this time period apparently hermaphrodites were not forced into either sex at birth. The parents would of course raise them as one sex, Herculine was raised as a woman, but as the child reached adulthood they had to make the final choice of whether or not they would live the rest of their life as a man or a woman. Herculine chooses to live her life as a man and in the end cannot adjust to the change. So he commits suicide.

            My life is not so overly dramatic. Were I to write the story of my life what parts would I share? Could I write the story of my childhood, though it is only a vague impression of unhappiness and anger? Would I write the story of my teenage years? They were normal, not spectacular in any way worth sharing. Then again, Barbin’s childhood was not extraordinary either except for the fact that she was a man, and a woman, living as a woman amongst women, who she realized she passionately desired. That is what makes her story compelling, her passion. I need to find that emotion in my life and maybe something worthy enough to be written down will happen. I do not want to live a tragic life. I want my story to be a happy one—and a passionate one. A page-turner from beginning to end.

Why Men Love Bitches??

"From Doormat to Dreamgirl—A Woman’s Guide to Holding Her Own in a Relationship."

I have not read this book all the way through. To be honest I’ve only read a few of the bullet points but two of my friends are currently reading it and they swear that every word of it is truth.

Sherry Argov, a radio personality in Southern California at the time she wrote this book, asks the question, why do men like bitches? She doesn’t mean that men love women who are, well, bitches, but women who have confidence, who are independent thinkers, and who play by their own rules. Or, if you really think about it, women who play by her rules, all one hundred of her so-called “Attraction Principles.” I know that you are dying to read some examples, so here are a few:

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #5—If you start out dependent, it turns him off. But if it is something he can’t have, it becomes more of a challenge for him to get it.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #10—When a woman doesn’t give in easily and doesn’t appear docile or submissive, it becomes more stimulating to obtain her.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #18—Always give the appearance that he has plenty of space. It gets him to drop his guard.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #37—If you give him a feeling of power, he’ll want to protect you and he’ll want to give you the world.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #74—Men often automatically assume that a bitchier woman will be more assertive in bed, and that a nice girl will be more timid.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #76—He’ll never respect you as being able to hold your own unless you can stand on your own two feet financially.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #99—Truly powerful people don’t explain why they want respect. They simply don’t engage someone who doesn’t give it to them.

She discusses phone etiquette, what to do when planning a date, how to keep a man interested in bed. Basically, when a potential romantic interest calls or texts you don’t answer right away, give it a few hours, maybe a day. That way he’ll think you’re not that interested and he’ll work harder to attract you. If he asks you to go out that night, tell him you’re busy and that you’re available at some specific future date and time. Never accept a date that is made on short notice. This makes you seem too available.

It’s a game. All Argov is doing is giving you rules to win what she perceives to be the dating game.

My best friend read this book and thought it was genius. She is an avid consumer of self-help literature, but she reads these works and does not apply these rules to her life. The fact is, maybe it helps to know the rules but knowing doesn’t change who you are. You can be shown the light and still shy away from it. We all turn to the familiar. We follow comfortable patterns. Books like this are great at showing readers new possibilities. What they don’t do is guarantee that following these rules will bring about real change. Though the old ways of doing things haven’t worked, its easier to think that some day they will, that somewhere out there someone will like you for the way you are, and not for the game you play.

He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.

I have heard numerous people refer to romance novels as pornographic literature—those people have never read literature written by the Marquis de Sade. He was a depraved French Aristocrat who spent much of his life in prison, where he wrote most of his work, and the latter part of his life was spent in an insane asylum. He lived through the era of the French Revolution, spent time in the Bastille, and led a life as illicit as the works he wrote.

I just finished reading Philosophy in the Bedroom for a class on sex in literature and film and I have never been more disturbed. Vice and Virtue are turned on their heads in this story. God is replaced with Nature and Her whims are what rule men’s actions. There is no evil, only virtue is frowned upon and is seen as something that should be destroyed.

Women exist to please men and should do so indiscriminately. Fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, mothers, sisters, all should find pleasure with each other if the desire for such things lies within their breasts. Children should be corrupted. They are never too young to be introduced into a life of debauchery. Murder, infanticide, rape, sexual and physical abuse; these are all deemed acceptable practices.

The sex scenes are graphic, violent and disturbing. As you read his work you can’t help but feel that he truly had a disturbed mind. I can’t say that my life is better for having read de Sade, but I can say that my views on sexuality have slightly altered. I think in reading this book I’ve become even more prudish than before, while at the same time have never thought so much about sex. I am glad to have read the book, if only because by saying I have read it, that means its finished and I never have to read it again.

I like a little more actual romance in my “pornographic literature.” Along with a little more of a story, a little less philosophical discourse and a lot less Vice with more Virtue.

Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted.

I love to vent. When I get angry, I like nothing better than to talk someone else's ear off about how angry I am. I like relating how so and so has done me wrong. I like feeling justified in my anger. What I don't like is actually feeling angry. Anger is such a tiresome emotion that causes you to say and do hurtful things that you regret almost the instant you say or do them. I have a roommate who I constantly fight with, and I've found that the way for me to avoid regretful words is to write. I take all the hurtful, angry words that I want to shout in her face and I write them down in a very nasty note. A note filled with all the bitter emotions that come simmering to the surface and spewing forth like molten lava from fingers fighting the urge to curl into a fist. My writing is honest. It holds nothing back. My angry tears may stain the surface, while the dark lead marks show with what conviction I write my words. It's my passive aggressive form of confrontation. After I have finished writing my scathing retort to whatever altercation we just had I put the note some place she is sure is to find it and I walk away. Five minutes later of course I walk back and I tear it up, in a clearer frame of mind then I was at the time I was writing it. When I see my friend again, for she really is a very good friend, not just a roommate, I can talk to her about whatever issue we were having in a mature and respectful manner. The childish, mean-spirited Susan is torn up and thrown in the wastebasket and the adult Susan lives in harmony with her roommate for another day. Who knew that writing was the key to successful friendship? 

More people would learn from their mistakes if they weren't too busy denying them.

As I sat skimming through my copy of Poetry International 13/14 searching, I felt futilely, for a poem that would catch my interest and keep it, I found, much to my surprise, not just a poem, but pages of poetry that did just that. This most recent edition of Poetry International contains within its bindings works that even the most unenthusiastic reader of poetry can enjoy. There are poems that speak to all types of people, to all experiences great and small, from the bite of a mosquito to a couple making love. I enjoyed what I read, and could not have been more surprised because of it. I chose this poem to share with you because, of them all, this one fits in with a genre of fiction I readily admit I enjoy, romance.

It’s Cool

            By Lauren Wattel

We were driving each other mad again, so

We left the highway and found an empty space

            by the ruins of a house. I stroked your chest

and straddled your lap; you kissed me with a low

moan, your skin gold in the light; I cupped your face

between my palms like an artifact; you moved

            my hips; and when you pressed your lips to my breast

you gasped. There was a man outside the window.

“Its cool,” the man said, “just find another place

            to do it.” Then he tipped his hat, unimpressed

with the exhibition. Our mood now improved

dramatically, we waved to the man and drove

back to the highway feeling restored, well-loved,

glistening like two jewels in a secret trove.

            Poetry spans all genres. It can be dramatic or funny. It can tell a story of love or hate, be mysterious and suspenseful, or mythical and mystical. Poetry has romance and danger and adventure. Shakespeare is a poet, an obvious and commonly known fact you may say, but for some reason I chose to disconnect him from the form. I have often said that poetry was of no interest to me. I told people I hated poetry and I believed it, but how can you hate what you don’t really know? The answer is, you can’t. So poetry, I admit it, I owe you an apology… and here it is.

Poetry,

             I have wronged you. All these years I have neglected you, belittled you, and maligned you to all my friends. You were like that kid who was different from everybody else. The misunderstood one that I never tried to get to know, that I never spoke with to see if maybe, possibly, we had some common interest. I rejected you before I really knew you and for that I am truly sorry. I feel as though I’ve missed out on what could’ve been years of great friendship, for you see, I’ve learned the error of my ways. We do have a common interest. You do have something to say that I want to hear. I was wrong to judge you by form alone. Its what’s inside that counts and in your work I found something to connect too. I hope that you can forgive my reprehensible behavior, and if so, I look forward to a long and happy friendship with you.

Repentantly Yours,

Susan Todd

Constant repetition carries conviction.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry. His poetry brought to mind an elementary school game that I do not so fondly remember.

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry. His poetry brought to mind an elementary school game that I do not so fondly remember. The “I went on vacation and in my suitcase I put (insert one item here followed by whatever item the 20-odd students before said they put in their suitcase when they went on vacation) game.”

Today I attended a reading on campus at Scripps Cottage. I went with the expectation that what would be read would NOT be poetry. I was rewarded with an excerpt from a story about a simple, and unattractive girl/woman named Gertrude who happily is asked out on her first date in five years and who is also, sadly, let go from her job. It was short, it was entertaining, and it was lacking in rhyme and meter. My sense of relief was short-lived though as the next reader read nothing but poetry. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, eyes-glazing-over-due-to-sheer-boredom poetry. His poetry brought to mind an elementary school game that I do not so fondly remember. The “I went on vacation and in my suitcase I put (insert one item here followed by whatever item the 20-odd students before said they put in their suitcase when they went on vacation) game.” It was funny at first, but as the minutes went by, how many I couldn’t say as the cottage lacks a clock, it became slow torture, his voice droning on and on, the repeated sentences running together into one long line of blah blah blah….

Are you still with me? It’s maddening isn’t it? I should’ve warned you to skip to the end. Just be happy I kept it to one page. The reader went through multiple pages before the droning finally stopped.

The last person to read was a published fiction writer named Katherine Towler. She read an excerpt from the third book in her Snow Island trilogy. The series follows two generations of two families and explores how each family and the surrounding community is affected by war. In this particular novel the characters are coping with the repercussions of the Gulf War of the early 1990s. She read the first chapter and then skipped 150 pages and read an excerpt from a later chapter. Her writing was descriptive, but not overly so; her words brought the setting to life and her characters, with whom our time was short, were intriguing men and women whose stories seem worthy of further exploration.

I may not have a great appreciation for poetry, but I do have a fondness for fiction and I left this reading with the desire to finish the story that Towler began. I will have to make sure to add it my list, the ever-growing list of books that must be read. Maybe one day I’ll add in some works of poetry as well… I have always had the idea that one day I’d make it through all the works of Shakespeare… but before I do all of this I must admit, I’m also a little curious about Gertrude and how her first date in five years went.

Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.

I'm a fan of making lists. As I write them out, I take the time to really think of all the tasks that need to be accomplished, writing the items or chores out in the neatest print, so that as I cross off each finished task I can admire not only my own perfect handwriting, but also my own sense of responsibility in finishing what I had set out to...

You don't actually believe any of this do you? Did you know that gullible isn't actually in the dictionary?

I  AM a fan of lists, that much is true, but finishing one? That rarely happens. My grocery lists stay crumpled in my purse, forgotten in that black abyss, as I meander through food aisles, wondering what I meant to buy. My to-do list items remain uncrossed and my homework assignments stay scrawled somewhere within the pages of a notebook I don't think to open until the day of class, consequently also the day that assignment was supposed to be done. I make lists with the best of intentions, and someday I plan on finishing one, or three... a certain specific three.

A few years ago I printed out three lists, each having to do with a specific literary genre. The lists include the one hundred greatest classic, fantasy and science-fiction novels ever written, according to the web site they came from. I have always loved to read but I readily admit that my taste in literature tends to lean towards fluff. I have read fun, flirty, and simple feel-good novels that have entertained or inspired me, but never challenged my mind in any constructive way... except, of course, the aforementioned accrual of polysyllabic vocabulary.

This last summer I finally started crossing works off the classics list and I feel a sense of accomplishment every time my pen slashes across that page. The Picture of Dorian Gray, Little Women, and  Wuthering Heights, these are just some of the titles on the list, all stories I've been familiar with but had never before explored on my own. I am now truly addicted to these great works of literature and fluff has lost its easy and pleasant charm. It make take me years to read every book shown on these lists, but its an endeavor worthy of my time and dedication.

So Goodbye random Duke of This and Duchess of that, I've enjoyed my time with you, but I feel its time we take a break... and hello Edmond Dantes, I look forward to planning your revenge with you... I'm great at making lists.

More matter with less art.

I am currently in a Comics and Graphic Narrative class at my university and it has opened my eyes to something I never took seriously before, comic books. I used to read Archie comics when I was in elementary school. I would pick them up and start to read them as we waited in line in the grocery store and my mother would buy them for me, a three-dollar entertainment. The comic strip was a staple read as well. My parents would read the newspaper and I would pull out the funnies, less interested in the news of the day then I was in what new sarcastic comment Garfield had to give John, or what mishap Hagar the Horrible was involved in.

Batman, Superman, Ironman, Spiderman, the entire spectrum of the X-Men- I knew these characters, but I never read their stories. My brothers read the comics and together we watched the cartoons. The tales of love and hate and hope and redemption fascinated me, but I was never interested in reading the comics these characters were spawned from. I admit that there are some art forms I reject simply because my brothers were interested in them. Comics or graphic novels fall into that category.

I recently read Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight for my class and we watched Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of it and I sat there and thought- why have I not done this before?? Every time I watch a movie based on a book I always think, this is a good movie but I bet the book is better. I’ve never thought that about movies based on comics. I always watched the movie and thought about the cartoon. Until now I have never thought about going back to the true source of the characters, the comic books. I’ve now realized the error of my thinking. There are so many stories out there that I have missed out on, characters whose depths I haven’t even come close to discerning. I have a lot of catching up to do. 

Love is a Many-Splendored Thing...

Since February is almost over and Valentine’s Day has already passed I think it’s appropriate that I admit something. Not something necessarily shameful or worth hiding, but something that most people would not, in general, own up to. Are you ready for it?? Really ready for it??

I read romance novels. There, I said it. You know what? I enjoy reading romance novels. I’ve read hundreds. I own three bookshelves worth of the genre and will most likely accrue more as the years go by. I have romance novels to thank for my polysyllabic vocabulary. Why use the word walk when you can perambulate? Why, when describing a character, would you say he was inclined to fight when you can just call him pugnacious? I love that word. I’ve been waiting to use it in a sentence.

Most people have this impression that romance novels are all about bodice ripping, pirates pillaging (both towns and women), maiden damsels in distress. There are, of course, many, many books out there that can be described in the above manner. Those books that have Fabio on the front cover with windswept flaxen hair, his burly chest bared to the harsh elements with a brazen, half-dressed beauty grasping his muscular thigh as she gazes upwards at him with a look of wanton desperation… Can you tell that I’ve read this particular book?? I swear it was my sister’s.

What was my point?? I know I had one somewhere…

Many people have the impression that romance novels lack any redeeming qualities; that between the covers all you’ll find are characters connecting beneath the sheets. Many romance novels offer so much more than just two people engaged in the dirty tango. They have great characters, witty dialogue, and well-researched historical settings. I’ve learned more about regency era England from these trash novels than I have from any teacher in a classroom.

Romantic comedies are more socially palatable. TV shows that revolve around romantic relationships are award winning, and more mainstream, but is the story being told better than what can be read? “Grey’s Anatomy,” for example, is a glorified Harlequin romance- all sex and no substance, in which the plot is just a way of getting the characters from one bed to another.  The major difference between a book and a show, or a movie, is that when you’re reading you don’t have to deal with bad acting, a point in favor of the written word in my opinion.

The great thing about novels in general is that they don’t have to be rewarding or offer any significant life lesson. They can be pure entertainment, an escape from the grind of daily life. Romance novels assure readers a happy ending, a good time, and a glimpse of what life can be like if, every once in a while, you leap before you look.

In the end it comes down to this- you can’t judge a book by its cover… unless Fabio makes an appearance, then of course the reader is just asking for some trouble.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

I have always loved books. Some of my fondest memories as a child are of my mother reading to me in the car as we waited for school to start or her reading to me before I went to bed. If she wasn't reading to me, I had books on tape, a Teddy Ruxpin, or multiple siblings to badger into letting me sit on their lap while they read out loud whatever book I happened to put into their hands. 

When I learned to read on my own I would stay up all night reading books illuminated by a tiny book light trying not to bother my sister. I'm convinced this in some way contributed to the less than perfect eyesight that I have today... that and the close proximity I maintained to any television set I was watching.

Now that I'm an adult my love affair with books has only increased. I acquire books the way other girls acquire shoes or purses. I can't resist a good story, or a good deal. I'm an indiscriminate book lover. All I need is a good story- a well-written, interesting and entertaining story.

This is my own little corner of the internet, my own little space where I can express my thoughts about the things that matter to me. Hopefully, if you're choosing to read this blog these things matter to you as well.

So hello fellow bookworms! and goodbye... until next time.