i finally got around to writing the first post in what i intend to be a series of letters to authors/ icons that i love. and i even threw in a photo i took at the bottom (i probably should have snagged something pretty from wehearit, but somehow, i felt this post should be all me.)
(p.s. imissyouguys&willtrytonavigatemywaypastthemoldofthisblogandseeifican'tlivenitupa little.)
phew, what a mouthful!
anywho.
***
dear sylvia:
i want to tell you so many things.
yesterday, i realized i would be done reading your journals tomorrow or this week or the next. finishing is like coming to the end of a long, beautiful journey. i’ve traversed across the pages of your words and your thoughts and your frustrations and your life for a few months now.
i’m not sure though, if i’m ready to end this journey.
you see, i’ve done something with your journals that i’ve never do with books.
i’ve savored.
i read slowly, each word forming gradually in my mind. i thought about each word you penned; the way you put these words together; and i realized what you were doing. you were making sure your writings didn’t just hold a surface beauty; similes or metaphors that punctuated the page but quickly were forgotten. instead, your words were held up, strengthened, fortified-- by your sense of rhythm and the music of your language.
and that is why i took my time—am taking my time—reading your journals.
i bought your journals in a humid summer day in a bookshop thousands of miles away from my home, plucked it from shelves of slim chapbooks and fat poetry collections. i’d already treasured the bell jar; lines like:
“If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell”
&
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am,”
have seemed particularly lovely; have meant something to me.
i thought the bell jar was a good book, but not mind-blowing.
i’d read your poetry, and loved it, loved it to bits. everything about it: your confessional style, your evocative imagery, your uncanny ability to make me physically feel your words.
i didn’t know what to expect from your journals.
i was underestimating you, ms. plath.
right now i am thinking of my strange habit of wanting to read you in the skies. on airplanes. your words have a other-worldly, incandescent feel to them, so i guess it makes sense.
but then i realize i read you under the soft shallows of the evening light as well. the pages yellow under my fingertips and the outlines of your words underneath.
“I am beating all my wings," is one of my favorite lines.
but before i go too long without really saying anything, i wanted to thank you. i turn one page and i read a line of yours and i feel something, i feel like i’m reading greatness. i mean it. your words make me feel like there’s something undeniably beautiful in the world that i should be looking for. your sudden-surges of brilliance—these particular, melodic lines—the ones that spring out every once in a while, that take me by surprise again and again—thank you for them.
i recently read ariel. i still feel mesmerized, somewhat disoriented, from the power of your words, in such a compact form. i feel like i’ve read something life-changing.
right, now, i have four words singing in my bones. they were all that i could think of when i stared out into the river.
sincerely,
choco.
11.15.2010
11.02.2010
the madness that is NaNoWriMo
So, this is my first year trying out a little thing called NaNoWriMo. (read: the craziest month of your life up to date.) Basically. this entails beginning and finishing a 50,000 word novel within the space of November 1-30. Yeah, pure craziness.
It's only the second day and already my life has become a slave to NaNo. I don't normally think of myself of a competitive person, but right now, I can't bear the thought of losing this thing. Of hanging my head down and saying on Nov 30, "Yeah, I only got 30,000 words in." And seeing the word counts of my NaNo buddies (yeesh, one of the insane ones already hit 10k!) is making me step up my writing game, too.
Can I even begin to explain the change brought upon me by NaNo? Who needs Physics lectures when you can think about racing home and churning out 1k of your latest chapter? Who needs to eat when you can subsist on your words forming on the screen in front of you? Who needs anything in November but the insanity of NaNo? (uhh, okay, I definitely need Thanksgiving. But everything else? Socializing? Free Time? Sooooo overrated.)
Unfortunately, the thing I've noticed about myself as a writer is that if I'm writing one type of thing, I have little to no urge to write any other type of thing. It kind of goes like this:
1) do a lot of blogging, but not a lot of creative writing
2) do a lot of creative writing, but not a lot of blogging
a. Write a lot of poetry, but no prose
b. Write a lot of short stories, but no novel.
c. Write nothing but a novel.
Right now I'm right smack-dab at 2c. I think I'm going to pull out the big guns for blogging though; I have an idea for a series of posts that I'm excited about, so we'll see how that goes.
For the moment, though, I'm practically sweating out words. Pulling a plot out of thin air. Punching in words every chance I get.
It's a bit like being caught up in a tornado. A word tornado.
So, any of you participating in NaNo? Or can you, as a past participant, sympathize?
AND HEY, it's only Nov 2nd so you can still JOIN USSSS and not be too far behind!
It's only the second day and already my life has become a slave to NaNo. I don't normally think of myself of a competitive person, but right now, I can't bear the thought of losing this thing. Of hanging my head down and saying on Nov 30, "Yeah, I only got 30,000 words in." And seeing the word counts of my NaNo buddies (yeesh, one of the insane ones already hit 10k!) is making me step up my writing game, too.
Can I even begin to explain the change brought upon me by NaNo? Who needs Physics lectures when you can think about racing home and churning out 1k of your latest chapter? Who needs to eat when you can subsist on your words forming on the screen in front of you? Who needs anything in November but the insanity of NaNo? (uhh, okay, I definitely need Thanksgiving. But everything else? Socializing? Free Time? Sooooo overrated.)
Unfortunately, the thing I've noticed about myself as a writer is that if I'm writing one type of thing, I have little to no urge to write any other type of thing. It kind of goes like this:
1) do a lot of blogging, but not a lot of creative writing
2) do a lot of creative writing, but not a lot of blogging
a. Write a lot of poetry, but no prose
b. Write a lot of short stories, but no novel.
c. Write nothing but a novel.
Right now I'm right smack-dab at 2c. I think I'm going to pull out the big guns for blogging though; I have an idea for a series of posts that I'm excited about, so we'll see how that goes.
For the moment, though, I'm practically sweating out words. Pulling a plot out of thin air. Punching in words every chance I get.
It's a bit like being caught up in a tornado. A word tornado.
So, any of you participating in NaNo? Or can you, as a past participant, sympathize?
AND HEY, it's only Nov 2nd so you can still JOIN USSSS and not be too far behind!
10.20.2010
the process of writing your personal statement
1. Not writing
2. Not writing
3. Not writing
4. Watching TV.
5. Not writing
6. Eating cheese
7. BLARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! You beat your chest in the manner of Tarzan. Grumble, grumble.
8. Break from staring at the intensity of a blank computer screen, in which you trace the route of dust particles floating in the air, and soul-search. You ponder: am I a coffee or tea kind of being?
You ask yourself: why am I incapable of writing an essay about myself?
You are stumped when faced with: What challenges have you faced? (First thing that pops into your mind: THERE'S NO CHOCOLATE IN THE HOUSE, EVER. Second thing: THIS DARN ESSAY.)
8. More not writing
9. You wonder if "eating a Harry Potter book" (well, not a whole one, and hey, you were eight and thus pardoned as a BOOK-MURDERER) is an essay-worthy topic.
10. Not-writing, again.
11. An idea slips into your mind. You feel it on the edges of your nebulous subconcious. You make a grab for this brilliant, life-saving IDEA born from INSPIRATION. IDEA leads you on, smelling of fresh cookies and strangely, pine. IDEA then escapes your desperate clutches, laughing as it runs away (with the last piece of cheese in its hand) and leaps into the more-nebulous mind of THE DOG. THE DOG looks inspired (you can tell from the angle its tongue hangs out), and immediately begins gnawing its tail off. You unfortunately, aren't. (The inspired part, not the tail part.)
12. You ask your parents: who am I? WHAT IS MY PURPOSE IN LIFE? Do you know what lies deep in my soul?
You only receive blank stares.
At least THE DOG trots over to the book shelf. (this is who you are, perhaps.)
13. For the second time that day, you ponder the meaning of your life. You have no answer for this.
14. You at last, begin to type. It is rubbish. This story and statement of YOURSELF begins with dead, alcoholic people who you've never met in your life. You begin chewing off your nails.
15. You fall asleep on the keyboard, full of confusion, with nothing accomplished. A normal day, in essay-writing land.
2. Not writing
3. Not writing
4. Watching TV.
5. Not writing
6. Eating cheese
7. BLARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! You beat your chest in the manner of Tarzan. Grumble, grumble.
8. Break from staring at the intensity of a blank computer screen, in which you trace the route of dust particles floating in the air, and soul-search. You ponder: am I a coffee or tea kind of being?
You ask yourself: why am I incapable of writing an essay about myself?
You are stumped when faced with: What challenges have you faced? (First thing that pops into your mind: THERE'S NO CHOCOLATE IN THE HOUSE, EVER. Second thing: THIS DARN ESSAY.)
8. More not writing
9. You wonder if "eating a Harry Potter book" (well, not a whole one, and hey, you were eight and thus pardoned as a BOOK-MURDERER) is an essay-worthy topic.
10. Not-writing, again.
11. An idea slips into your mind. You feel it on the edges of your nebulous subconcious. You make a grab for this brilliant, life-saving IDEA born from INSPIRATION. IDEA leads you on, smelling of fresh cookies and strangely, pine. IDEA then escapes your desperate clutches, laughing as it runs away (with the last piece of cheese in its hand) and leaps into the more-nebulous mind of THE DOG. THE DOG looks inspired (you can tell from the angle its tongue hangs out), and immediately begins gnawing its tail off. You unfortunately, aren't. (The inspired part, not the tail part.)
12. You ask your parents: who am I? WHAT IS MY PURPOSE IN LIFE? Do you know what lies deep in my soul?
You only receive blank stares.
At least THE DOG trots over to the book shelf. (this is who you are, perhaps.)
13. For the second time that day, you ponder the meaning of your life. You have no answer for this.
14. You at last, begin to type. It is rubbish. This story and statement of YOURSELF begins with dead, alcoholic people who you've never met in your life. You begin chewing off your nails.
15. You fall asleep on the keyboard, full of confusion, with nothing accomplished. A normal day, in essay-writing land.
10.18.2010
me, blogging
So I've been thinking. Not nearly as much as I expected I would since my last post; I'm not coming into this post with my mind made up, a clear plan, a resolution. For all intents and purposes, I'm free-writing, going with the flow, here. The no-doubt rambly concoction that comes next is my mind making itself up for me, live.
I'll be honest. I didn't feel a heart twang, didn't shed a tear, didn't feel different this last week or so when I didn't update this blog and didn't even think about posting. It felt normal; my routine as a non-blogger, normal person who doesn't spend ungodly hours on the internet interacting with other bloggers or posting. I felt the same as always going to school, eating lunch, coming home, curling into fetal position at the thought of college applications, petting my dog, watching the latest episode of Dexter, and staring at the tangled mess of the short story I'm working on.
I didn't feel a huge hole in my life. More to the point; I didn't detect a hole in my life; a place where I'd ripped out the blogger part of me and set it aside. I wasn't hurt or anyway--as far as I could tell--negatively affected by my non-blogging state.
This made me think that this could mean two things:
1) Not-blogging is my natural state. I don't currently miss it, I won't miss it later on, and I definitely won't miss that heavy feeling in my chest from all the books I have stacked up in my room, waiting to be read and reviewed, slurping up my time, when I much rather be staring at the stars and wondering who the literary equivalent of Monet is (the too-pretty extravagance of his style puts it at Nabokov, I'm thinking); and then pondering the contents of my day.
2) Blogging is something I should be doing. I've learned so much. I've grown so much because of my blog; I've met so many cool people; I've learned to express my thoughts in some semi-coherent, tangible way that makes for a hopefully enjoyable read. What would I have lost this past year in learning and enlightenment if I had never started in which a girl reads and stuck with it? What will I be losing in the future if I throw away a blog that I've put so much time into, this little niche of mine in the internet world?
And I'm thinking right now: I'm not ready to give that up just yet. The good things that come from blogging.
The only thing is--since I'm spilling my brain matter, here (really, it's unedited thoughts--> computer screen) --is that, what I would like to blog about--random shout-outs to the world, one sentence blog posts, things I've stumbled upon and found beauty in--these things, I can do. Sort of.
There's one, huge thing I wish I could do with blogging: work up the courage to talk about myself. Look, I've been reading The Journals of Sylvia Plath in bite-sized snippets for a while now; and its beautiful. I know she never meant for anyone to read it, but I can't help admire the confessional writer; those courageous people out there that can spill their deepest thoughts without inhibition to strangers out in the world. I admire those of you who can keep diaries, who'll have the reward of coming back years later and witnessing how your mind worked at a particular moment in the past. I wish I could grasp this courage, find it somewhere.
But at the moment, I feel daunted. The vast number of you who follow me makes me think twice about posting something personal; and what's more I'm not a inherently exciting person: I haven't climbed to the top of Mt. Everest, saved anyone's life, or am even mildly efficient; I'm just me, a teenager wanting-to-know-more, wanting to find beauty and connections everywhere. And I'd rather crawl into a hole than post my writing here; (this is why I take such comfort in my teeny six-followers--strong writer's blog, nestled away in a safe, dusty corner of the interwebs).
But I think I'd like to try and not hold back so much, to share & muse & ramble more on this blog. It's what I've been doing in this post, and what's more, I'm enjoying writing this.
So I guess this means that I'm not ready to stop blogging, just yet.
I've been trying to figure out what stalled in which a girl reads, though.
Sure, it's been a loss of interest. But from the very first, I constricted myself, laid out ground rules: 1) I'd rarely, if ever, post about my writing 2) Nothing too personal 3) I'd book-review, and post daily.
I think that was a bad foundation to build a blog on.
So this is me, experimenting. Seeing what will come of a blog without restrictions or expectations. I want to try again. And if it doesn't work out, I'll just find someone much more awesome than me (shouldn't be too hard, tehe) to take over in which a girl reads.
Thank you to all of you who responded to my earlier blogging-crisis post. And thanks for reading my brain-vomit for the day.
<3 choco.
I'll be honest. I didn't feel a heart twang, didn't shed a tear, didn't feel different this last week or so when I didn't update this blog and didn't even think about posting. It felt normal; my routine as a non-blogger, normal person who doesn't spend ungodly hours on the internet interacting with other bloggers or posting. I felt the same as always going to school, eating lunch, coming home, curling into fetal position at the thought of college applications, petting my dog, watching the latest episode of Dexter, and staring at the tangled mess of the short story I'm working on.
I didn't feel a huge hole in my life. More to the point; I didn't detect a hole in my life; a place where I'd ripped out the blogger part of me and set it aside. I wasn't hurt or anyway--as far as I could tell--negatively affected by my non-blogging state.
This made me think that this could mean two things:
1) Not-blogging is my natural state. I don't currently miss it, I won't miss it later on, and I definitely won't miss that heavy feeling in my chest from all the books I have stacked up in my room, waiting to be read and reviewed, slurping up my time, when I much rather be staring at the stars and wondering who the literary equivalent of Monet is (the too-pretty extravagance of his style puts it at Nabokov, I'm thinking); and then pondering the contents of my day.
2) Blogging is something I should be doing. I've learned so much. I've grown so much because of my blog; I've met so many cool people; I've learned to express my thoughts in some semi-coherent, tangible way that makes for a hopefully enjoyable read. What would I have lost this past year in learning and enlightenment if I had never started in which a girl reads and stuck with it? What will I be losing in the future if I throw away a blog that I've put so much time into, this little niche of mine in the internet world?
And I'm thinking right now: I'm not ready to give that up just yet. The good things that come from blogging.
The only thing is--since I'm spilling my brain matter, here (really, it's unedited thoughts--> computer screen) --is that, what I would like to blog about--random shout-outs to the world, one sentence blog posts, things I've stumbled upon and found beauty in--these things, I can do. Sort of.
There's one, huge thing I wish I could do with blogging: work up the courage to talk about myself. Look, I've been reading The Journals of Sylvia Plath in bite-sized snippets for a while now; and its beautiful. I know she never meant for anyone to read it, but I can't help admire the confessional writer; those courageous people out there that can spill their deepest thoughts without inhibition to strangers out in the world. I admire those of you who can keep diaries, who'll have the reward of coming back years later and witnessing how your mind worked at a particular moment in the past. I wish I could grasp this courage, find it somewhere.
But at the moment, I feel daunted. The vast number of you who follow me makes me think twice about posting something personal; and what's more I'm not a inherently exciting person: I haven't climbed to the top of Mt. Everest, saved anyone's life, or am even mildly efficient; I'm just me, a teenager wanting-to-know-more, wanting to find beauty and connections everywhere. And I'd rather crawl into a hole than post my writing here; (this is why I take such comfort in my teeny six-followers--strong writer's blog, nestled away in a safe, dusty corner of the interwebs).
But I think I'd like to try and not hold back so much, to share & muse & ramble more on this blog. It's what I've been doing in this post, and what's more, I'm enjoying writing this.
So I guess this means that I'm not ready to stop blogging, just yet.
I've been trying to figure out what stalled in which a girl reads, though.
Sure, it's been a loss of interest. But from the very first, I constricted myself, laid out ground rules: 1) I'd rarely, if ever, post about my writing 2) Nothing too personal 3) I'd book-review, and post daily.
I think that was a bad foundation to build a blog on.
So this is me, experimenting. Seeing what will come of a blog without restrictions or expectations. I want to try again. And if it doesn't work out, I'll just find someone much more awesome than me (shouldn't be too hard, tehe) to take over in which a girl reads.
Thank you to all of you who responded to my earlier blogging-crisis post. And thanks for reading my brain-vomit for the day.
<3 choco.
10.09.2010
the question of how to continue blogging
So, I sort of mentioned this in my latest post: I'm not sure if/how I'll continue to blog.
These last few months or so--after promising myself that I'd kick this blog into shipshape after a few hiatuses due to testing and vacation--haven't been going how I'd planned, blog-wise.
I've gone from checking my dashboard everyday, reading and commenting on hundreds of blogs, posting nearly every day--to not checking my dashboard often, not commenting, and rarely posting.
The question is--why?
Sure, I'm busy sometimes and I can't possibly blog when I get home at 10:00 P.M. from two extracurricular activities in a row and night classes and still have homework to finish. But that's not everyday--there are days when I could, if I really wanted to, squeeze blogging into my schedule (instead of writing or talking to my family). Those were sacrifices I was willing to make before--but not as much now.
The reason?
I've changed. (Not to be dramatic or anything). But I have. A year ago all I wanted to do was spend my life in Barnes and Noble reading one middle grade book after another. Today? All I want to do is pore over a few of my favorite books and deconstruct their sentences and figure out how the words fit together, and then try and write my own stories.
I mean, I've always had these interests, but they're starting to manifest more in what I read and why I read and how often I read. I'm not reading much, if any YA anymore--I've turned to obsessing over a few of (the same) literary books and trying to figure out how they work; flipping over the same few books and reading a few passages at random; reading poetry--in the time allotment usually reserved for reading YA.
This doesn't exactly make for prime posting material.
My life is becoming less and less full of reading YA books, and more and more full of studying novels, writing things, and watching TV and movies (as my passion for film grows). Right now, I'd rather post pretty photos or a poem or talk about the art museum I visited and what I ate for lunch and what I found laughter in today, than a book review everyday. Right now, I'd rather study prose than read things for plot.
Basically, my interests have shifted, and it's had the affect of me not having a desire to post what I used to post or make time to blog about something I'm not reading or currently as interested in.
That's not to say that next month I won't suddenly find myself itching to review YA books everyday. Who knows what will happen? That's why I'm hesitant to right away"put the blog up for sale" (i.e. set about trying to find a person who I feel confident handing the blog over to); or to say, "Hey, this is now an anime blog GET OUT YOU YA people!" (for the record, this is not my plan for the blog, haha.)
Anyhow, I'm sort of doing some major blog-reflecting right now. For the moment, I'll hold of posting (though I feel terribly, terribly guilty about the review copies and ARCs I've been sent and haven't reviewed yet; I will either review them eventually or send them to another blogger!). I'll be thinking and deciding what I really want to do with this blog, or if maybe blogging isn't right for me at this particular point in my life.
And I'll get back to you guys on this. I promise.
Have any of you gone through a similar thing with blogging? What did you do?
These last few months or so--after promising myself that I'd kick this blog into shipshape after a few hiatuses due to testing and vacation--haven't been going how I'd planned, blog-wise.
I've gone from checking my dashboard everyday, reading and commenting on hundreds of blogs, posting nearly every day--to not checking my dashboard often, not commenting, and rarely posting.
The question is--why?
Sure, I'm busy sometimes and I can't possibly blog when I get home at 10:00 P.M. from two extracurricular activities in a row and night classes and still have homework to finish. But that's not everyday--there are days when I could, if I really wanted to, squeeze blogging into my schedule (instead of writing or talking to my family). Those were sacrifices I was willing to make before--but not as much now.
The reason?
I've changed. (Not to be dramatic or anything). But I have. A year ago all I wanted to do was spend my life in Barnes and Noble reading one middle grade book after another. Today? All I want to do is pore over a few of my favorite books and deconstruct their sentences and figure out how the words fit together, and then try and write my own stories.
I mean, I've always had these interests, but they're starting to manifest more in what I read and why I read and how often I read. I'm not reading much, if any YA anymore--I've turned to obsessing over a few of (the same) literary books and trying to figure out how they work; flipping over the same few books and reading a few passages at random; reading poetry--in the time allotment usually reserved for reading YA.
This doesn't exactly make for prime posting material.
My life is becoming less and less full of reading YA books, and more and more full of studying novels, writing things, and watching TV and movies (as my passion for film grows). Right now, I'd rather post pretty photos or a poem or talk about the art museum I visited and what I ate for lunch and what I found laughter in today, than a book review everyday. Right now, I'd rather study prose than read things for plot.
Basically, my interests have shifted, and it's had the affect of me not having a desire to post what I used to post or make time to blog about something I'm not reading or currently as interested in.
That's not to say that next month I won't suddenly find myself itching to review YA books everyday. Who knows what will happen? That's why I'm hesitant to right away"put the blog up for sale" (i.e. set about trying to find a person who I feel confident handing the blog over to); or to say, "Hey, this is now an anime blog GET OUT YOU YA people!" (for the record, this is not my plan for the blog, haha.)
Anyhow, I'm sort of doing some major blog-reflecting right now. For the moment, I'll hold of posting (though I feel terribly, terribly guilty about the review copies and ARCs I've been sent and haven't reviewed yet; I will either review them eventually or send them to another blogger!). I'll be thinking and deciding what I really want to do with this blog, or if maybe blogging isn't right for me at this particular point in my life.
And I'll get back to you guys on this. I promise.
Have any of you gone through a similar thing with blogging? What did you do?
10.04.2010
some very rambly bookish musings
After a round of watching TV, and as I was eating some stir-fry today, I thought about something rather interesting*. First, about how each reader takes away something different from a book. And secondly, how an author doesn't describe everything. This is very different than in, for example, the TV show that I was watching**-- where the setting and characters are already there, in detail, and character motivations fall by the wayside in favor of watching character's actions unfold on the screen. Watching a movie, the audience has most things already manufactured by the creator; but an author, in writing, has to leave a certain leeway, at least in the description area.
In books, readers create their own experience. Reading one book: say, Harry Potter*** is a unique experience, just because each reader fills in the gaps left by the author in a different way. For instance, I have a habit of imagining rooms where the action is taking place--perhaps stone-walled and with a fireplace, if we're sticking with the HP scenario--but the underlying material I use to shape this imaginary world is rooted in reality: the room I've imagined that HP lives in has the exact same layout as my parent's bedroom, except the decoration is of course different.****; the meadow I imagine Bella to have stopped in is oddly similar in shape--but not details--to a meadow I remember from my childhood; and Chrestomanci's castle looks a bit like a castle I'd seen in a movie.
This combination in my reading imagination-- of both something extremely foreign but at the same time familiar-- is absolutely fascinating to me. And thinking of all the imagining I've done for past books, I realize a lot of the formatting is recycled. I have the same template for numerous rooms--the same layout, just different interiors--that I use a lot for books I've read. Quite a few characters live in the same house as I do, quite a few played sports in a similar gym to my high school gym, etc. A lot of it is based unconsciously on my experiences: the same field, the same car, the same driveway, the same teapot--they all materialize, with different details, depending on the book--but they appear repeatedly through everything I read, as a sort of continuing pattern or mold.
Of course, there's some settings that I've envisioned that are entirely new, and that I have no idea where they came from. It's actually quite fascinating to re-envision them without the confines of a book's specifications. Are these places from your imagination as a reader, not the author's? Do you own these imaginings? Especially if the author had just described "a house overlooking a lake"--and your response had been to imagine a clear lake at the foot of the mountains with weeds growing at the sides and a house with Spanish architecture.
If you own these imaginings, not the author, does this mean the process of reading is just tapping into your own personal repository of imaginings? What then, makes someone drawn to books?
For me, I've noticed many of my favorite books are mostly the ones--especially in fantasy--where I had the fullest imagining of the setting. Where the details I'd conjured up, in addition to those provided by the author--contributed to the most real and solid world. I suspect the reason it felt so real and solid was the fact that many of the details from my real and solid world had been transposed into this literary version.
It puzzles me that so many millions of people can be deeply in love with a book, despite the fact that their experience and details they impose upon the book must vary widely. I'm sure different readers envision things differently; perhaps entirely different than I do. I'm always imagining the setting with as much detail as I can manage--not the character's physique though. Characters in a book are sort of shadowy to me: I can't get a firm grasp of what their faces look like. But I don't really care--their personality is more important to me.
However, for some readers, maybe this is what they focus on: the physical appearance of the characters, while the setting just sort of melts away. Or perhaps they don't envision much details at all.
I think the only time you get a true glimpse of someone else's vision of a book is when you watch the movie adaptation: the director certainly had a different impression than you did, although many of the major features remain intact. I think it'd be absolutely fascinating to have, say, 100 people who have read the same book, draw a particular setting in the book--perhaps a room, or a building. And then see how it matches up.
When it comes to the gaps an author leaves, do we envision such entirely different things that it's shocking that we love a book for the same reason? Is it all rather similar? Does the fact that I, at least, use some of the details of my real world to flesh out the imaginary--contribute to the connection I feel with books? Is that the beautiful dichotomy of reading---that we are at once able to immerse ourselves in the imaginary, and the unknown, while comfortably imposing our own world into an impossible one?
Okay those are my closing thoughts, I promise. Sorry for the very indulgent mega humongous-ramble. I had these thoughts during dinner and I decided I had to write them down. (And P.S.: sorry for being such a fail of a blogger, disappearing all the time. I'm currently working out how I'll continue blogging. )
*at least to me, hahaha. This is a very self-indulgent post.
*** DOCTOR WHO HECKYEAH.
*** first time around I wrote it "Happy Potter." hehehehe.
****Oh god, that'd be so cool to have a HP themed bedroom!
In books, readers create their own experience. Reading one book: say, Harry Potter*** is a unique experience, just because each reader fills in the gaps left by the author in a different way. For instance, I have a habit of imagining rooms where the action is taking place--perhaps stone-walled and with a fireplace, if we're sticking with the HP scenario--but the underlying material I use to shape this imaginary world is rooted in reality: the room I've imagined that HP lives in has the exact same layout as my parent's bedroom, except the decoration is of course different.****; the meadow I imagine Bella to have stopped in is oddly similar in shape--but not details--to a meadow I remember from my childhood; and Chrestomanci's castle looks a bit like a castle I'd seen in a movie.
This combination in my reading imagination-- of both something extremely foreign but at the same time familiar-- is absolutely fascinating to me. And thinking of all the imagining I've done for past books, I realize a lot of the formatting is recycled. I have the same template for numerous rooms--the same layout, just different interiors--that I use a lot for books I've read. Quite a few characters live in the same house as I do, quite a few played sports in a similar gym to my high school gym, etc. A lot of it is based unconsciously on my experiences: the same field, the same car, the same driveway, the same teapot--they all materialize, with different details, depending on the book--but they appear repeatedly through everything I read, as a sort of continuing pattern or mold.
Of course, there's some settings that I've envisioned that are entirely new, and that I have no idea where they came from. It's actually quite fascinating to re-envision them without the confines of a book's specifications. Are these places from your imagination as a reader, not the author's? Do you own these imaginings? Especially if the author had just described "a house overlooking a lake"--and your response had been to imagine a clear lake at the foot of the mountains with weeds growing at the sides and a house with Spanish architecture.
If you own these imaginings, not the author, does this mean the process of reading is just tapping into your own personal repository of imaginings? What then, makes someone drawn to books?
For me, I've noticed many of my favorite books are mostly the ones--especially in fantasy--where I had the fullest imagining of the setting. Where the details I'd conjured up, in addition to those provided by the author--contributed to the most real and solid world. I suspect the reason it felt so real and solid was the fact that many of the details from my real and solid world had been transposed into this literary version.
It puzzles me that so many millions of people can be deeply in love with a book, despite the fact that their experience and details they impose upon the book must vary widely. I'm sure different readers envision things differently; perhaps entirely different than I do. I'm always imagining the setting with as much detail as I can manage--not the character's physique though. Characters in a book are sort of shadowy to me: I can't get a firm grasp of what their faces look like. But I don't really care--their personality is more important to me.
However, for some readers, maybe this is what they focus on: the physical appearance of the characters, while the setting just sort of melts away. Or perhaps they don't envision much details at all.
I think the only time you get a true glimpse of someone else's vision of a book is when you watch the movie adaptation: the director certainly had a different impression than you did, although many of the major features remain intact. I think it'd be absolutely fascinating to have, say, 100 people who have read the same book, draw a particular setting in the book--perhaps a room, or a building. And then see how it matches up.
When it comes to the gaps an author leaves, do we envision such entirely different things that it's shocking that we love a book for the same reason? Is it all rather similar? Does the fact that I, at least, use some of the details of my real world to flesh out the imaginary--contribute to the connection I feel with books? Is that the beautiful dichotomy of reading---that we are at once able to immerse ourselves in the imaginary, and the unknown, while comfortably imposing our own world into an impossible one?
Okay those are my closing thoughts, I promise. Sorry for the very indulgent mega humongous-ramble. I had these thoughts during dinner and I decided I had to write them down. (And P.S.: sorry for being such a fail of a blogger, disappearing all the time. I'm currently working out how I'll continue blogging. )
*at least to me, hahaha. This is a very self-indulgent post.
*** DOCTOR WHO HECKYEAH.
*** first time around I wrote it "Happy Potter." hehehehe.
****Oh god, that'd be so cool to have a HP themed bedroom!
9.29.2010
a late waiting on wednesday
This week's pick: Fall for Anything by Courtney Summers
***
When Eddie Reeves’s father commits suicide her life is consumed by the nagging question of why? Why when he was a legendary photographer and a brilliant teacher? Why when he had a daughter who loved him more than anyone else in the world? When she meets Culler Evans, a former student of her father’s and a photographer himself, an instant and dangerous attraction begins. He seems to know more about her father than she does and could possibly hold the key to the mystery surrounding his death. But Eddie’s vulnerability has weakened her and Culler Evans is getting too close. Her need for the truth keeps her hanging on… but some questions should be left unanswered.
***
First: the cover is lovely
Second: OMG!!!!11111oneoneone IT'S THE NEW COURTNEY SUMMERS BOOK, HECKYEAHHH.
Third: Courtney Summers <33333333
Fourth: Ooh, photography.
Fifth: I SMELL A MURDERER IN CULLER EVANS. (okays, maybe I'm jumping to conclusions here. okay, I'm definitely jumping to conclusions. He's probably just the sweet love interest, sigh.)
Sixth: Who's as excited as meeeeeee?
To bad we have to wait until December 21, 2010
***
When Eddie Reeves’s father commits suicide her life is consumed by the nagging question of why? Why when he was a legendary photographer and a brilliant teacher? Why when he had a daughter who loved him more than anyone else in the world? When she meets Culler Evans, a former student of her father’s and a photographer himself, an instant and dangerous attraction begins. He seems to know more about her father than she does and could possibly hold the key to the mystery surrounding his death. But Eddie’s vulnerability has weakened her and Culler Evans is getting too close. Her need for the truth keeps her hanging on… but some questions should be left unanswered.
***
First: the cover is lovely
Second: OMG!!!!11111oneoneone IT'S THE NEW COURTNEY SUMMERS BOOK, HECKYEAHHH.
Third: Courtney Summers <33333333
Fourth: Ooh, photography.
Fifth: I SMELL A MURDERER IN CULLER EVANS. (okays, maybe I'm jumping to conclusions here. okay, I'm definitely jumping to conclusions. He's probably just the sweet love interest, sigh.)
Sixth: Who's as excited as meeeeeee?
To bad we have to wait until December 21, 2010
9.26.2010
on reading the edible woman
I don't know if I mentioned it before or if it's readily apparent from all the CT posts, but I'm a huge Margaret Atwood fangirl. I started off with reading some of her novels a few years ago, but she's also the first author that incited in me a love of poetry.
She's definitely up high on the list for "authors I love and who have changed my reading perspective." Maybe even #1.
I picked up The Edible Woman at a bookstore this summer. I began reading it--casting aside the other bazillion books I'd splurged on--right away. I remember the way I sat on my bed and sank into this beautiful book.
The Edible Woman--as Atwood's debut, written in the 70s--had a different flavor than the other Atwood books I'd read, like The Handmaid's Tale or The Blind Assassin. There was something inherently different about this book . Something about Atwood's earlier writing style--still assured, yes. Still recognizably Atwood. But somehow less processed.
The Edible Woman tells the story of Marian, a 60's girl with a college diploma who works at job should care less for. She values her independence. Her voice is crisp; her pragmatical nature indisputable. She becomes engaged to Peter: her indisputably practical boyfriend. Things dissolve from there.
There was something of the surreal in this book. Marian gets engaged; things change. Some sort of roadblock forms in her mind as her life as a housewife, married to Peter, solidifies. She can't eat meat anymore. She can't eat much anymore. At one point, she hides under a bed. Her world is shattering; one night, she takes off racing down the streets for no reason at all.
Oh, how I love my crazy main characters.
The surrealism continues: her strange attraction to a graduate student, Duncan, who's frail and a bit like a helpless little boy. Her roommate's, Ainsley, hilarious antics, after a sudden and determined decision to get pregnant, just because. The frailty of her old college friend, Clara, who's weighed down by four squealing kids and who, to Marian, seems little more than someone who gives birth to kids.
There is something otherworldly about the prose and the writing.
Something that still puzzles me: the switch from first person to third person a bit into the book. I guess it could be representative of the way Marian's voice is removed, detached, as she advances further into an stifling engagement she doesn't truly want.
Really, I don't know.
Something I do know: this book is beautiful. It's non-preachy feminism. It's lovely prose-- I think, even though Atwood was so young when she wrote this book (only 24)-- it's as beautiful if not as beautiful as her later books. It's a character study, a relationship study. There's something ethereal to it, almost, as it examines all sorts of different women portrayed in this book. There's something symbolic behind everything, if you'd care to decipher it.
I loved the minor characters a little more than somewhat distant Marian, to tell the truth. Red-headed and eccentric Ainsley, who just wants to use men to further her own ends--she's quite funny. And melancholy Duncan: he seems so real to me that I wouldn't be surprised to see an emaciated figure walking down my street right now. I think he's one of my favorite characters in literature, of all time.
And there is something extraordinary about the minutiae elements in this book: the every day interactions elevated into something truly remarkable. The mundane suddenly something absolutely fascinating. It's like magical realism, but not quite.
Basically, this book just made me love Atwood even more, if that's even possible. And it says a lot that I chose to ramble about The Edible Woman over old favorites such as The Handmaid's Tale or The Blind Assassin. It's my favorite Atwood book.
Some quotes:
"So I'm finally going mad," she thought, "like everybody else. What a nuisance. Though I suppose it will be a change."
"Not liking other people's babies," said Ainsley, "isn't the same as not liking your own."
"After a while I noticed that a large drop of something wet had materialized on the table. I poked it with my finger and smudged it around a little before I realized with horror that it was a tear."
I think this is Atwood at her finest. Really, I'd wear a t-shirt around everywhere with "READ SOME ATWOOD" on the front if I could. Hopefully you'll get a chance to sometime--sooner rather than later :)
9.14.2010
just gotta say I can't stand this
I might being stepping on some of your toes here, but I really can't stand a particular kind of review that I keep seeing on goodreads or amazon or whathaveyou review site.
The kind of review where the reviewer completely disregards the merits of a book and the actual craft of the book--things like writing quality, characters, voice, plot, setting. Where the actual quality of the book isn't even mentioned, and instead the whole review is a rant about how [insert drugs, cussing, sex here] is inappropriate for a YA book or for YA readers.
It's totally and completely fine if you didn't like those elements in a book.
But it's the fact that a 1-star rating is given not based on merit, but a reviewer's stance on morality that drives me crazy. It's just not being fair to the author or the book. It's not fair at all.
Look, I have no issue with readers not liking/ getting offended by/ not enjoying cussing teenage characters or drug use or promiscuity in YA books. That's a decision that each person makes individually as a reader, and it's a matter of what someone personally does or doesn't like reading in a book. That's not what I'm bothered by.
However, I do get pretty antsy when I see a perfectly good book--in terms of writing or characterization or craft--given 1-star reviews solely because of the more "edgy" elements.
Maybe it's the fault of Amazon and Goodreads, since they don't have an option other than the 5-stars where reviewers can rate or explain that they didn't like the content. But as it stands, the preponderance of 1-star reviews given based off or a book's morality instead of actual quality devalues the integrity of a 5-star rating scale. 1s should be reserved for books that are completely terrible craft-wise and that would better serve as fire fuel because they're so bad. 1s shouldn't be reserved for otherwise good books that have content that discomfort some--but not all--readers.
But until the reviewing system is changed (which I don't see happening soon), I'd really like to see more balanced reviews. Okay, so you're all fired up about how the main character dropped f-bombs every other word. And you definitely didn't like that she was a cocaine addict. That's fine.
But what did you actually think about the writing? The plot? The craft that went behind this book? The character development and her relationships with other characters as she deals with the consequences of being a cussing cocaine addict?
In my opinion, those are crucial things that should be covered in a review before branching out to a personal dislike of a character's moral choices. Those are the things that should be factored in to how a book is rated. Those are the elements--when mentioned in a review--that will actually help people decide if a book is worth reading or not.
Are you bothered when 1-star reviews are given solely because of "edgy" content? Do you think giving books 1-stars/ 2-stars because of content is fair or even a good way of rating books?
The kind of review where the reviewer completely disregards the merits of a book and the actual craft of the book--things like writing quality, characters, voice, plot, setting. Where the actual quality of the book isn't even mentioned, and instead the whole review is a rant about how [insert drugs, cussing, sex here] is inappropriate for a YA book or for YA readers.
It's totally and completely fine if you didn't like those elements in a book.
But it's the fact that a 1-star rating is given not based on merit, but a reviewer's stance on morality that drives me crazy. It's just not being fair to the author or the book. It's not fair at all.
Look, I have no issue with readers not liking/ getting offended by/ not enjoying cussing teenage characters or drug use or promiscuity in YA books. That's a decision that each person makes individually as a reader, and it's a matter of what someone personally does or doesn't like reading in a book. That's not what I'm bothered by.
However, I do get pretty antsy when I see a perfectly good book--in terms of writing or characterization or craft--given 1-star reviews solely because of the more "edgy" elements.
Maybe it's the fault of Amazon and Goodreads, since they don't have an option other than the 5-stars where reviewers can rate or explain that they didn't like the content. But as it stands, the preponderance of 1-star reviews given based off or a book's morality instead of actual quality devalues the integrity of a 5-star rating scale. 1s should be reserved for books that are completely terrible craft-wise and that would better serve as fire fuel because they're so bad. 1s shouldn't be reserved for otherwise good books that have content that discomfort some--but not all--readers.
But until the reviewing system is changed (which I don't see happening soon), I'd really like to see more balanced reviews. Okay, so you're all fired up about how the main character dropped f-bombs every other word. And you definitely didn't like that she was a cocaine addict. That's fine.
But what did you actually think about the writing? The plot? The craft that went behind this book? The character development and her relationships with other characters as she deals with the consequences of being a cussing cocaine addict?
In my opinion, those are crucial things that should be covered in a review before branching out to a personal dislike of a character's moral choices. Those are the things that should be factored in to how a book is rated. Those are the elements--when mentioned in a review--that will actually help people decide if a book is worth reading or not.
Are you bothered when 1-star reviews are given solely because of "edgy" content? Do you think giving books 1-stars/ 2-stars because of content is fair or even a good way of rating books?
9.13.2010
review: the duff
Summary:Seventeen-year-old Bianca Piper is cynical and loyal, and she doesn't think she's the prettiest of her friends by a long shot. She's also way too smart to fall for the charms of man-slut and slimy school hottie Wesley Rush. In fact, Bianca hates him. And when he nicknames her "Duffy," she throws her Coke in his face.
But things aren't so great at home right now. Desperate for a distraction, Bianca ends up kissing Wesley. And likes it. Eager for escape, she throws herself into a closeted enemies-with-benefits relationship with Wesley.
Until it all goes horribly awry. It turns out that Wesley isn't such a bad listener, and his life is pretty screwed up, too. Suddenly Bianca realizes with absolute horror that she's falling for the guy she thought she hated more than anyone.
My Opinion:
Enter Bianca: a fierce girl who's feels she's the Duff (Designated Fat Ugly Friend). Enter Wesley: the gorgeous player that has no heart or soul.
Then sit back as these two battle (and love) it out, and you've got the resulting concoction of punchy, real, and engrossing that is The Duff.
Bianca is definitely a memorable main character: she jumps out at the pages from the first, spouting clever insults and her worries about family problems. But I like my snarky main characters. I like them quite a lot. I can understand why the constant cynicism and aggression that characterizes Bianca might rub some readers the wrong way--but that's the same reaction a sarcastic seventeen-year-old would get in real life, and it only seems fitting that she'd get the same reaction out of readers. One thing's for sure: some people will love Bianca, and some people will hate her.
I mostly loved her.
One thing I can say about this book? It's a breath of fresh air. Bianca is perfectly imperfect: she's not stunningly beautiful or scarily skinny, and she's definitely not yet another recycled teenage main character that populate so many YA books today. She feels real, and her witty observations are just the sort of thing I'd like to see more in YA: her assertion that in high school, teenagers shouldn't be "in love" but rather "in like"; her ability to have a crush on someone nerdy and nice rather than a chiseled marble statue; and her doubts about her relationship with Wesley.
It's the characters and the relationships that are the backbone of this book; and Keplinger succeeds in bringing to life a whole cast that has strikingly realistic interactions with each other. Cynical Bianca has two friends that aren't flimsy stock characters; Wesley--although definitely not a love interest I'd swoon over--has depth behind his playboy exterior; a sister he cares for, and a rather touching concern for Bianca--even as he plays his part as a womanizer. It's the teens that I feel came to life and took over this story--as it should be in YA. Bianca's relationship with her Dad and Mom is shaky; but I felt that the conflict between them could've stood to have been explored at a deeper level rather than a toss-up conflict that adds reasoning to Bianca's lusty interactions with Wesley. And I'd promised I'd start doing this more often, so for those of you who are deeply offended by cursing or sex in a book, steer clear of The Duff. Personally, I'm not bothered by it, and felt that it did create a further dimension of realness to The Duff--even if Bianca made some rather stupid decisions. The point is, she learned from it. The other point is that these are real teenagers you're reading about, not just what adults think teenagers are like.
And that's why I felt that this book had so much value.
There are some things that I wish could've been a little different: there was a slight shift in writing style after the first few chapters that should've been ironed out by the time of publication, and also, the ending just didn't quite do it for me. It came together too nicely and too easily; with the blink of an eye, Bianca's problems were resolved. The ending was not in line with the rest of the ambiance of the book; nor was Bianca's final attitude towards Wesley. Things were too neat, and far too pretty for a book and main character that aren't afraid to deal with the ugly side of things.
However, I will say that I really appreciated the self-esteem issues explored in this book: I'm sure just about every girl and possibly boy has felt like The Duff at one point. And I did love the chemistry between Bianca and Wesley; it kept me reading, just to see what insult she'd throw at him next.
Overall, The Duff was a very strong debut by an author I'm eager to read more from in the future. I'm really grateful as a reader that Keplinger was able to take a step back from the cliches and often untrue descriptions of high school that are so pervasive throughout YA; and to deliver a setting that rings true to me as a teenager.
The Duff is snarky and punchy and just what teen readers need from contemporary YA--a new voice that's got some gumption to it, and most of all, a whole lot of realism.
My Rating: 8/10. Pretty good read overall, pick it up if you have a chance. Oh, and I LOVE the cover. For once, there's a girl on the cover that stays true to what I'd expect her to look like based off of descriptions--there isn't any of that annoying skinny-fying and glamorizing (she has freckles!) done here. I'm doing my happy-dance for covers right now. :)
FTC Disclosure: I received the ARC for review from the publisher