For quite some time I have been struggling with what to post, or even for that matter what to Tweet.
For tweeting I like obscure little thoughts. Like random observations. I don’t want to tweet that “today, I went to work and have been given the responsibility of ordering office supplies.” I am sure there are people out there that give mundane tweets, but I feel that I like a witty observation about life better. And since I haven’t had any, I haven’t tweeted. And peering at life trying to find a tweet leaves me with road block.
Then there is the blog. I really dislike those long posts of this is what I have done with my life. Everyone goes out and parties, everyone cleans their house on the weekend. Everyone eats, sleeps, and watches movies/tv. Everyone goes to work. I want to blog about more than mundane stuff. I want to share me thoughts on books, or movies, or food. Rather than say that I read or watched or cooked. I want you to experience, rather than being told the facts. I want you to get a feel of emotion, rather than disattachment. So I sit here and wonder what to blog about.
So I guess it comes down to what I have been doing – yuck. And my observations on those points – a wee bit more interesting. Maybe I will get to rambling and find a nugget of gold and cling to that. We’ll see….
Finished all of the Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlain Harris. Waiting on the TV series True Blood DVD release. Wondering if I should just order HBO through cable so I can watch the second season right away, but then realize if I like the first season after buying it odds are that I will buy the second season and get a chance to watch it eventually, if but later than I would like or that the people around me can stand (I get really annoying when I am stuck on something and must wait… like a kid at Christmas or on vacation “Are we there yet”). Magic PVR would solve some issues. But I like having things on pretty DVD’s with pictures in nice boxes with special features. Do you watch special features?? Darren and I do.
Thoughts on the books – good. Left me wanting more. I felt there was more to the characters than the author was writing. Wish she would be more in-depth. Watched some clips of the TV True Blood on UTube, and my theory was confirmed. First time I ever experienced getting more out of a TV show (well generally books are made into movies, so I am going on that) than I did the books. Technically the first time would be the Jane Austen Book Club, but in all truth, I got more out of the movie because the movies was better and made appropriate changes. Sookie on the other hand has a good foundation in the book and builds in the TV show. However, upon viewing more video clips I think the TV show may be darker and less humorous than the books, and I think the characters were much more beautiful in my mind, than cast. Except Sookie, she’s a good choice and stunning in the show.
Anyways I am at that hangover state in my reading where I feel restless and can’t settle because I am still caught up too intensely in what I was reading before to move on properly. So I am reading transition material. This time it is autobiographical. I have started Stephen King’s On Writing. Next it will be John Grogan The longest Trip Home. Then I have a high fantasy I think I will be all set to indulge in. After that I will peer at my bookshelf to indulge in materials I have bought but not yet read. Dessert material. Authors I treasure. And want to keep their gems waiting for that rainy day, when I need it most. I have a system on how I choose my books to read. I even wrote it out. One of these days I will pull it out to post – once I polish my system.
So – Autobiographical. In grade school we had to read a Biography (by the by, I will look this up, but I can’t be the only one who sees Autobiography and biography as being close proxsimilies*** to each other with the only difference being in who writes them… right??). It was the most boring piece of tedium that I have ever read. Facts with no invocation of emotion. Nothing that made me want to drive onto the next page, nothing personal even though it is the story of someone’s life. No anecdotes or personal observations of how they perceived their life. It was the story of some male figure skater – Canadian. And that is all I remember. I don’t even think I finished it, as jabbing my eyes out with a marshmallow seamed way more appealing. Actually I was in grade 5 or 6 then, so I was probably more invested in reading Romeo and Juliet with my friends. (We were an odd bunch. I have carried the torch through.) The fact is, that it left a bad taste in my mouth, when the school was trying to broaden our horizons, and since I have shunned biographies and autobiographies alike thus narrowing my reading horizons (irony of the school system, is it not?).
Fast forward to now. I prefer escapist literature. I like my high fantasy, and other genres I indulge in. If I wanted to read about real life I would go out and live it instead. My reading is my escape from reality, so then why would I read reality? I guess it started with the Yarn Harlot, without even realizing that is where it started. She wrote real, but she wrote poignant and witty, and so I was drawn in. A free blog is good advertisement for a taste of her books.
Next to cross my path was Marley and Me. I had seen it in bookstores several times, drawn to it but escaping its allure as it wasn’t fiction, therefore not for me. The movie came out; I went and I saw. Hesitantly I bought the book and let it mellow on my shelf. My dad read the book, saw the movie and insisted I pick it up. Well my dad and I are a whole different Kettle of fish. And that is a story for another day, a day were I can be as candid as I need to be, probably with a therapist present; so that day is not soon. To be true, but also broad, my dad and I are two very different separate people who happen to be family, but have very different views on the world. (Broad but safe description that can apply to many family situations.) However, since he is family I try to be generally appeasing, and reading a book I am interested in so that we have a neutral subject to talk about didn’t seam too bad of an idea. Good FREAKING book, by the way.
Then I decide that John Grogan is a really good author. He writes real, but is poignant and witty, and those are things I can really appreciate in an author. He is truthful but not dry. And so I researched him online as I am apt to do with good authors and find out he has another book. The Longest Trip Home. An autobiography on growing up in his house and how he is different than how his parents tried to raise him. Well this struck me as so relatable to my dad and I that I needed to read it. But the library had 14 holds before me. So I went to the bookstore. But they only had hard copy available and that was a wee bit expensive considering I wanted two copies, one for me and one for my dad. I passed. I decided that I could wait out the library. If it was that good, then I might splurge for a copy for my dad. But I am not about to get him something he may hold against me, so I need to read it first. Like parental censorship, but reversed.
However, while I was at the book store I was browsing around the autobiographies thinking to myself, maybe I should give them a second chance. Maybe someone might have something for me. An author writing about being an author for example would be perfect. Stephen Kind. On Writing. Now, I know this post is really long already, but with anything in life there is back story. So I am going to have to share with you the back story of my disgust and inability to pick up any Stephen King books.
When I was younger, back to the era of grade 5 and 6, leading into grade 7 and 8 (do you notice how some years get melded together in your mind?) and then leading into early high school, I would watch horror movies only as it seamed cool, and not out of any desire to be scared. I hated sleeping with a light on and wondering who might be peering in my window, or who might be following behind me as I walked to school. I did it to be cool, although self admittedly while I ran with a close group of friends I was far from hanging with the cool crowd. What this meant was that I didn’t read horror. If I had a hard enough time getting through a movie that was only a couple of hours long, how ever would I make it through a book that would take me several weeks to get through? I just couldn’t torture myself like that. Stephen King was notorious for horror, therefore avoid all Stephen King.
Then I started exploring theories, on a whim, without any actual deep meaningful thought behind it, because I wasn’t out to prove it one way or another because I didn’t want to immerse myself in that world, that someone must be pretty twisted to write horror or crime books. Serial murderers – coming up with them and the sick shit that they do. The author had to be in the frame of mind of a serial murderer. It made me wonder, that if they were not writing what kind of person would they be? Now this may be unfair, but Stephen King is a name one could grab out of the air practically as he is so well known for his twisted material. He could not be a normal functioning human. He had to have something wrong with him to write the material that he did. And for that matter, did his audience have something wrong with them to read the material that he wrote?? We are indeed a twisted society, and I myself will admit to rubbernecking.
So I developed this broad theory encompassing authors of horror material, and substance abuse was definitely rolled into that theory. Now as I am browsing the bookstore, there is a book on writing by an author, who may be an author that I shun, but I flip through. And there is this paragraph about him being drunk at his mothers funeral. That is in my realms of normal so I accept it, but I also want to know his style of writing, so I keep flipping. He had an intervention, he was a substance abuser, and his fucked up material was a cry for help. I feel justified in my theory, and while it may only be one example that I have, I am sure there are others out their to follow. I also feel the need to rubberneck so I reserved the book from the library to see who he came out the rabbit whole on the other side. I also give him some redeeming qualities for having written the Green Mile, I have not read it but the movie is moving, and so one of these days I very well might read said book.
So far, so good. Authors are people with their own barrel of fucked up shit that they pull on to produce said material. And like any other human who can get pulled into the torrent of substance abuse, so may an author but hide behind it as a means to their art.
I rambled and I found nuggets. I apologize for the length, but I like my excessive expressiveness, and it was a good distraction and relief for a Friday. Now I may post you another blog next week, describing too fairly ironic and interesting events, or I may be witty and twit them in 140 characters or less. Twitt Twitt Tawoo (repeat 3 times growing louder each time, and reminisce in those days of Brownies).
****Not a word yet. But one I felt I needed to make available. Close in proximity, but not quite the same. Similar, but not quite the same. Used as a Simile, this is like this, but is not this. Hence Proxsimily, plural prosxsimilies. (If you don’t like, then find me a word that describes it as I want it. If there is a word out there that describes it as I want it, and you know it, then make me aware of it. I like words after all, I want to be a writer)