I just posted about twenty minutes ago, but I had a thought as I was reading my sister's old blog posts. She wrote for an audience. Which isn't a bad thing. There are two kinds of people, those who write for an audience, and those who write for themselves. (I'm not going to link my Maggie Stiefvater post here, but you should read it. Also, typing on a touchscreen is FREAKIN' HARD.)
I happen to be the other kind of person, the kind that writes for myself. As evidenced by the fact that I will spend hours working on blog posts that I know no one will read. Which sounds kind of sad, but doesn't actually bother me that much. It's here if anyone wants to read it. Besides, 1) I have enough vanity to believe that someday people may discover this blog and go back and voraciously read all the old posts, and 2) if somebody ever wants to get to know my brain really well, I'll just point them here. It's a treasure trove for that purpose.
If you're reading, thanks. I'm glad that you're enjoying this. Or hating it, if you're just reading it to hate something. That's fine too. And if you're enjoying it, I hope it is better for the fact that I only wrote it to understand things that I did not.
Goodnight.
Sunday, February 9, 2020
Saturday, February 8, 2020
In Which I Talk About Myself, and Too Much
So. There's a person I'd like you to know of.
This person is a girl, and she's a reader. She spent her childhood taking turns reading and running out her wild side, and the reading won out. Now she's spent years in her head, turning ideas over and over in her head, driven on by curiosity and a need to feel unique. A need to discover something that no one else has before. A need to have ownership of something intellectual, and to be respected for it.
She has friends, but she doesn't really feel comfortable with most of them. She loves her family, but she's a grouch, with a sharp sense of sarcasm, and it comes out most when she's with them. She's loved and accepted where she works, but she feels like she puts on a mask when she goes there, and takes it off when she gets home.
Because she doesn't feel like her life is at work. She doesn't feel like it's anywhere, almost. In fact, the only place where she feel like her life is legitimate and true to her, is at home.
Narrow, but deep. Bordered, but rich within. She's only comfortable surrounded by the same things she's always known and sees every day.
Physically, at least. Mentally is another story. She spends her days in her stories: taking them in through music, and movies, and shows, and books. And then, with much more pain, but satisfaction as well, she pulls stories out of her head as though they were knotted string on a sticky spool.
And she is content doing that; sometimes happy, usually restless, always thinking.
She philosophizes, because that's what life is to her. She tries to be better, but feels that she is not. She loves her friends and feels pain because she forgets they even exist, and feels pleasure because that pain is a writing tool, and feels guilt because she should be better than to use pain she's earned for pleasure.
She hoards the diamonds she finds in her own mind, and expects people to know she's rich. She feels her mind has too many pieces for them all to hold together.
And...shocker. This girl is me (as if that wasn't obvious all along).
The reason I've described myself in such dramatic terms is that it tends to be how I think. I have a tendency to wallow in dramatic generalizations about myself. It's quite pathetic really.
But it points to something true about myself. I've spent my life discovering reality through the lens of books. And books, while good and lovely and useful, work not by describing all of reality, but by taking conflict and condensing it into a digestible form. Words are meant to be a translation of truth. I happen to speak and write in English; it's the only language I understand (with the exception of a wee bit of Spanish). So when I'm talking about compassion and kindness for someone who doesn't deserve it, I make some sounds with my mouth that people understand as mercy. And I spell it that way when I write it out, putting those lines and curves and spaces together like that, because everyone else knows this system that we use to express ideas.
But the idea of mercy existed before English did, and all the forms and systems and rules that we use to judge whether something is "correct" work not as truth, but as a carriage for truth.
Does that make sense? Language is the tool, not the craft.
And it's very useful, and it can be used very beautifully; and by beautifully, I mean well, as in it efficiently and accurately communicates those amorphous ideas that swim around in minds, so that when I say, "Your hat's hold on your head is tenuous," you understand that I am saying that your hat is coming off of your head, and that I am giving you advice, or possibly a warning, and also that I have some measure of competency when it comes to vocabulary.
And when I said efficiently up there, I didn't mean you only say the barest amount, or use the shortest words. Look at the example up there: I took over three times the amount of words to explain what I had said than to actually say it. I used the words I used because they conveyed exactly what I wanted to say: no more, but also no less.
That's efficiency. It's getting the right effect for the proper price. And of course, the only way to know what the proper price is, is to know the market. And that's why having a good grasp on how to use your language tools is important.
But I digress. Like, all the time. But specifically right now.
So, me. I read book people more than I read real people. And book people are condensed and effective. They confuse us, but only when they're calculated to (if it's not calculated, we say that their book is a Badly Written Book). They are supposed to be condensed, in order to convey a deeper message about people and circumstances. We're supposed to fill in gaps in our heads, and most of us are quite good at this, and have no idea we're doing this.
Unfortunately for me, it is possible to read so much that one believes that book people are the full, expanded thing, because one doesn't have many real full, expanded things to compare them to. And that's the boat I've found myself struggling to get out of.
The trouble is, you have to get the boat to shore, and then you have to actually step onto the shore, which isn't nearly as relaxing as the water. And then you have to trust that you can walk away and come back from time to time, and the boat will still be there and working.
Because, to be honest, sometimes it isn't. But boats also tend not to be very livable long-term.
This metaphor has kind of gone overboard (I hope I'm not throwing you in over your head; I can sea how it's easy to drown in all these ideas).
Well. (That's a deep subject.)
OKAY. WE ARE GETTING BACK ON TRACK NOW.
What I've been trying to say this whole time is that it's easy to confuse the tools for the craft. So the way I described myself up there is, in a way, my attempt to understand who I am. It's me trying to take all the pieces and condense them into a few manageable ideas.
But I am far from manageable.
So what I said up there is truthful to a degree. But it's certainly nowhere close to being the whole truth.
And in the spirit of being truthful, even the tone is deceptive. It paints my life as rather dramatic and intellectual and intense. And my life may look like that from certain angles. But I was describing it as though I felt that way myself, and I don't feel like that at all.
In fact, words I would use to describe my mental state more than half the time are as follows:
Muddled.
Clotted.
Cobbled.
Overwhelmed.
But imagine if I wrote like that. It would look like this:
have to-Alexa and Max would but (fountain pen ink) not Ranger and Erica------->future (2 years?) [what song] {Wythin} I need to clean my room=disaster | please stop eating, Anna - where did my papers--goodness, I didn't know we had doughnuts {RIVENBARK}--> Theodore was the original source of my genius, I'll never [melancholy shift] get that back //// just keep writing - belltower? (flower?) [[thought you had my back [lack, sack, hack, rack, track, TRACK], our trains on the same track]] <--too plebeian. (snob) [is funny] (dirty room)) LET'S WALK [where to go?] loneliness is my lot in life [Britta and Jo?] [tired of driving
And that would be exhausting, and it may communicate something, but it's not easily digestible. It's also not fun (that was the hardest writing of this entire post, by far. I've been sailing).
So instead, I've been trying to use the gifts God gave me to put something out there worth somebody reading sometime. My ability to analyze. My strange sense of humor. My flair for the subtly dramatic (boy, I hate describing myself in those last five words).
And I guess something else, maybe. My desire, if not talent, to be vulnerable. To make myself understood.
It's all a show, of course. But it's supposed to reveal something deeper.
What a ride this has been. I have a feeling I've done even more rambling than usual, and I'm not quite sure what I've even said. But hopefully there's something good up there in that mess of words.
It's been fun anyhow.
A parting note: the patterns, the truth, the forms, make no sense without God. This would all be a whole bunch of gibberish without my King. There is no commonality or basis for reality without him. So I know I didn't say much about that, but seriously. Think about it.
Also, I NEVER edit these things before posting them. I don't read it or anything. I just decide I've said what I want to say and hit the publish button. So you're welcome.
This person is a girl, and she's a reader. She spent her childhood taking turns reading and running out her wild side, and the reading won out. Now she's spent years in her head, turning ideas over and over in her head, driven on by curiosity and a need to feel unique. A need to discover something that no one else has before. A need to have ownership of something intellectual, and to be respected for it.
She has friends, but she doesn't really feel comfortable with most of them. She loves her family, but she's a grouch, with a sharp sense of sarcasm, and it comes out most when she's with them. She's loved and accepted where she works, but she feels like she puts on a mask when she goes there, and takes it off when she gets home.
Because she doesn't feel like her life is at work. She doesn't feel like it's anywhere, almost. In fact, the only place where she feel like her life is legitimate and true to her, is at home.
Narrow, but deep. Bordered, but rich within. She's only comfortable surrounded by the same things she's always known and sees every day.
Physically, at least. Mentally is another story. She spends her days in her stories: taking them in through music, and movies, and shows, and books. And then, with much more pain, but satisfaction as well, she pulls stories out of her head as though they were knotted string on a sticky spool.
And she is content doing that; sometimes happy, usually restless, always thinking.
She philosophizes, because that's what life is to her. She tries to be better, but feels that she is not. She loves her friends and feels pain because she forgets they even exist, and feels pleasure because that pain is a writing tool, and feels guilt because she should be better than to use pain she's earned for pleasure.
She hoards the diamonds she finds in her own mind, and expects people to know she's rich. She feels her mind has too many pieces for them all to hold together.
And...shocker. This girl is me (as if that wasn't obvious all along).
The reason I've described myself in such dramatic terms is that it tends to be how I think. I have a tendency to wallow in dramatic generalizations about myself. It's quite pathetic really.
But it points to something true about myself. I've spent my life discovering reality through the lens of books. And books, while good and lovely and useful, work not by describing all of reality, but by taking conflict and condensing it into a digestible form. Words are meant to be a translation of truth. I happen to speak and write in English; it's the only language I understand (with the exception of a wee bit of Spanish). So when I'm talking about compassion and kindness for someone who doesn't deserve it, I make some sounds with my mouth that people understand as mercy. And I spell it that way when I write it out, putting those lines and curves and spaces together like that, because everyone else knows this system that we use to express ideas.
But the idea of mercy existed before English did, and all the forms and systems and rules that we use to judge whether something is "correct" work not as truth, but as a carriage for truth.
Does that make sense? Language is the tool, not the craft.
And it's very useful, and it can be used very beautifully; and by beautifully, I mean well, as in it efficiently and accurately communicates those amorphous ideas that swim around in minds, so that when I say, "Your hat's hold on your head is tenuous," you understand that I am saying that your hat is coming off of your head, and that I am giving you advice, or possibly a warning, and also that I have some measure of competency when it comes to vocabulary.
And when I said efficiently up there, I didn't mean you only say the barest amount, or use the shortest words. Look at the example up there: I took over three times the amount of words to explain what I had said than to actually say it. I used the words I used because they conveyed exactly what I wanted to say: no more, but also no less.
That's efficiency. It's getting the right effect for the proper price. And of course, the only way to know what the proper price is, is to know the market. And that's why having a good grasp on how to use your language tools is important.
But I digress. Like, all the time. But specifically right now.
So, me. I read book people more than I read real people. And book people are condensed and effective. They confuse us, but only when they're calculated to (if it's not calculated, we say that their book is a Badly Written Book). They are supposed to be condensed, in order to convey a deeper message about people and circumstances. We're supposed to fill in gaps in our heads, and most of us are quite good at this, and have no idea we're doing this.
Unfortunately for me, it is possible to read so much that one believes that book people are the full, expanded thing, because one doesn't have many real full, expanded things to compare them to. And that's the boat I've found myself struggling to get out of.
The trouble is, you have to get the boat to shore, and then you have to actually step onto the shore, which isn't nearly as relaxing as the water. And then you have to trust that you can walk away and come back from time to time, and the boat will still be there and working.
Because, to be honest, sometimes it isn't. But boats also tend not to be very livable long-term.
This metaphor has kind of gone overboard (I hope I'm not throwing you in over your head; I can sea how it's easy to drown in all these ideas).
Well. (That's a deep subject.)
OKAY. WE ARE GETTING BACK ON TRACK NOW.
What I've been trying to say this whole time is that it's easy to confuse the tools for the craft. So the way I described myself up there is, in a way, my attempt to understand who I am. It's me trying to take all the pieces and condense them into a few manageable ideas.
But I am far from manageable.
So what I said up there is truthful to a degree. But it's certainly nowhere close to being the whole truth.
And in the spirit of being truthful, even the tone is deceptive. It paints my life as rather dramatic and intellectual and intense. And my life may look like that from certain angles. But I was describing it as though I felt that way myself, and I don't feel like that at all.
In fact, words I would use to describe my mental state more than half the time are as follows:
Muddled.
Clotted.
Cobbled.
Overwhelmed.
But imagine if I wrote like that. It would look like this:
have to-Alexa and Max would but (fountain pen ink) not Ranger and Erica------->future (2 years?) [what song] {Wythin} I need to clean my room=disaster | please stop eating, Anna - where did my papers--goodness, I didn't know we had doughnuts {RIVENBARK}--> Theodore was the original source of my genius, I'll never [melancholy shift] get that back //// just keep writing - belltower? (flower?) [[thought you had my back [lack, sack, hack, rack, track, TRACK], our trains on the same track]] <--too plebeian. (snob) [is funny] (dirty room)) LET'S WALK [where to go?] loneliness is my lot in life [Britta and Jo?] [tired of driving
And that would be exhausting, and it may communicate something, but it's not easily digestible. It's also not fun (that was the hardest writing of this entire post, by far. I've been sailing).
So instead, I've been trying to use the gifts God gave me to put something out there worth somebody reading sometime. My ability to analyze. My strange sense of humor. My flair for the subtly dramatic (boy, I hate describing myself in those last five words).
And I guess something else, maybe. My desire, if not talent, to be vulnerable. To make myself understood.
It's all a show, of course. But it's supposed to reveal something deeper.
What a ride this has been. I have a feeling I've done even more rambling than usual, and I'm not quite sure what I've even said. But hopefully there's something good up there in that mess of words.
It's been fun anyhow.
A parting note: the patterns, the truth, the forms, make no sense without God. This would all be a whole bunch of gibberish without my King. There is no commonality or basis for reality without him. So I know I didn't say much about that, but seriously. Think about it.
Also, I NEVER edit these things before posting them. I don't read it or anything. I just decide I've said what I want to say and hit the publish button. So you're welcome.
Wednesday, January 1, 2020
Hello New Year
True to form, I already started this post earlier, on New Years Eve, didn't finish it, and decided what I had written wasn't really worth keeping anyway. So I erased it all, and started again on a blank page on this first day of the year, and of the decade.
In a way, it seems kind of symbolic. We've been told, and maybe we actually believe, that the New Year is a time of change. Of improvement, and even of starting over. A time to shed the things in your life that weigh you down, and to carry on without inhibition. Because it's the new year. And new is somehow...different.
But of course, I've always had trouble seeing the passage of time as an indicator of any kind of practical change. I wrote a post about that, many years ago on my birthday. I talked about how numbers simply quantify time, they don't define it. The river keeps on going; it may be flowing past different mile markers, but you could move the mile markers and the river would be the same old river.
The mile markers aren't special because they make us come farther. They're special because they remind us of how far we've come.
2019 was a strange, dramatically subdued year for me. I look back and it seems at first glance that I've accomplished absolutely nothing this past year. I still have no idea what I'm doing with myself. I'm still struggling with many of the same sins. I have fewer friends than I did twelve months ago.
It's only when I look long and hard at the last mile marker that I understand just what this year has meant in the grand scheme of my life.
There are many things that I could look at and point to and say, "In at least some small ways, this thing has changed me."
I have a job. I have several new stories that I will someday finish. I have a nephew, the sweetest little three-month-old who loves to smile at Aunt Anna. I have ideas for things that I want to do. My room is a little bit cleaner than it was the other day, and will likely continue to improve. I say likely, because I've decided that that is worth my time, and so I will not simply hope for a cleaner room; at least not without then walking back into the house of action and getting to work.
But one of the most important ways in which I've grown is in how I take pain. I'm not good at pain. It's just so uncomfortable. But this year I've learned that there are things that I can't control, and I've learned to accept the consequences of these things. I cannot overrule God. And while this sometimes leaves me feeling lonely, it also helps me see that I can live, and I can live well, without many of the things that I didn't think I could lose.
I don't know what the coming year holds. I don't know a lot of things about myself and about my life. If I'm being honest, there's some apprehension doing its rounds in my heart. There's so much left behind.
But look--there's so much river ahead.
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
My Favorite Books Through the Years
12:24 AM, December 25th. Good morning and Merry Christmas.
It’s my dad’s first Christmas at home in about five years, and the first Christmas that my little nephew has ever experienced. True to form, I procrastinated on my Christmas shopping (though not as much I usually do) and spent much of yesterday thinking about what a suitable gift for a baby’s first Christmas is.
I’ve known ever since I really started thinking about it that a book is the way to go. The right book is welcome before they can read, and is loved for a lifetime to follow. And so I thought, what book should I get for Nephew?
Nowadays, if you ask me what my favorite book is, I’ll tell you it’s The King of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner. The whole series is fantastic, but that one in particular (the third in the series) stands out to me as a well-thought-out, tightly plotted novel with incredible character development.
And I would tell you The Scorpio Races. There’s so much texture and character on every page, understated and warm, and, again, containing such beautiful character development.
These are my top two. They are books that I have read many times, and will never grow tired of. And they would be terrible Christmas gifts for Nephew.
Nephew doesn’t know the first thing about character development. He couldn’t even tell me the role of conflict in a story. Nephew is just starting to learn to hold his head up on his own.
But these weren’t always my favorite books. I worked my way up to them, as all readers must.
And so, when I was young, what were my favorite books?
I took a look at my shelves, and I found some that I loved as a child. Books that I read over and over again, starting from when I was rather young (six or so), that I still smile thinking of.
Before The King of Attolia, I loved the All the Wrong Questions series by Lemony Snicket. I still think that Daniel Handler has a very distinctive voice, and such a unique grasp on word-choice. It’s a matter of preference for me, and I’m about to give you a spoiler. I don’t like sad endings. End spoiler.
Pride and Prejudice has always been well-loved by me. I’m not sure when I first read it, but it’s always been able to grip my attention; I’ve found that every time I read it, I find more that I’ve never noticed before.
While I wouldn’t say these have ever been my favorites, I’ve always loved the Gregor the Overlander series by Suzanne Collins; and if that name sounds familiar it’s because she wrote The Hunger Games, which I happen to think is an inferior product next to Gregor.
Redwall was my favorite series for a very long matter of time; several years, in fact. Probably from seven to about twelve years old.
This next paragraph I wrote a bit later; I figured if I didn’t turn out the lights and go to sleep lying down, I’d end up doing it sitting up, and then I’d spend Christmas trying to work the crick out of my neck. So now it’s 5:04 PM. The sun is setting and the gifts that we opened this morning are scattered around the house.
But as for Redwall, I devoured it. I read every single book, and today most of them sit on my shelf. Martin the Warrior was my hero, weasels my enemies, and Redwall Abbey my home. I explored that world, the woods and high seas. It was the energy and the adventure that drew me in. There was so much possibilty to explore in the world of Redwall. I haven’t read a Redwall book in probably four years, and I think that’s a shame. I wish I had more time these days to devote to rereading the books that first fed my love of reading.
But while Redwall might have been my greatest obsession as a young reader, it was not my first. That status belongs to the Hardy Boys books. I vividly remember pulling The Twisted Claw off of the shelf that sat behind our sofa, and looking at its cover curiously before opening it up.
I went on to read and reread all of the Hardy Boys books that we owned. I discovered Nancy Drew in my sister’s room and enjoyed them, which isn’t surprising given the similarity in form and content. But there was something about the Hardy Boys that was always more attractive to me. The writing was lighter and funnier; more outrageous in some ways, but less dramatic. It was boyish.
There are other books that stand out to me; standalones that weren’t able to take over my life to quite the same degree, but have settled solidly into place on my favorites list.
Years ago, on one of our long family roadtrips, perhaps to my aunt’s wedding in TX, we listened to the first audiobook that I ever remember listening to. I remember hearing of a woman eavesdropping on the same men who were looking for her, as she hid upstairs in an inn. I remember her realizing that the dirty Jewish peddler is actually her husband. Years later, I borrowed that book from the library. It was, of course, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and it’s one that I return to from time to time to discover with Marguerite the man she really married beneath the facade he hides behind.
The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle was where my addiction to independence met my love of reading. There are few books that have showcased to me so clearly the struggle to be free and the consequences of succeeding. Or the way that the fight to survive can change a person into someone completely different. In so many books, the hero doesn’t understand the choice they’ve made until afterwards. Confessions is stark and thrilling in its simplicity. The setting and the short cast list give plenty of space to see clearly the choices set before her, and the consequences of them. But there would be no enjoyment in the fight, of course, if we couldn’t see what she was fighting for. I didn’t know until Charlotte stood on the top spar of the mainmast, with the wind in her hair and nothing but ocean for miles around, how good freedom tasted.
And so, on this Christmas of 2019, my love affair with books continues. This year I got Stephen King’s On Writing and Greek Philosophical Terms: A Historical Lexicon by F.E. Peters. Neither of these are fiction, but I recently raided a bookstore, so fear not. There are so many stories out there to read, and so many characters to get to know.
But a good book is a good book at any age. Good writing somehow goes beyond the age and the context of the reader to get to something deeper. I learned more about myself from the books I read in my youth than I did from what my friends said about me. I learned what it feels like to open up whole new sections of the world, all at once. And believe me, after writing this post, I have some rereads planned. I’d like to remember that feeling again.
Yet after all this, none of these books were right for Nephew. It’s hard to find a good book for a baby.
When I looked on my shelf last night, I pulled out a book that I used to read often, as evidenced by how beat up its paperback cover is. I wondered how old it was, so I looked inside.
The first surprise was that the book itself was printed either in 1988 or 1992 - probably the latter. I had always thought it was given to me new. I found the second surprise when I opened the book.
Christmas 2005
To Anna - This looked fun!
We love you,
G’pa Tony + Marnie
Not only had I not known who gave this book to me, I hadn’t realized that it was given to me when I was only four years old.
I don’t know how many times I’ve read Mr. Popper’s Penguins. It’s been in my life as long as I can remember. It’s strange and funny and delightfully old-fashioned. And I think it would make the perfect gift for my nephew.
It’s my dad’s first Christmas at home in about five years, and the first Christmas that my little nephew has ever experienced. True to form, I procrastinated on my Christmas shopping (though not as much I usually do) and spent much of yesterday thinking about what a suitable gift for a baby’s first Christmas is.
I’ve known ever since I really started thinking about it that a book is the way to go. The right book is welcome before they can read, and is loved for a lifetime to follow. And so I thought, what book should I get for Nephew?
Nowadays, if you ask me what my favorite book is, I’ll tell you it’s The King of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner. The whole series is fantastic, but that one in particular (the third in the series) stands out to me as a well-thought-out, tightly plotted novel with incredible character development.
And I would tell you The Scorpio Races. There’s so much texture and character on every page, understated and warm, and, again, containing such beautiful character development.
These are my top two. They are books that I have read many times, and will never grow tired of. And they would be terrible Christmas gifts for Nephew.
Nephew doesn’t know the first thing about character development. He couldn’t even tell me the role of conflict in a story. Nephew is just starting to learn to hold his head up on his own.
But these weren’t always my favorite books. I worked my way up to them, as all readers must.
And so, when I was young, what were my favorite books?
I took a look at my shelves, and I found some that I loved as a child. Books that I read over and over again, starting from when I was rather young (six or so), that I still smile thinking of.
Before The King of Attolia, I loved the All the Wrong Questions series by Lemony Snicket. I still think that Daniel Handler has a very distinctive voice, and such a unique grasp on word-choice. It’s a matter of preference for me, and I’m about to give you a spoiler. I don’t like sad endings. End spoiler.
Pride and Prejudice has always been well-loved by me. I’m not sure when I first read it, but it’s always been able to grip my attention; I’ve found that every time I read it, I find more that I’ve never noticed before.
While I wouldn’t say these have ever been my favorites, I’ve always loved the Gregor the Overlander series by Suzanne Collins; and if that name sounds familiar it’s because she wrote The Hunger Games, which I happen to think is an inferior product next to Gregor.
Redwall was my favorite series for a very long matter of time; several years, in fact. Probably from seven to about twelve years old.
This next paragraph I wrote a bit later; I figured if I didn’t turn out the lights and go to sleep lying down, I’d end up doing it sitting up, and then I’d spend Christmas trying to work the crick out of my neck. So now it’s 5:04 PM. The sun is setting and the gifts that we opened this morning are scattered around the house.
But as for Redwall, I devoured it. I read every single book, and today most of them sit on my shelf. Martin the Warrior was my hero, weasels my enemies, and Redwall Abbey my home. I explored that world, the woods and high seas. It was the energy and the adventure that drew me in. There was so much possibilty to explore in the world of Redwall. I haven’t read a Redwall book in probably four years, and I think that’s a shame. I wish I had more time these days to devote to rereading the books that first fed my love of reading.
But while Redwall might have been my greatest obsession as a young reader, it was not my first. That status belongs to the Hardy Boys books. I vividly remember pulling The Twisted Claw off of the shelf that sat behind our sofa, and looking at its cover curiously before opening it up.
I went on to read and reread all of the Hardy Boys books that we owned. I discovered Nancy Drew in my sister’s room and enjoyed them, which isn’t surprising given the similarity in form and content. But there was something about the Hardy Boys that was always more attractive to me. The writing was lighter and funnier; more outrageous in some ways, but less dramatic. It was boyish.
There are other books that stand out to me; standalones that weren’t able to take over my life to quite the same degree, but have settled solidly into place on my favorites list.
Years ago, on one of our long family roadtrips, perhaps to my aunt’s wedding in TX, we listened to the first audiobook that I ever remember listening to. I remember hearing of a woman eavesdropping on the same men who were looking for her, as she hid upstairs in an inn. I remember her realizing that the dirty Jewish peddler is actually her husband. Years later, I borrowed that book from the library. It was, of course, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and it’s one that I return to from time to time to discover with Marguerite the man she really married beneath the facade he hides behind.
The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle was where my addiction to independence met my love of reading. There are few books that have showcased to me so clearly the struggle to be free and the consequences of succeeding. Or the way that the fight to survive can change a person into someone completely different. In so many books, the hero doesn’t understand the choice they’ve made until afterwards. Confessions is stark and thrilling in its simplicity. The setting and the short cast list give plenty of space to see clearly the choices set before her, and the consequences of them. But there would be no enjoyment in the fight, of course, if we couldn’t see what she was fighting for. I didn’t know until Charlotte stood on the top spar of the mainmast, with the wind in her hair and nothing but ocean for miles around, how good freedom tasted.
And so, on this Christmas of 2019, my love affair with books continues. This year I got Stephen King’s On Writing and Greek Philosophical Terms: A Historical Lexicon by F.E. Peters. Neither of these are fiction, but I recently raided a bookstore, so fear not. There are so many stories out there to read, and so many characters to get to know.
But a good book is a good book at any age. Good writing somehow goes beyond the age and the context of the reader to get to something deeper. I learned more about myself from the books I read in my youth than I did from what my friends said about me. I learned what it feels like to open up whole new sections of the world, all at once. And believe me, after writing this post, I have some rereads planned. I’d like to remember that feeling again.
Yet after all this, none of these books were right for Nephew. It’s hard to find a good book for a baby.
When I looked on my shelf last night, I pulled out a book that I used to read often, as evidenced by how beat up its paperback cover is. I wondered how old it was, so I looked inside.
The first surprise was that the book itself was printed either in 1988 or 1992 - probably the latter. I had always thought it was given to me new. I found the second surprise when I opened the book.
Christmas 2005
To Anna - This looked fun!
We love you,
G’pa Tony + Marnie
Not only had I not known who gave this book to me, I hadn’t realized that it was given to me when I was only four years old.
I don’t know how many times I’ve read Mr. Popper’s Penguins. It’s been in my life as long as I can remember. It’s strange and funny and delightfully old-fashioned. And I think it would make the perfect gift for my nephew.
Saturday, November 16, 2019
In Which I Acknowledge the People
I happened to drop by my blog today and discovered that for some reason, people have started reading it again.
What the heck is this.
With that in mind, I have two announcements, the second being dependent on the first.
First of all, I'm doing NaNoWriMo again this year. It's not going splendidly at the moment, but I keep chugging along like a little mule. I'll give a long retelling of the experience when December comes around.
Or not. I'll do what I want, because this is my blog.
With that in mind, I'm not doing any other writing this month. So, as I know six of you people saw my start to a long and thoughtful blog series, this is my explanation that I have taken it down for the time being so that I can put it back up when I'm actually able to complete it. I don't know when that will be, though, because obviously the holiday season will be on its way in when NaNoWriMo ends.
I can't believe I have to explain my actions on my own blog. This is criminal.
I suppose I should give the obligatory, "Thank you for reading, it means so much to me," but I'm actually kind of cranky about it. I thought I would have more time to myself to make things ready for readers.
Oh well, if fame is to be my destiny, fame it is.
What the heck is this.
With that in mind, I have two announcements, the second being dependent on the first.
First of all, I'm doing NaNoWriMo again this year. It's not going splendidly at the moment, but I keep chugging along like a little mule. I'll give a long retelling of the experience when December comes around.
Or not. I'll do what I want, because this is my blog.
With that in mind, I'm not doing any other writing this month. So, as I know six of you people saw my start to a long and thoughtful blog series, this is my explanation that I have taken it down for the time being so that I can put it back up when I'm actually able to complete it. I don't know when that will be, though, because obviously the holiday season will be on its way in when NaNoWriMo ends.
I can't believe I have to explain my actions on my own blog. This is criminal.
I suppose I should give the obligatory, "Thank you for reading, it means so much to me," but I'm actually kind of cranky about it. I thought I would have more time to myself to make things ready for readers.
Oh well, if fame is to be my destiny, fame it is.
It's a gift...and a curse.
(In all seriousness, I wasn't expecting any readers. But I guess I'm glad that people find my rambling interesting.)
Thursday, October 10, 2019
The Necessity of Conflict
I'm really not sure what exactly this post is, whether it's a ramble, or whether I actually have a point in all this. Stand by, if you will, as I try to remember exactly what the seed is that inspired me to click "New Post" at 12:25 AM on a Wednesday night.
Oh yes. Conflict.
Picture your perfect day. What is it to you?
My perfect day consists of peace and warmth. I'm at home, with mi familia, and we all sit and talk and eat food, and enjoy the beautiful creation God has given to us to enjoy. There's a fire going, probably, and as evening comes, I sit by the hearth and tend to it. There's no discomfort, and much laughter.
That's my perfect day. And it would make a horrible novel.
Why aren't things that we enjoy experiencing enjoyable to read about? Why do novels have so much conflict and tension between their covers?
Surely it's not because they're realistic? None of the main events in novels have ever happened to me, certainly. I've never been accused of murdering my father, or had a very proud man propose to me (or any man, for that matter), or been forced to compete in a competition where I have to kill other kids my age in order to be the last man standing.
At first, when I was thinking about this, I thought, Perhaps it's some kind of escapism. Perhaps we read to get away from our dull lives. to feel excitement, and fear, and courage; to be warriors, and lovers, and adventurers.
But life isn't dull, is it? Life is full of conflict. It's just not merely as glamorous as the conflict in the books.
But sometimes dishwashers break. Sometimes we get mad and say stupid things to people we love. Sometimes we're tired, and we said we would go to the gym, but now we don't want to. Sometimes we can't find any clean socks, and "We're leaving now!"
If it was truly escapism, wouldn't we want to read that book about the girl who spends all day with her family and pulls little stick off big logs to feed to fire while she sips hot chocolate? Wouldn't that be the goal?
So it must be something else.
But of course! Seeing heroes defeat their dragons satisfies our craving to defeat our own much more stubborn monsters. It's therapeutic in some way, to see Katniss outsmart President Snow, and imagine that's us crushing our own weak desire to go home and eat ice cream instead of doing those leg-presses.
But while that's closer, it doesn't really get to the heart of it. We're not actually thinking about our own inner struggles when we're reading novels. We're not seeing things in a one-to-one ratio; hero's struggle = my struggle in some metaphorical way. Sometimes there's not a hero, and we don't know who the villain is.
The point of conflict in novels is not just that that conflict be resolved. Instead, it's an acknowledgement that there is conflict in this world. That life is tough. And while generally, life is too multifaceted and deep-layered and plain complicated to get a handle on that conflict and be able to see it from any point but close-up, novels boil it down and make you stand at a distance. Novels take grand-scheme ideas and turn them into small-scale plots.
If only all we had to do in order to get happily ever after was to... well, I don't know. But that's the point. In novels, they have some idea of what they have to do. Or even if they don't know, we know. Or even if we don't know, we know that there is something that they have to do.
Novels distill daily conflict into a highly concentrated form with a highly concentrated resolution.
Because conflict ends too. In a myriad of different ways here on earth, but ultimately in the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.
So why do we enjoy being made uncomfortable by novels, at least those that are good, those that are well-written?
Because they're true.
Oh yes. Conflict.
Picture your perfect day. What is it to you?
My perfect day consists of peace and warmth. I'm at home, with mi familia, and we all sit and talk and eat food, and enjoy the beautiful creation God has given to us to enjoy. There's a fire going, probably, and as evening comes, I sit by the hearth and tend to it. There's no discomfort, and much laughter.
That's my perfect day. And it would make a horrible novel.
Why aren't things that we enjoy experiencing enjoyable to read about? Why do novels have so much conflict and tension between their covers?
Surely it's not because they're realistic? None of the main events in novels have ever happened to me, certainly. I've never been accused of murdering my father, or had a very proud man propose to me (or any man, for that matter), or been forced to compete in a competition where I have to kill other kids my age in order to be the last man standing.
At first, when I was thinking about this, I thought, Perhaps it's some kind of escapism. Perhaps we read to get away from our dull lives. to feel excitement, and fear, and courage; to be warriors, and lovers, and adventurers.
But life isn't dull, is it? Life is full of conflict. It's just not merely as glamorous as the conflict in the books.
But sometimes dishwashers break. Sometimes we get mad and say stupid things to people we love. Sometimes we're tired, and we said we would go to the gym, but now we don't want to. Sometimes we can't find any clean socks, and "We're leaving now!"
If it was truly escapism, wouldn't we want to read that book about the girl who spends all day with her family and pulls little stick off big logs to feed to fire while she sips hot chocolate? Wouldn't that be the goal?
So it must be something else.
But of course! Seeing heroes defeat their dragons satisfies our craving to defeat our own much more stubborn monsters. It's therapeutic in some way, to see Katniss outsmart President Snow, and imagine that's us crushing our own weak desire to go home and eat ice cream instead of doing those leg-presses.
But while that's closer, it doesn't really get to the heart of it. We're not actually thinking about our own inner struggles when we're reading novels. We're not seeing things in a one-to-one ratio; hero's struggle = my struggle in some metaphorical way. Sometimes there's not a hero, and we don't know who the villain is.
The point of conflict in novels is not just that that conflict be resolved. Instead, it's an acknowledgement that there is conflict in this world. That life is tough. And while generally, life is too multifaceted and deep-layered and plain complicated to get a handle on that conflict and be able to see it from any point but close-up, novels boil it down and make you stand at a distance. Novels take grand-scheme ideas and turn them into small-scale plots.
If only all we had to do in order to get happily ever after was to... well, I don't know. But that's the point. In novels, they have some idea of what they have to do. Or even if they don't know, we know. Or even if we don't know, we know that there is something that they have to do.
Novels distill daily conflict into a highly concentrated form with a highly concentrated resolution.
Because conflict ends too. In a myriad of different ways here on earth, but ultimately in the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.
So why do we enjoy being made uncomfortable by novels, at least those that are good, those that are well-written?
Because they're true.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
On Heroes: An Essay
What is a hero? And can one truly be found anymore?
The truth is, most people now would like to tell you that everyone is a hero in some way. In fact, against the backdrop of all the revolutionary wars that that have been fought in recent centuries - particularly the American and French Revolutions - we have gotten to a point where to be considered a hero by no one is out of the ordinary.
The revolutionary spirit carries the hearts of the masses! All men are equal; all men are great. Our worth is in who we are at the core: humans with hearts, and souls, and voices that must be heard. To compare is to betray all who would seem inferior in light of such a comparison. It is to undermine the very foundation on which we treat others with respect.
Of course, some among the audience of this little paper will have seen the flaw already. No one can raise the standard if being better is worse. Superior, inferior; no one hates those words more than the free man who uses his freedom to bear the name of the former and the actions of the latter. In democracy’s eyes, better and worse do not exist, nor do superior and inferior, nor do right and wrong.
So society loves the idea that everyone can be a hero. And oh, we do love our heroes - so long as everyone understands that the man who drags a pregnant woman out of her burning home is no more a hero than the woman who makes strangers happy by smiling at them even when she’d like to cry. It’s all self-sacrifice, after all. And all are equal.
There is a reason heroes have gone extinct.
To be a hero is to be brave and self-sacrificial, but it is to be so to an extreme. It is to stand above the crowd, so high that in their eagerness to look at this man, they will themselves be inspired to climb higher. It is, in a word, to be superior. Not proud or arrogant, for that is where great men become less great; but unusually giving, or caring, or just. But to climb above normalcy now is not an invitation to others to join you, but a request to be cut down to the same size as everyone else.
In ancient times, the grounds for heroes to grow out of were fertile and nutritious. The actions were not easy, but the motivation was there. Heroes received great reward and glory, and often men who found themselves in the lowest of circumstances had need of the greatest of character and feats to escape death or other unpleasant fates. It was easy to tell who was a hero and who was not, and those who were had thoroughly earned the title. Yet how watered down we have become. In trying to give everyone courage, we have spread it thin and encouraged it to be wasted and discarded.
There is in this world, and particularly in this country, a need for men to stir themselves up to action. To shake off those shackles of equalness, give their minds to what is good and right, and expect better of mankind than mankind expects of itself. I do earnestly believe that to be a hero in this day and age would be as difficult, if not more, than it would have been in days past; firstly because when all men lead average lives, it is easier to settle for average than to climb unnecessary heights; and secondly because of the passionate, widespread, selfish jealousy of democracy.
But one thing I cannot deny, thought it might seem contrary to statements I have previously made: men never stop looking for heroes. Man is made to worship. Man is made to love beauty and holiness and truth and justice. And man is made to reflect these characteristics of the God in whose image we are created. Why does humanity love heroes? Why do we seek them hungrily and bask in their glow like lizards in the sun? Because they are little glimpses, here in a world of sin, of that perfect Being who alone can feed and warm us. How lost we all are, and how confused, that we turn our backs on God, and then seek Him where His fullness cannot be found.
Even heroes disappoint. They rise up, brave and selfless, and then they make mistakes, or they simply die. Not perfect or immortal are these better humans. But they make us look up expectantly, as though there were something more than ourselves.
A hero without Christ is a reminder that all men were equally created in God’s image, and that even good deeds cannot save. But a hero, saved and being sanctified, is a reminder of the right order of things; of how this world and the people in it ought to be.
Satan, as usual, takes a little truth and twists it. All men ought to be heroes, perfect and godly. We ought to be full of courage, faith, truth, and love. But it is a mistake to think that we ever can be except through Christ Jesus. Who man is, and who he ought to be, can never be separated from who God is.
What a hero is:
Then one of the servants answered and said, “Look, I have seen a son of Jesse the Bethlehemite, who is skillful in playing, a mighty man of valor, a man of war, prudent in speech, and a handsome person; and the LORD is with him.” 1 Samuel 16:18
What a hero does:
“Be of good courage, and let us be strong for our people and for the cities of our God. And may the LORD do what is good in His sight.” 2 Samuel 10:12
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