Prescience

This morning, I woke up from a dream--I know, but bear with me, it's worth it. 

I dreamt I was in bed and had gotten an idea for a poem. I was all excited, so I got up and told Nick all about it. I was chattering as I got my computer up and running. I wrote it out, saved it, and woke up. 

I was super disappointed it wasn't real. It was a nice poem, I thought. But, the sun was shining, the room was warm, and I could smell chicken korma for tonight that Nick was preparing ahead of time. So, I got up and promptly forgot about the whole thing. 

This afternoon, I remembered it all. The dream, the poem, the waking. And I remembered something else too--I already wrote this poem. I was sure of it. 

In an entry from 11 April, 2019, I found it. Here it is:

Waking Up

Waking up next to you to find
you opening your eyes
at the same time
is a wonderful feeling.

The room is quiet, 
muted by the blanket of snow
slowly growing outside.

The radiator hisses
as our kisses begin to steam
up the window.

The ice will melt from the roof
if we stay just ten more minutes.
The only house on the street
not covered with a thick frost,
steam rising from the shingles.

At the time I wrote this, I was trying to do a poem a day for National Poetry Month in 2019. It was something I wrote sort of off-hand. A character poem, from a perspective other than mine. I'd never lived anywhere with radiators before, and thinking back, there was no snow on the ground when I wrote it. Nick and I were still doing the long distance thing to boot.

This afternoon however, I thought back to when I woke up today. My dressing gown lay on the radiator, muffling the trickling sounds of the pipes that lead to it. And it was so bright because the sun was glinting off the snow covering the world outside. 

It probably doesn't mean anything other than I should be writing more, and editing more. But, I can't help but feel that it's just so... prescient. It's not like my poetry predicted some huge, cataclysmic world event. But, I'm here now. With my partner. In a place with radiators and, right now, snow. And I'm happy. 

2020 Retrospective

So much has happened this year. Nick and I were married 2 Jan, 2020, albeit secretly at first. I got my first tattoo. And, after what seemed like a never-ending process, I acquired my spousal visa and moved to the UK.

2020 has been, well, you know how it's been. But it's at least more positive, or maybe bittersweet for me, rather than totally awful. The things I mentioned before, and family and friends all being there for me--those made the year infinitely better. I'm extremely fortunate. Nick and I are healthy, and we're (now) together, in person, at last. 

Nick and I are still dealing with some moving logistics, but I'm cautiously optimistic things will work out soon. 

Usually in my end-of-year posts, I provide a list of the books I read during the year. However, my book list notebook (along with most of my other earthly possessions) is on its way across the ocean right now. And, all I can remember is four books:

My Love Story Vol. 1 - Kazune Kawahara

Strange Planet - Nathan W. Pyle

Stranger Planet - Nathan W. Pyle

oh no - Alex Norris

So, if you like cute, slice-of-life manga or funny comics, these books would be right up your alley. I immensely enjoyed both. If you don't like either of those things, I suppose you'll have to wait for a larger list next year. (Maybe I should update this thing more than annually?) 

I'll continue getting settled. Hopefully 2021 will mean me getting a new job (soon), and Nick and me moving into a new (bigger) place. 

In the meantime, this place is pretty cozy. This is the warm welcome we received upon our arrival. I know I said it once before, but I really am grateful for my family and friends.

Looking Back

Today, a friend and I were talking about the poems we have published. I have only one to claim, and re-reading it now is an exercise in restraint--I want to edit it to pieces. To rewrite it. It could be so much better! But it's out there, immortalized in print. So I suppose if I want something different, I'll have to write from scratch. Here is that poem:

Our Lady of Sorrows

The hallowed lights have gone away;

our solemn doors are fastened tight—

There is no one left to pause and pray.

Through halls that fade and weather gray,

pervading winds have unfettered flight;

the hallowed lights have gone away.

Nor is there one to wait and stay,

to offer up a closing somber rite.

There is no one left to pause and pray.

Dust creeps up to keep our bloom at bay—

gilded chapels hide behind cobwebs woven white;

the hallowed lights have gone away.

Our waiting for the saving break of day

is useless with this unswept blight.

There is no one left to pause and pray.

Hymns are sleeping silent with decay,

icons slumber, veiled by night.

The hallowed lights have gone away;

there is no one left to pause and pray.

I decided to keep looking through my poetry from college, and I did find a couple poems I am fond of. I still love this sonnet:

Evensong

I am in need of rest to still my soul.

Over my troubled, broken lips,

a peace must wash with symphonies of whole
melodic healing, deep to shake my fingertips.

For restoration, aches my head bent low,

for some refrain to mollify the dead—

a song to cause my heart to overflow,
a hymn to pour like oil over my head.

There is a magic in the rhapsody:

a spell of comfort, slumbered breath, a dawn,
for hearts to dip into a harmony—

the calmness of a sea withdrawn—

to drift eternal in the velvet deep,

to nest in hands of cadence and of sleep.

I also realized I did not write a single thing in 2018. 2018 was honestly a very dark year for me for the most part. 2019 holds so much more promise and hope. I'm going to challenge myself to write this year. At least in April, for National Poetry Month. I'm going to try to write a poem a day for that month. I've done it before, so I know it's possible. I might be a bit rusty, and some days might just be haiku, but that's alright.

Hey, It's Been a While

I recently re-discovered this blog after a couple years away.

Reading my old posts is an exercise in self-control. It takes all I have in me not to delete every cringe-inducing one. But, I know I should let them stand as a record of who I was.

I hate saying that I've grown since then, but I believe I have--as a writer, but more importantly, as a person. It's been almost a decade since I started this blog. I've graduated from college, gotten married, gotten divorced, and lived a lot of life between each of those things.

My physical and mental health have been all over the map in the past ten years. I am pleased to report that things are going much more smoothly this year health-wise. Drastic changes in my life seem to be better for me than I ever thought they could be. I've lost almost 50 lbs, and I've had more good brain days than bad.

I didn't post an end-of-year review like I typically do last year because I was in a very dark place. I'm so happy to have emerged from it.

This is in no small part due to my incredible boyfriend. He has been a friend, an anchor, a jumping off point, and he has offered the best and kindest encouragement anyone has ever given me. I am so grateful to have him in my life.

As for the books I've read since I last posted, here's a list:

Furiously Happy - Jenny Lawson
Naked - David Sedaris*
Not That Kind of Girl - Lena Dunham
Into Thin Air - John Krakauer*
Unmentionable - Therese O'Neill
Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher - Bruce Coville
Into the Land of the Unicorns - Bruce Coville
American Gods - Neil Gaiman*
Talking As Fast As I Can - Lauren Graham
Invisible Monsters - Chuck Palahniuk*
Welcome to Night Vale: A Novel - Joseph Fink*

The ones with asterisks are recommendations.

I don't know how frequently I'll post here, but I know it'll be more than once every other year.

I'll leave you with a quote that sums up my wishes for you in the coming year.

"I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind." - Neil Gaiman

Hesitantly Pleased

Looking back, it seems like each year I get a bit harder on myself about not having achieved my goals in reading and writing. As December dwindled down, I felt the compulsion to make my end-of-year post start tugging at me. The familiar guilt started tugging at me too. It's taken me almost two weeks after the start of the New Year, but I think I'm finally ready to sum up my literary goings on in 2016 without being (too) overcritical.

I'll start with the books I read last year, since the list is short.

Secondhand Souls - Christopher Moore
Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
One Punch Man Volumes 1-3 - Yusuke Murata
When You Are Engulfed in Flames - David Sedaris

I recommend them all wholeheartedly. Just know that Secondhand Souls is a sequel, and also you won't like One Punch Man if you don't like Japanese manga.

I also started approximately seven more books during 2016, but did not finish any more of them during the calendar year, so I won't be adding them to the list.

Next, my writing. I did not write as much as I should have, or nearly as much as I wanted to. But I did write, and that is important. I took two huge steps forward in that I 1) Joined a writing group and 2) Read my poetry at a couple of open mic nights.

These might not sound like huge feats to most people, but for someone as neurotic as I am, these are ticker-tape-parade-worthy accomplishments (that is, if ticker tape parades thrown in my honor wouldn't totally freak me out).

The writing group was (yes, was--I'll explain in a bit) an interesting experience. Invited by a lovely acquaintance, I joined a group of talented individuals to workshop some writing. The group meets every other Tuesday, and most of its core members are published and have been participating the group for years. Needless to say, I was very intimidated. It felt amazing to be in the realm of writing again though, after having been away from writing courses in college for what feels like so long.

The first week, I failed to bring enough copies of my poetry for everyone and therefore freaked out and hid the notebook I brought when asked if I had anything for the group.

The next time, I hauled out one of my favorite poems, which I have been working on periodically for a couple years. It turns out, no one in the writing group really writes or even reads poetry much. I got a lot of flat feedback to the tune of, "I liked it." And then one individual, nameless to protect the guilty, told me that I should Google how to write poetry. I was so flustered, I think I actually replied, "Okay." No indignant defense. No line of questioning. Just meek acquiescence.

I cocooned myself in righteous anger, texting my best friend about the ordeal as well as coming home and stuttering an iteration of what just transpired at my stunned husband. I dismissed this person's appraisal of my work as uneducated, and I put the folder of marked-on copies of my poems to the side. For a while.

I had already decided that since the group's forte was certainly not poetry, that I would only bring prose in the future. However, it would be dishonest of me in the extreme to say that was the only reason, and that I was not also very, very afraid.

In weeks to come, I workshopped the first chapter of a long piece, which I have worked on and laid aside intermittently since college. I received a lot of really great feedback, and just letting myself delve into the world in which that piece takes place felt very much like home.

It was then, in July, when I injured myself quite badly. Following that, I got wrapped up with Tokyo in Tulsa, and after that came blood clots and general poor health, which plagued me for quite some time.

I'm sorry to say I haven't been back to the writing group since. Every time I consider it, I feel anxiety bubble up my throat and take a firm hold of me. It seemed commonplace for other writers to appear and disappear from the group, so I'm not sure why it feels so wrong of me to want to go back after a long hiatus, but it does. I hope I get the courage to go back this year. I really do.

I did find the gumption in the fall of last year to attend an open mic night for poetry. This might come as quite a shock to some, since public speaking is not high on my list of favorite things. It probably ranks below getting a flat tire, but still above minor injuries. The truth is, I was kind of rooked into the thing, and once I was in the midst of it, I was too ashamed to admit I'd been had.

A newcomer at the writing group happened to be there the day I had my poem workshopped. She told me she occasionally went to a group, who met once a month, that loved poetry and was always looking for new members. I could not have been more delighted. She told me they met at a certain coffee shop, at a certain time, and, what luck--the next meeting was in a few days. She told me she'd see me there.

I arrived a bit early to get the lay of the land, and also some tea. I spied a small stage set up for what looked to be a local band, who had already done a sound check and left their instruments propped up and ready. I found a seat in a corner, where I could observe everyone a little better. Most seemed to be college students, working frenetically, or people in their mid-30s stopping by for a drink before commuting home from their work nearby. Then I spied a group of women with slightly frizzy hair, lots of silver and turquoise jewelry, quirky boots, and handmade capes and shawls.

After the top of the hour came and went, I decided to make my way over to their table and see if this was the group I had been told about. Before I could, an older gentleman stood up in front of me and beat me to them. One of the ladies produced a piece of paper for the man, and he signed his name on the top line. She explained to him that after the band played a set, the group would have their turn. After the three regulars, he was first in line. He turned, brushed past me back to his seat, and the smiling woman with the paper asked me, "Are you here to read too?"

This wasn't a poetry workshop. It was an open mic night. I frantically glanced around, looking for the woman who had been at the writing group. Had she even been real in the first place?

I then had what I can only describe as an out-of-body experience. It was like those dreams where you watch yourself do something that you would normally never do in real life, all the while, you scream at yourself, "No! Don't do the thing!"

I heard myself say, "Yes!" and watched myself sign my name on the next line.

After I made my way back to my seat, I mechanically dug in my purse for my anti-anxiety meds, took one with my tea, and sat slightly slack-jawed as the band performed their first few songs.

The regular poets introduced themselves, each read a poem or two, ranging from political diatribes to peaceful haiku, and then turned the mic over to the older gentleman who had signed up before me. I cannot even begin to say what his poem was about, or even if it was good or bad. I had ceased being able to feel my hands at this point, and the air tasted like copper.

Then I was standing in front of the microphone, and I started to read. "Louder!" I heard from my right. I looked over, and the affable woman with the paper gave me a thumbs up. I tried again, and soon, there was applause. I was finished. I think I may have managed to smile before darting back to my stool. As soon as I got there, the nice woman found me and introduced herself. She told me she loved my piece, that the other poets felt the same, and she would love for me to read another poem later, if I would be so kind. I looked up to see the other women smiling and waving from their table, and a few other people scattered around the coffeehouse smiling at me as well.

I did read another poem that night, and I was hounded after the whole thing was said and done to come back and read again the next month. And the next.

2016 was a mixed bag for me, but toward the end of it, I was afforded a lot of clarity. I've changed an incredible amount in what feels like a very short time. I think if the me from five years ago could have a conversation with me now, she wouldn't recognize herself. And I'm glad for that.

Tonight, I just finished reading Jenny Lawson's second book, Furiously Happy. It is brilliant, witty, irreverent, and perfect in every way I needed a book to be today. Her insight into mental illness and depression always hits very close to home. The title alone is a testament to her current outlook on life. In October 2010, Jenny Lawson decided she had had it with sadness, and that from then on, she would be furiously happy, out of sheer spite. After just a few hours of turning that phrase into a hashtag on Twitter, the response was tremendous "as people loudly fought to take their lives back from the monster of depression."

I will continue to push myself to say yes to opportunities, even if it just means changing out of my pajamas at 6:00pm and going to see my best friend for a couple of hours on a weeknight. Because even that much is very hard for me sometimes. And you know what? I'm getting better.

This last year was not a red letter one, in terms of my mental health. But, with the patience of my doctors, the support of my husband, family, and friends, I am still going. For the most part, my symptoms are under better control, and I am pushing forward. Most of the time, I am not furiously happy, and that's okay with me. As much as I adore Jenny Lawson, she and I are two very different people. I feel like I'm satisfied by less grandiose gestures of emotion and well-being. My anxiety likes to tell me (constantly) that when I am happy, something terrible is around the next corner. But I've decided to try not to care (as much). As of this moment, I am hesitantly pleased.

2015 in Review

I've been avoiding writing this post for almost a month. I try to write an end-of-year book review and give an update about my writing life at the very least for my few readers, but I've been afraid to do even that.

Last year around this time I was so inspired, and then my motivation just slipped away. I could blame it on circumstances, e.g. work, sickness, but that wouldn't be fair. I stopped writing because I lacked the discipline to keep to the schedule I made myself, and the guilt I feel from that is justified.

Eighteen poems--that's all I wrote last year. I can do better, and I will.

And this year, I will read more too. In my last post I lamented only having read seven books over the course of the year and promised myself to blast past that number and get back to an average I considered to be more suitable for myself.

In the areas of my life which matter most, I feel I've fallen apart.

2015 was not an outstanding year for me, and 2016 certainly hasn't started out with a bang, but I am working on cobbling things back together. I am extremely fortunate in that I have an amazingly supportive husband, who is there for me no matter if I write or don't.

Over the last couple months particularly, I have been struggling with my depression. It's not something I speak about publicly often, and I don't think I've ever mentioned it here. So, here it is. I have both generalized anxiety and a major depressive disorder. For a long time, it's been controlled by medication, but a couple months ago that all changed due to circumstances out of my control. The road to recovery, or at least normalcy, has been rocky to say the least. But, I am reading again. I am putting down video games and other distractions and letting my brain work out a bit instead of letting myself coast.

This blog post may be the first thing I've written this year, but it certainly won't be the last. I will have a happy update the next time I write here. I will.

Books I read in 2015:

The Serpent of Venice - Christopher Moore
Hyperbole and a Half - Allie Brosh*
The Tenderest Lover - Walt Whitman* (recommended if you like Whitman's poetry)
Cat's Cradle - Kurt Vonnegut
Coraline - Neil Gaiman* (a very welcome re-read)

I also read most of Small Victories by Anne Lamott but had to put it down about 3/4 the way through. It made me unbearably sad in a myriad of ways. So rather than torture myself just to finish it, I put it back on the shelf.

My husband and I also read Game of Thrones out loud to each other off and on throughout the year. We didn't quite finish by December 31st, but it should still get an honorable mention (even if it's a re-read for me).

So, seven-ish books is the grand total (yet again).

My uncle, who dearly loved reading, passed away in October last year. My aunt was so good as to let me go through his books and take whichever ones I wanted as she said he'd want someone who loves books to have them. So, in addition to the shelf of books I have to read, I have a couple more stacks. I have my work cut out for me, but I'll do my uncle (and all else who love me) proud this year.

Lifestyle Change

I spoke with a friend recently about how major changes in one's life can affect everything, even things that might go unnoticed at first.

I thought back over this past year and marveled at how many big changes occurred: I started a new job, my parents divorced, I moved in with my fiance, my fiance and I got married.

That's a lot of change. Most of it was very good for me, so I thought to myself, "Well, at least I'm not one of those people who lets change in their lives completely derail them."

Yesterday, I realized I hadn't posted my annual book list. Every year I post the books I read that year with recommendations. I opened up my book journal and froze. I read seven books in 2014. Seven.

To put that in perspective, let me give you the totals for the past few years:

2008 = 27
2009 = 47
2010 = 47
2011 = 59
2012 = 72
2013 = 32
2014 = 7

That's an average of about 47 books per year. Until this year.

And as much as I hate to admit it, reading isn't the only aspect of my life that was affected. My writing was too. I virtually stopped writing. In fact, honestly, for the whole of 2014, I think I wrote a maximum of five poems and one short story. That's really awful.

I'm getting back on track this year. I'm hesitant to include this and make it public because I'm not sure if I can truly follow through with it, but I'm going to give it my best shot--I'm going to write a poem every day in 2015. I've been successful thus far, but it is only day eleven.

I'm also going to start reading more again. I'm already almost done with one book and am halfway through another.

I also want to make it clear now that my then-fiance/now-husband is in no way responsible for me reading or writing less. He always encourages me when I do these activities. I think it was just at the end of the day, it was easier for me to mindlessly watch Netflix or play video games or even just space out. The thought of delving into another world of my own making or someone else's was too complex. Rather than seeing it as a release, I felt it was a burden. What a terrible mindset to have. I've happily obliterated that thought process.

Since it's so short, I will post my 2014 book list here. Recommendations have asterisks.

1. The Graveyard Book – Neil Gaiman**
2. Bossypants – Tina Fey*
3. John Dies at the End – David Wong* (If you don't mind lots and lots of profanity, absurd violence, some sex, and lots of things that don't make any sense--but seriously, if you don't mind those things, please read this book. It's great.)
4. The Absolute Sandman Volume 1 – Neil Gaiman*
5. Let’s Pretend This Never Happened – Jenny Lawson*
6. Fragile Things – Neil Gaiman*
7. This Book is Full of Spiders – David Wong

There you have it. 

Grace Note

Today, grace looks a lot like reading.

I finally finished Some Assembly Required, and I'm incredibly glad I did. If you've not read anything by Anne Lamott before, please do. I recommend Traveling Mercies, and if you're a writer, Bird by Bird.

I had some trouble getting through this one, for a number of reasons. One of which was dealing with the grief of losing my grandmother. Strange things bring grief back to a person. Little triggers can be anywhere and everywhere. But here, they were quite obvious. Some Assembly Required is the journal of the first year of Annie's son's first son. During that year, a much beloved and elderly relative is in the last stages of his life, and passes away. I'm not really spoiling anything for you. Grief in Anne Lamott books is nothing new to me, but this hit me a little hard, especially considering how small the section about the actual death was.

I love the encouragement, peace, and grace I can find in these books. Annie's anxieties and neuroses are akin to mine, and reading about how another imperfect person deals with these things is cathartic, and often very funny.

Instead of rambling on about my interpretations of her work, I'm going to leave this post with a few quotations from Some Assembly Required. These are passages which stuck out most to me, for one reason or another.

From an interview with [her son] Sam, September 25.

Sam: "It's so incredibly humbling when someone forgives you--I can't ever believe it when people forgive me, because you know how badly you've screwed up, and how you've hurt them, and how hard it is for them to be brave enough to find it in themselves to reexperience the pain you caused, and the humiliation that is in them because of you--and for someone to be willing to refeel that much like shit again, reexperience it out of not wanting to lose you, means how deeply precious you are to them. And that's pure gold."

I'm going to go ahead and transcribe an entire entry. This is Annie's from November 9.

"The only son of some people in town Sam and I know has died.

How on earth can the parents survive that? How can the grandparents?

Same old inadequate answer: They will survive with enormous sadness and devastation. I don't see how that is possible. But looking back over the years, I see that people do go on against absolutely all odds, and truly savage loss.

Some of us have a raggedy faith. You cry for a long time, and then after that are defeated and flattened for a long time. Then somehow life starts up again. Other people set up foundations so other kids don't die the way theirs did, and so their kids didn't die in vain, or they do political work for the common good. Your friends surround you like white blood cells. It's just fucking unbelievably sad, pretty much forever, when so much love and life have been packed into one person and then the person dies too soon. But you can shake your fist at the void with scorn and say, "You didn't get her, you bastard. We did." Some aching beauty comes with huge loss, although maybe not right away, when it would be helpful. Life is a very powerful force, despite the constant discouragement. So if you are a person with connections to life, a few tendrils eventually break through the sidewalk of loss, and you notice them, maybe space out studying them for a few moments, or maybe they tickle you into movement and response, if only because you have to scratch your nose."

I told myself I wouldn't do this, but I don't see any other way around. Here's another full entry.

November 27, Letter to Jax [Annie's grandson] on the Secret of Life

"Dear Jax: Yesterday was your first Thanksgiving, and it is the time of year to impart to you the secret of life. You will go through your life thinking there was as day in second grade that you must have missed, when the grown-ups came in and explained everything important to the other kids. They said: 'Look, you're human, you're going to feel isolated and afraid a lot of the time, and have bad self-esteem, and feel uniquely ruined, but here is the magic phrase that will take this feeling away. It will be like a feather that will lift you out of that fear and self-consciousness every single time, all throughout your life.' And then they told the children who were there that day the magic phrase that everyone else in the world knows about and uses when feeling blue, which you don't know, because you were home sick the day the grown-ups told the children the way the whole world works.

But there was not such a day in school. No one got the instructions. That is the secret of life. Everyone is flailing around, winging it most of the time, trying to find the way out, or through, or up, without a map. This lack of instruction manual is how most people develop compassion, and how they figure out to show up, care, help and serve, as the only way of filling up and being free. Otherwise, you grow up to be someone who needs to dominate and shame others so no one will know you weren't there the day the instructions were passed out . . . ."

From February 3

"Besides, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if something was not my problem, I probably did not have the solution. There are no words for how much I hate, resent and resist this."

From April 20

" . . . my pastor Veronica says that peace is joy at rest, and joy is peace on its feet."

From June 7

"Sometimes--like at weddings or funerals--you have to eat vast quantities because you need to be weighted. You need ballast, or you might just float away in the pain or joy or anxiety. Other times, like today, you just want to shovel it in, for fun, and because you don't want to have to think too much. Eating is so familiar, and marvelously stupid."

Book List 2013

I typically try to out-do myself every year with how many books I read. 2012 claimed 72 books, so I knew it would be difficult to beat. However, I did not think I would fall so utterly flat. Right now I'm sitting at 33 and 3/4.

For part of 2012, I was still in school full-time finishing up my Bachelor's degree. I was also working part-time. My quick reading pace from 2012 built up some momentum and carried me up until March. Then no progress for six months. I know what was going on for me during that time, but it's no excuse. There shouldn't be that large of a gap. And now that I've been unemployed for almost three months, I should have made it up much faster than I have. I will do better next year. Enough hemming and hawing though; I need to post my list.

The ones with asterisks are recommended. Anything in parentheses are requirements for reading or general commentary.)

If you have any questions about these books, please comment or shoot me a Facebook message or text.

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency - Douglas Adams* (Yes, it's by the Hitchhiker's Guide guy)
Nerd Do Well - Simon Pegg* (Must be die-hard Simon Pegg fan)
Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk - David Sedaris
Storm of Swords - George R.R. Martin*
A Feast for Crows - George R.R. Martin*
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl*
I Am America and So Can You - Stephen Colbert* (Must love America and satire)
Zombies: A Record of the Year of Infection - Don Roff (There's some amazing watercolor in this one)
Gossamer - Lois Lowry*
American Psycho - Brett Easton Ellis* (Prepare for the violence; no matter what you do, you won't be prepared)
Breakfast at Tiffany's Truman Capote*
Valis - Philip K. Dick* (Only if you're going to read the whole trilogy, and please do)
The Divine Invasion - Philip K. Dick (See above)
The Transmigration of Timothy Archer - Philip K. Dick (Ditto)
A Dance with Dragons - George R.R. Martin*
A Wizard of Earthsea - Ursula Le Guin*
Motherless Brooklyn - Jonathan Lethem*
Cosmos - Carl Sagan* (If you love the beauty of space and won't get too bogged down by the lingo)
Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls - David Sedaris*
The Ocean at the End of the Lane - Neil Gaiman* (I'm surprised this one hasn't received more praise)
i, Robot - Isaac Asimov*
Like Water for Chocolate - Laura Esquivel
Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden*
Onepiece volume 1 - Eiichiro Oda
Onepiece volume 2 - Eiichiro Oda
Onepiece volume 3 - Eiichiro Oda
Sacre Bleu - Christopher Moore*
Blackbird House - Alice Hoffman
'Tis - Frank McCourt* (If you've read Angela's Ashes)
The Sandman Vol 1 Ch 1 - Neil Gaiman* (Read all of The Sandman. All of it!)
Popgun War: Gift - Farel Dalrymple*
Coyote Blue - Christopher Moore*
I Am Pusheen - Claire Belton* (Everyone can use more adorable in their lives)
Some Assembly Required - Anne Lamott* (Should read Operating Instructions first; don't be like me)

Breaking Tradition

During the planning of a wedding, the couple has a lot of choices to make, and not just about what color they want the tablecloths at the reception. How do you want your ceremony to go? Will you use a minister? Practice handfasting? Jump the broom? Throw rice? These are all traditions represented still in modern weddings, even handfasting, literally tying the knot, and jumping the broom. These last two are among many ancient wedding rites coming back into practice today in order to make the ceremony more unique or to bring the couple closer.

So, what will we do? We decided a while ago that our wedding will be small. This will mean we won't get to invite absolutely everyone we know. My fiance has a big family, and I have a fairly large circle of friends, so we have some more choices ahead of us.

My fiance has been great with wedding planning so far. He and I tend to have very similar taste when it comes to style, so we haven't run into any disagreements, and our communication has been open.

We don't oppose tradition, but there are some traditions we will be doing without. I mentioned the size of our wedding so this next statement isn't so strange. We aren't going to have a wedding procession. Right now, it's just us. The bride and groom, and whoever we choose to officiate the ceremony. So, my husband-to-be will go up to the front, music will play, the guests will settle, I will walk up the aisle, the officiant will welcome everyone, and the ceremony will proceed. In my mind, it's simple, flows well, and suits us. But, it's leaving some things out. I tried to mention it casually, so let me bring it to the forefront for emphasis now. I will be walking up the aisle by myself.

I love my parents very much, and I would never do anything to hurt them. But the thought of being "given away," hearkening back to a tradition of women being treated like chattel, unsettles me.

While this tradition has become something deeply sentimental in modern weddings, it still rubs me the wrong way. And since it is usually a part of modern weddings, it can make talking to people about leaving out this detail a little difficult.

It's not that I'm not sentimental. I'm a wedding photographer! Most people don't see it because I make myself blend into the background to do my job, but I cry at weddings. When couples say their vows, the people sitting down don't always get to hear what the couple says, but I do. And it's rare that I witness a ceremony in which my eyes don't at least well up a little. In fact, my wedding will probably be no different. I will try my hardest to remain composed, but I will also use as much make-up primer and finishing spray as I can get my hands on, because most likely I will cry.

However, just because something is sweet or done in a loving capacity doesn't mean it doesn't come from a longstanding tradition that represents an awful facet of society, such as women being treated as property. I've been doing some research to see how people get around this because, well, as nice as the moment is whenever the officiant asks, "Who gives this bride in marriage?" it's essentially just flowery verbiage for a sales transaction.

Since we live in modern times, tradition isn't necessarily at the forefront of all weddings as it used to be, and gender roles are happily being cast aside in light of social equality. But, I still can't find an example of when a groom's parents have stood up and given him away. They might escort him down the aisle in the processional, but nobody gives a man away. It just doesn't happen, and I find that striking.

Honoring my family is extremely important to me. I love them so much, and through marrying my fiance, I will be incorporating his family into my life too, so I'll have even more people to love. And I'm thrilled! My fiance and I are the people we are because of our parents. I'm more grateful for that than I can say. And I have also been extremely humbled recently, because my parents have given us a substantial financial gift for our wedding.

Because honoring our parents is important to us, we are going to have something in the ceremony that will incorporate each of them. It's still almost a year away, so this may change, but I think having a candle-lighting ceremony would be lovely. My mom, my dad, his mom, and his dad would all go up and light one candle, symbolically lighting the way for our future together.

NaNoWriM--Oh No

Well, it's day six of National Novel Writing Month, and I'm four days behind. Instead of making excuses I'm forging ahead. I don't know if this writing month will only be about the novel for me though. I hadn't written in a long while until just a few days ago, and things are starting to loosen that need to be let out. I need to write some poems I think, or at least just the one that's been tumbling around up in my brain. And I need to journal, desperately.

I'm shooting for the 50,000 word count to be a "winner" at the end of the month, but my long work is not the only thing I'll be working on. I was not prepared for this month in any way, shape, or form--and not just when it comes to writing. The past month and a half of my life has been topsy-turvy, to put it nicely.

It all started when I fell down my stairs. Well, it started much before that I suppose, but this was the catalyst. When I slipped and fell down the stairs, which were fortunately plushly carpeted, I bent and bruised my tailbone. Because I was unable to sit up or do much of anything, I could not work. At my job, I was on the last step of disciplinary action for absences (because I worked for big, corporate doo-doo heads). So, whenever I was able to come back, I would be subject to termination. I decided to use of the rest of my paid time-off and after the very last paid moment passed, I resigned. I'm hoping it will look better for me to have resigned my position rather than having been forcefully terminated for absenteeism.

Quick side note.

Here's what made up my disciplinary points over the course of six months: half day because I was throwing up, full day because I was throwing up, full day because of allergic reaction, half day because of throwing up, half day because of anxiety attack AT work, and a missed punch. Yes, a missed punch on the time clock has the same weight has half a day of absence. All this, followed by my butt-bruising, would culminate in me being let go.

I've forgotten to mention until now that the day I fell was a Monday. On the Friday of this particular week, my fiance and I had planned on moving in together.

So, I fell down the stairs, nearly breaking my tailbone and rendering myself absolutely bedridden for five weeks, losing my job, having to cancel plans of moving in with my fiance (which affected him and his family in an alarming number of ways, which thankfully have mostly been mended), my dog became unwell, I got sick, she got better, I got better, and then she got much, much worse. We, my parents and I, made the decision to put the dog down. We raised her for eight and a half years, from when she was a very small puppy. I can't begin to describe how hard this has been on all of us.

I read Memoirs of a Geisha for the first time today. In it, I found a quote about grief I found poignant. "Grief is a most peculiar thing; we're so helpless in the face of it. It's like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it." None of us has found that day, I don't think, so we still pull a blanket over our shoulders and try to keep the window closed.

Shortly before my dog became so ill, a close friend of mine suffered an immense trauma. I had to balance how I dealt with everything in my life before I could think of helping them. I still have to, and it's a constant tightrope walk. Clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder have a way of bringing the world crashing down even when it's not. But when the world is a little wobbly to begin with, well, those little storm clouds don't exactly help things much.

In this span of time, my mother's health has declined. We are relieved to have a diagnosis and are proceeding as cheerfully as possible with trying to help her get her diet in order to get this thing licked. It's a tall order. With as much as I've been through in these past few weeks, she has had an infinitely harder fight. I can't help but marvel at her strength, even though I know she does not feel strong in any way.

*EDIT* My mom is okay! I've had a lot asking after her her well-being after I posted this, and I can assure you she really will be okay. She's had some major digestive issues, has undergone a lot of testing, and now we're learning how to help manage her diet to reduce discomfort and to get keep her healthy.

I am sick, again, but I am mending. I'm going to persevere and keep writing--in my journal. It may be pieces of my long work, a poem, about a particularly disturbing dream I had, or just thoughts that need to be laid out and put to rest, but it will be something. 50,000 words at least by the end of November. And I will continue journaling beyond that into the months to come.

Thank you for bearing with me through all this.

Excuses

Excuses are all I have to offer for this post, really. Since the new year dawned, I've been writing less than usual. I finally started a short story I've had rolling around my head for about a year and got 1,700 words to it, but I haven't picked it up since that first burst of creativity. I was just complaining to my writing group that most of my inspiration seems to strike me at awfully inconvenient times, most often when I'm driving down the highway on the way home from work, with no way to record the images attempting to sear my brain and prod me into action. I promise myself I'll write what I can remember of it when I get home, but other things inevitably come first--cooking food, eating food, etc. It seems I'm rarely inspired when I'm at home or anywhere near paper or pen or computer in general.

Aside from that one unfinished short story, I have the first draft of a very short poem I wrote today. I'm really rather fond of it because it began from one of those stark images that impressed itself upon me. Fortunately, I was in a place to set to writing immediately when that happened.

I have another image in my brain still half floating around, a ghost of what it was when it first appeared, as I was driving down Highway 169. Perhaps it's fitting. I think it was supposed to be about things lost, things forgotten, fog, mist, the past.

It's About That Time

With the end of 2012 comes the summation of my reading for the year. Unlike in years past, this year I will pick out my top five favorites from my recommended books and even try to deem one as "best." Some of these books (most, in fact) were new to me, but some were re-reads. I think I may borrow the tradition of some of my friends and re-read LOTR every year. There are just so many books out there to read--we'll see. The books with asterisks are recommended for everyone in general. Anyone who has read Christopher Moore needs to read all he's written. He's my favorite authorial find this year. Absurd, hilarious magical realism. A Dirty Job, Lamb, and Fluke are my all-time favorites. Also, this list is subject to change because it's possible I may finish any of the four books I'm reading right now before January 1st.

Without further ado, here are the books I read in 2012.

1. Flight - Sherman Alexie*
2. Sula - Toni Morrison*
3. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian - Sherman Alexie*
4. The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera
5. The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams*
6. The Truth About Stories - Thomas King
7. A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man - James Joyce*
8. A Midsummer Night's Dream - Shakespeare*
9. Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare*
10. Tracks - Louise Erdrich*
11. A Wrinkle in Time - Madeline L'Engle*
12. Solar Storms - Linda Hogan*
13. A Game of Thrones - George R.R. Martin*
14. Ceremony - Leslie Marmon Silko
15. Lament for a Son - Nicholas Wolterstorff
16. Odd and the Frost Giants - Neil Gaiman
17. M is for Magic - Neil Gaiman*
18. Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs*
19. Castle in the Air - Dianna Wynne Jones*
20. Out of Oz - Gregory Maguire*
21. The Fellowship of the Ring - J.R.R. Tolkien*
22. The Two Towers - J.R.R. Tolkien*
23. The Return of the King - J.R.R. Tolkien*
24. The Hobbit - J.R.R. Tolkien*
25. Good Omens - Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman*
26. The Sandman: A Game of You - Neil Gaiman*
27. The Color of Magic - Terry Pratchett*
28. A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess*
29. A Clash of Kings - George R.R. Martin*
30. The Princess Bride - William Goldman
31. The Once and Future King - T.H. White
32. Practical Magic - Alice Hoffman*
33. Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card*
34. The Cider House Rules - John Irving*
35. The Good Earth - Pearl S. Buck
36. The Perks of Being a Wallflower - Stephen Chbosky*
37. Anansi Boys - Neil Gaiman*
38. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
39. Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim - David Sedaris*
40. The Alchemist - Paolo Coelho*
41. Interview With the Vampire - Anne Rice*
42. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
43. Poetry 180 - ed. Billy Collins*
44. House of Many Ways - Dianna Wynne Jones*
45. Holidays on Ice - David Sedaris*
46. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez*
47. Practical Demonkeeping - Christopher Moore
48. Bloodsucking Fiends - Christopher Moore
49. Book of Shadows - Cate Tiernan
50. The Coven - Cate Tiernan
51. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood*
52. You Suck - Christopher Moore
53. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
54. Bite Me - Christopher Moore
55. The Poisonwood Bible - Barbara Kingsolver*
56. The Hotel New Hampshire - John Irving*
57. Have Spacesuit--Will Travel - Robert A. Heinlein
58. Fluke - Christopher Moore*
59. Picnic, Lightning - Billy Collins*
60. Possession - A.S. Byatt*
61. The Life of Pi - Yann Martel
62. Little Women - Louisa May Alcott*
63. Island of the Sequined Love Nun - Christopher Moore
64. The Tales of Beedle the Bard - J.K. Rowling
65. The Stupidest Angel - Christopher Moore*
66. The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien*
67. The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove - Christopher Moore*
68. The Dispossessed - Ursula Le Guin*
69. Diary - Chuck Palahniuk*
70. America Again: Rebecoming the Greatness We Never Weren't - Stephen Colbert*
71. On the Road - Jack Kerouac*


My top five favorites, in order of descending greatness.
1. The Dispossessed - Ursula Le Guin
2. A Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
3. The Poisonwood Bible - Barbara Kingsolver
4. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
5. Possession - A.S. Byatt


I read many great books this year, but these five were absolutely life-changing for me. I was affected seriously by each one and wish that everyone who reads this will read each of these books at some point in their lives.

To Self-Publish or Not to Self-Publish?

Am I terribly old hat because that question terrifies me? Something tells me I'm not alone. I know self-publishing is no longer a last resort, a grudging alternative to "traditional routes," but something in me bristles at the notion of my actually doing it.

I'm currently compiling a manuscript of poetry. I thought with the wealth of poems I've managed to produce over the past several years that it might not be that hard. I was sadly wrong. As daunting as just putting things together to produce a cohesive piece and polishing it all up is, publishing is so much more terrifying.

I tell myself that I can continue to submit to contests--single pieces, three poems, or even a chapbook or whole collection--and that once I'm comfortable I can submit a finished MS to "reputable" publishers. My mind flags them as reputable, even though I know the literary journals and other places I've been submitting are just as reputable in reality. Perhaps what my brain means is "prolific." Then I can start my slog up the literary ladder until I have a chance to spin that magic fame and fortune wheel.

As I sit back and ponder this line of thinking, I realize I've had it since I was in third grade, when I first decided I wanted to be a writer. But where do I go from here?

I felt a similar panic when I was confronted with the concept of literary agents a couple years ago. The idea of marketing my product was something which simply had not occurred to me. Doesn't the publisher do that? The inner workings of the literary world sometimes seem as complex as the worlds the books they publish reveal to readers. I hope this anxiety at the concept of self-publishing is a rapidly passing one. It seems that more and more people are open to the idea of it, but the practical aspects of it are still a mystery to me. A simple Google search yields an incredible amount of information regarding self-publishing: articles, blog posts, reviews of self-published books, books about self-publishing, self-published books about self-publishing.

It seems like I've reached the end of this post and don't have much in the way of resolution. Rather than pontificating further, here's a quote regarding the nature of poetry from Charles Simic, taken from the Poets Laureate Anthology:

                 I remember once--I was teaching in the schools in
                 El Paso, Texas. And a student had asked . . . me
                 what poetry was good for. And I was stunned,
                 because it's such a serious question. It's a difficult
                 question. And suddenly a hand went up. It was a
                 young woman. So I said . . . "What do you think?"
                 And she said, "To remind people of their own
                 humanity." That struck me as so sensible, so
                 moving, so poignant . . . . You know, I'm mortal,
                 I exist, I have my own conscience, I have my own
                 being, myself. Here I am with this universe. Maybe
                 there's a God; maybe there's no God. This is my
                 predicament, my human predicament. Poetry
                 reminds readers of that.

Official Review: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

The first installment of Peter Jackson's Hobbit trilogy gives audiences a familiar, exciting glimpse into the world of Middle-Earth, with a twist. Those who have read Tolkien's books may notice a large difference in tone between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. The Hobbit was written before The Lord of the Rings and is intended to be read by a much younger audience, giving the narration a classic story-book tone. Readers unaware of this who read the epic saga of the Ring and then turn to The Hobbit as a prequel may be jolted by the difference in style. In the same way, audiences taking for granted Jackson's Hobbit as LOTR part 4 will find the tone vastly changed.

The film starts in the familiar, rolling landscape of the Shire and features Bilbo Baggins, played by Martin Freeman, as the quiet, unassuming protagonist who is swept away on an unlikely adventure. Joined with a troupe of Dwarves as well as the wizard Gandalf, played by Ian McKellen, Bilbo meets with harrowing danger and finds himself very much out of place. Bilbo's choices during the film further his character and foreshadow more great development for the entire arc of the Hobbit trilogy.

I saw the film in 3-D featuring the high frame rate and was amazed with the clarity these assets lent the film. While the 3-D element certainly makes things pop, its incorporation is not the bygone kind hearkening back to an image of a paddle ball being sprung in the audience's face. And while these elements make viewing the film an incredible treat, I do not believe they are necessary for one to truly enjoy the experience. The cinematography in the film is beautiful on its own, Jackson's familiar direction availing itself as grand once again.

The new technology utilized in creating the film may seem subtle to some, but it is just what the film needs, rather than scene after scene of dizzying flashes of epic battle scenes a la Michael Bay to baffle the viewer. The film relies on multiple new media including new performance capture technology for Gollum, played by Andy Serkis, allowing the entire performance to be caught all at once with live-action cameras filming the motions and expressions of an individual while retaining the actual footage used in the final cut of the film including the interactions with other actors.

Some may be concerned by the length of this film and the promise of those to come. For Jackson's vision, he relies not only on the original text of The Hobbit but also on supplementary texts such as The Silmarillion to add scenes such as the ones featuring the Necromancer, played by Benedict Cumberbatch. While these inclusions do add length to the film, they enrich it with back story and details immediately connected with the plot. Jackson's film also departs from the text in other ways, including the featuring of Azog, the mysterious Pale Orc, as a large antagonist.

While this film is beautiful and enthralling, it certainly is not perfect. In the first few scenes of the film, featuring a retelling of the story of the Dwarves' loss of Erebor, the action looks a bit choppy, perhaps owing to time constraints meaning certain pieces of the film were sped up a bit, or maybe even the scrutinizing eye the high frame rate lends. The depiction of Radagast, the brown Wizard, played by Sylvestor McCoy, is debatable. Radagast is described as being odd in the books, due to his seclusion and love of nature, but the film portrays him as positively zany. With so many other humorous elements in the film, such as the natural banter of the Dwarves, Radagast's hyperactive bumbling seems unnecessary.

All in all, Jackson's vision of The Hobbit is enchanting, pulling viewers into the realm of Middle-Earth once again for a slightly different kind of adventure.

10 Books Every Woman Should Read in Her Twenties

If you've been on Pinterest and browsed through popular pins regarding literature, you've probably come across a pin to the article "10 Books Every Girl Should Read in Her Twenties." I did not too long ago, and I must say, I was incredibly disappointed. The first book is Confessions of a Shopaholic. The rest are mainly "chick-lit" or self-help type books promoting being satisfied without a "BFF," a boyfriend, or a career. While self-actualization and satisfaction are worthy and good things, this pointed list tears at the image of an independent woman. The article's blurb about The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank says the book,  " . . . follow[s] heroine Jane Rosenal's search for what every girl wants in her twenties--a steady boyfriend, a fulfilling career, and self-identity." Does every woman really want that in her twenties? I know some who would disagree. Again and again, this article makes the assumption that women can only have one sexual orientation--heterosexual, and that this inherent need means they are incomplete without a man in their life. In fact, they're so incomplete, they need multiple guides just to get them through the short intervals between romantic trysts and significant others.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying every book on this list is "bad." In fact, there are some great books there. I just don't think they're necessarily appropriate for every woman, let alone every woman while she is in her twenties. Pride and Prejudice made the list. While it is a classic, and one of my personal favorites, this isn't a book I would push on a woman in her twenties. The social and class commentary is excellent, and the characters are certainly compelling; however, I would recommend this as a first read to a woman at a younger age--perhaps 16 or 17. The Joy Luck Club also made the list. It's a wonderful depiction of different dynamics in female-female relationships, mainly those of mother-daughter. I have no problem with this book being on the list. Amy Tan's writing is beautiful, and the personalities of the various protagonists within the book are very different, serving as an example of many things a woman could want rather than stuffing her into one tiny, conventional box.

Rather than continuing on about this list's girlish shortcomings, I was inspired by a couple friends to make my own. So, here is a list of books every woman should read in her twenties.

1. The Awakening - Kate Chopin
The Awakening is a novel set in southern Louisiana at the end of the 19th century. It follows protagonist Edna Pontellier as she struggles against society due to her changing views of motherhood and femininity in the South. The rich psychological nature of this novel alongside Chopin's dazzling imagery and her laudable presentation of women's issues marks this book as a true classic.

2. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
Set in rural George in the 1930s, this epistolary novel follows narrator Celie from age fourteen, as she pushes out against her position in society. She wonders about her sister Nettie, her first two children, whom she presumes her father either killed or took away, about her own nature, about society, and about her place in the world. She meets an incredible set of characters who serve as guardian angels, guideposts, and warnings.  This novel's exacting focus on black female life in the southern U.S. in the 30s along with its depiction of violence have made it the target of censors again and again. Its themes and characters have also won it praise over the years. It has been adapted into both an award-winning film and musical.

3. Sula - Toni Morrisson
This novel follows Nel Wright and Sula Peace, who meet as girls in Medallion, Ohio. Their devotion to each other is uncanny, but its strength is weathered by the burden of a dreadful secret and Sula's growing status in society as a pariah. This novel presents prejudice, questions of sexuality and friendship, and the themes of friendship, love and death woven throughout a beautiful and tragic narrative, which few other books can touch.

4. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
The Handmaid's Tale is considered a work of dystopian fiction, focusing on a near future in which a totalitarian theocracy has overthrown the United States government. Its narrator, known only as Offred, a patronymic meaning "Of Fred," referring to the man she serves, tells her harrowing story of subjugation and the choices she makes in both obedience and defiance to regain some personal power. Offred is a handmaid, a kind of chaste concubine kept in wealthy households for the sole purpose of reproduction in an era of declining births. She has already failed twice, and if she fails a third time, she will be deemed "unwoman" and sent away to a colony to either clean up radioactive waste or perform other hard labor. The novel concludes with a metafictional epilogue which renders the entire work complete.

5. Love Medicine - Louise Erdrich
Louise Erdrich is a celebrated Native American author, and in this work set on and around a North Dakotan reservation, she tells the tale of intertwined families--the Lamartines and the Kashpaws. This novel centers around a group of women who are united by their strength in the face of tumult and also the diversity of their love. It continually juxtaposes individual desire with the pull of blood ties as well as affection for old ways and the enchantment of the new. This novel is a sequence of braided narratives which teem with culture and life.

6. Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver
This novel is set over the course of one humid summer amid the mountains and farms of southern Appalachia. It follows the story of three protagonists, Deanna, Lusa, and Garrett, alongside an overarching theme of connections, both to one another and also to the flora and fauna with which they share a life. Amazon describes it as "a hymn to wildness that celebrates the prodigal spirit of human nature, and of nature itself."

7. The House of the Spirits - Isabel Allende
The story of this novel details the life of three generations of the Trueba family in Chile, revealing both its jubilation and its sorrows. Allende weaves magical realism throughout the novel, creating touches of ethereality in the narrative. Its story is told mainly through two protagonists, Esteban and Alba. Esteban is the patriarch of the Trueba family. His bravado and political enthusiasm are checked only by the love for his wife Clara, who has been touched by powers such as clairvoyance. Their daughter Blanca's forbidden love infuriates Esteban, but it results in his granddaughter Alba, his greatest joy. Alba's ambition leads the Trueba family into a radical future.

8. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith
This book is an American classic, a coming of age story which reveals the young, sensitive Francie Nolan in her formative years in the slums of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It is split into five "books," which cover a different period in in the characters' lives. It opens in 1912 when Francie is just eleven years old. Its story is filled with bittersweetness. It is heartbreaking, uplifting, filled with compassion and cruelty, and raw with honesty. Its themes are universal, although its narrative absolutely captures a unique time and place.

9. Rich in Love - Josephine Humphreys
From Amazon, "At the age of seventeen, Lucille Odom finds herself in the middle of an unexpected domestic crisis. As she helps guide her family through its discontent, Lucille discovers in herself a woman rich in wisdom, rich in humor, and rich in love."

10. The Little Prince - Antoine de Saint-Exupery
This may seem an odd choice for this list, but I believe it is one of the most important pieces. The Little Prince may ostensibly be viewed as a children's book, however, it makes many poignant observations about life and human nature. I believe everyone should read this book at least twice in their lives, once as a child, and once as an adult. Its themes are universal, and the startling profundity of its declarations serves as a much needed grounding for so many adults who forget how to truly appreciate things. The story is that of the narrator whose plane has crashed in the desert. He meets the little prince, who is traveling from planet to planet, finding out more and more about life. The narrator is dying of thirst, but finds a well with the prince's help. The prince warns the narrator not to watch him leave, when he wishes to return to his own planet, as it will make the narrator sad. The prince's exit is a staggering scene full of both conflict and hope.


You may have noticed that a couple of these summaries I completed with a bit of outside help. It's true, I haven't read all of these books yet. I am twenty-two, and I'm still wading through vast pools of literature. I look forward to reading Prodigal Summer, Rich in Love and many more wonderful books in my twenties. I've read books from both authors before, so I'm excited to read more of their work. For those of you who want more from Kingsolver and Erdrich, I'd recommend The Poisonwood Bible and Tracks, respectively.

I feel I should also note that while this list is mainly intended for women, I believe these books would be absolutely appropriate for anyone who wants to read them. Just because a book focuses on women's issues doesn't mean it automatically is irrelevant for men, and vice versa. As to why I selected all novels as opposed to interspersing them with non-fiction, I'll leave you with a quote from William Faulkner. "The best fiction is far more true than any journalism."

Forgetfulness

Have you ever gone through some of your old writing and stumbled across a file that absolutely rings no bells? I just did. I sat there for ten minutes asking myself, "When the hell did I write this?" I still don't know.

The title of the poem in question seems so oddly specific, and yet I don't remember it at all. I've had this happen before, but usually I finally have an "Aha!" moment and realize it was something I scribbled down during an adolescent writing phase, promptly forgot about, retyped years later, and forgot once more. This is different though. It feels like something I would have written around 2010.

Here it is for your perusal, amusement, and judgment if you wish.

Don’t Cry, Violet

Spring faces push up, burgeoning,
bursting into common air;
while fingers are petals and patinas and wishes,
the wind floats by without notice
and scrubs the patina away.
If fingers are petals and patinas, our hands
Are withered
And whittled
And wrung.
Hate blows the pollen of despair across our faces;
faces fade and fester in the winter of the soul
and bury tomorrow under a silt of woe.
It comes up yesterday fresh and young;
fingers stretching to the sun.

The Good Earth

This book came recommended to me from a number of people. I can appreciate that it was extremely different from what was being written in America at the time, and I think it gave great insight into the lives of poor Chinese during the time in which it was set. However, I didn't love it. I may just be bitter about the ending, but it felt like a letdown to me.

Here be spoilers!

After everything Wang Lung has worked for and accomplished, all thanks to his land, his sons have the audacity to lie to him on his deathbed and agree to sell the precious land away.

I couldn't believe it. I guess considering the eldest son's frugality, being a grain merchant, and the middle son's friction with Wang Lung's traditional ideals, I shouldn't have been so surprised, but I was.

The descriptions of the earth itself were wonderful. I loved the sections where Wang Lung was out in the field. My heart hurt for O-Lan and then again for Lotus Blossom, but I know women were treated very differently in this society and age, so I can grit my teeth at the injustice and bend my head in acknowledgement of Buck's capturing a society. I was glad to see such good treatment of Wang Lung's eldest daughter, even though she will ever only be called Poor Fool.

Side note: I read somewhere that this book produced feelings of strong kinship between Americans and Chinese before the start of WWII, thus giving the U.S. a firmer basis with which to consider China allies. I don't have a source for this and don't know if it's completely factual, but, if so, I'm glad.

It is a good book, in many ways. Just not one of my favorites. I would love to hear from someone who would place it among their choicest selections of literature though.

So Close

My remaining Capstone tasks are: minor edits to reflective paper, lengthen critical grounding, print, bind, speechify.

Spring Break seems to have done something strange to the space-time continuum. It's as if the semester was on a roller coaster slowly clicking up a hill until one week ago, and once I got back to campus it was all downhill from there.

I have other assignments, sure, but Capstone inevitably weighs heaviest on my mind. I got my Commencement tickets yesterday. My mom is talking about buying a dress to wear to the ceremony. It's all become very real.

And, I am reminded time and again, "Poems are never finished--only abandoned."

Reminders

So, I've noticed all these little cryptic notes lying around my night stand and the papers and books around it. Apparently I've been waking up at night and writing myself things on the notepad close to my bed. The latest one says "Darkness within darkness. The gate to all mystery." I think they're ideas for poems. If not, I'm worried.