61. April survival
Gentle readers, I haven’t been posting this week. No excuses. Rather, an explanation…..
60. Affairs of the Book
Here’s the story of me and books. It has all the prerequisites of a contemporary relationship: early infatuation, growing boredom, dalliance with other media, trauma, abandonment, heartbreak, and, hopefully, the slow rekindling of intimacy.
When I posted photographs of my dining room last week, Jilanne Hoffman commented on the overflowing bookshelves. She’s right: books-as-design-feature define this house, far more so then the paint colors or kitchen cabinets. I’ve always been surrounded by books: my parents are readers, all of the boyfriends were readers, and the Ex can’t go anywhere without a book. Fragile Blossom can’t quite read yet but all signs point toward book-worminess. Thinks-he’s-Justin-Bieber—well, he confuses me. Not that interested in books, and will also leave half a slice of birthday cake on his plate.
Alien spawn?
Or maybe he just shares my ambivalence. I used to read voraciously, and indiscriminately. As a child, I holed up in the library at recess compulsively reading and rereading Anne McCaffrey’s Dragon books, among other things. In high school, I spent rainy Saturdays with Mark Twain, Dorothy Sayers, Frank Herbert, and Shakespeare. College allowed less time for pleasure reading—but it was there I discovered Doris Lessing, Salman Rushdie, and, better late then never, Jane Austen. My two years in China allowed me to read and read like I never had before: Tolstoy, Kafka, Dickens, Cervantes, Grisham, anything I could get. Books – as a child, as a teenager, and as a foreigner, saved me.
When I started grad school, with so much assigned reading, my own choices veered light (normal, I think). I discovered the joy of reading young adult novels—something I don’t regret. I found Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy – a series of books that easily makes my Top 10. I discovered Octavia Butler, and re-discovered Ursula Le Guin. I also re-read Ms. Austen. A lot.
When I finished my coursework, I began to flirt again with heavier fiction. I joined a book club, and read Nabokov’s Pale Fire (another Top 10), and then another book club and read Edith Wharton’s Custom of the Country (another Top 10). But in each of these book clubs, I found myself reading the selected book about 20% of the time. Weird. Next…. I stopped being able to read any book that had been recommended to me. Completely, totally, full stop. You say you liked Mark Helprin’s A Winter’s Tale? Well that’s too bad, ’cause I kinda wanted to read that….. Books recommended to me had begun to feel like a kind of pressure for which I had no space. My family learned not to give me books as gifts, unless they were to be used as fancy doorstops or coasters. Books as décor.
And then…my life fell apart. At the height of the emotional trauma, I had no problem eating (unfortunately). But I couldn’t read. I couldn’t actually handle any kind of narrative tension at all: books, movies, TV, the Sunday comics. I sat on the couch. I played Tetris. Slowly, slowly, I began to read again…. but only murder mysteries, a genre that, aside from Ms. Sayers, I had somehow missed. For a year, I consumed P.D. James, Agatha Christie and Elizabeth George, among others. Oh the joys of the predictable plot arc. For every corpse, a resolution.
Today….I am re-building trust. I’ve returned to the sci-fi and fantasy novels wherein things usually end well. Terry Pratchett has provided some much needed laughs. I have setbacks, though. I just read Neal Stephenson’s The Diamond Age—a page-turner whose lame conclusion has sent me running back to P.D. James. More importantly, I still haven’t gotten back to the adult books—and you know I’m not referring to porn. What I mean is—I can’t read those books where something kind of like real life might actually happen. I know I need to take risks. I know I need to practice committing again to the complicated messiness of a literary relationship—committing to the kind of book where, you actually just don’t know what’s going to happen.
I do actually know this: when I find the courage to slide my eyes down that first, second and third page, when I take an interest in a new character, when I follow the complex line of a descriptive sentence, rewards await. Many, many years ago, I neared the end of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden. I closed the book, and fell backward on to my childhood bed. Would the secret be revealed? Would Archibald Craven embrace his son? Would the locked garden, once so silent, burst forth in its clamor of riotous beauty? Like the children in the book, like the walls of the garden, I couldn’t contain myself. I started squealing and jumping on the bed (bear in mind that I was 10).
I’ll get there.
I will return to books.
When I’m ready.
“And then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves. The feet ran faster and faster—they were nearing the garden door—there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shows which could not be contained—and the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms.”
—Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Related articles
- Death Comes to Pemberley by PD James (literarytiger.wordpress.com)
- Death Comes to Pemberly by P.D. James (housefullofbookworms.com)
- Everybody’s Jane: Austen in the Popular Imagination, by Juliette Wells – A Review (austenprose.com)
- I always knew Wickham was bad news – “Death Comes to Pemberley” by P.D. James (readingthroughthebs.wordpress.com)
- Celebrating Edith Wharton (nochargebookbunch.com)
59. Wordless Wednesday
58. A list in honor of National Letting Go of Stuff Day
Good-bye husband.
Good-bye house.
Good-bye…
…broken tea pot.
…unlined face.
…hole-in-the-knee jeans.
…fear of failure.
…final bag of diapers.
…belief that losing 10 pounds would make me a better person.
…over-investment in Facebook.
…perfect-marriage fantasy.
…fear of success.
…dust bunnies.
…favorite boots chewed up by dog.
…semblance of control.
…conversations in my head with that driver who cut me off three years ago.
…conversations in my head.
…extra storage.
…computer from 1996.
…old cell phone chargers.
…broken crayons.
…stuff for Halloween project still in bag from 2 years ago.
…prince charming fantasies.
…self pity.
…victimhood.
…small babies.
…ability to drink caffeinated coffee.
Hello world.
(National Letting Go of Stuff Day was March 22. For real.)
57. Donuts
And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for…. It’s time to write about donuts.
Donuts are good.
I can’t say that enough.
Donuts are good.
I particularly like chocolate ones. Rainbow sprinkles add a nice kick.
I will eat stale donuts if I have to.
I will eat stale donuts even if I don’t have to, which is most of the time.
I might pull stale donuts from the garbage. You know, if it was a new bag or something. Sorry for the overshare.
Donuts are good.
I like the way the sugar rush makes me go cross-eyed.
I’d like to try a donut with bacon.
That’s it.
(Nope. No pithy meaningful conclusion. No big life insights. No self-reflection today. Move along, folks, move along.)
(Yes. I ate all three. In one sitting. Yum.)
56. Wordless Wednesday
55. Something else
I absolutely, completely refuse to write about change today (and anyway, Ann just covered it so nicely….). I’m going to write about…..um…. my dining room table instead. Yeah. That’s it. The dining room table covered in a bright yellow oilcloth with strawberries and little blue flowers. The oilcloth has seen better days—it has paint splotches and rips and probably the remains of dinner still clinging to it. But it serves its purpose. It protects this old table—which sits at the heart of our house—from playdough, coffee mug rings and fork attacks. My ex-husband’s grandmother had the table custom-made in the 1930s. The blond wood has now aged to a rich caramel. An H-shaped cross-bar connects four fat, spindle legs, which in turn rest on a small Ikea rug. Charlotte likes to hang out down there, and looking now, I see her leash (?), a red plush toy bone and a sky-blue marker. The marker is a leftover from Fragile Blossom’s “office,” often set up under the eaves of the table. She lies just to the side creating books and drawing her endless princess pictures. With the introduction of wi-fi to our house, I tend to use the table as my office, wedging my computer in beside the laundry, balloons, art supplies, keys, cameras, cardboard boxes, blank cd-r’s, random cords, and a crumpled lottery ticket. From here, I can hear the kids downstairs in their secret headquarters, aka the garage, from which the car has been entirely evicted. The dining room is, in general, darker then I like. Today, though, it is so bright outside that light streams through the two high windows. Dust motes and spider webs sparkle.
Did I mention that, unless we win that lottery, we have to move? I’m pretty sure it’s going to happen this summer. Yeah. Next week, maybe I’ll write about trees or movies or donuts or something.
54. Life = One Big Constant Change
Guest post today by the fabulous Ann Lam:
Let’s say you make the big life change that you’ve always wanted. You’ve quit the job you hated. You’re ready to commit and decide to tie the knot. You’ve traded in your knitting needles for paint brushes. But now what? The excitement of the new beginning is wearing off and what you envisioned as the path to happiness is bumpier than you expected. Uncomfortable thoughts start to peck their way into your stream of consciousness. Is this better than what I had before? What in the world have I done?! Almost two years ago, I decided to start my life over again in San Francisco. I quit my job, sold or gave away all the furniture in my apartment in New York, and started driving west. My family and friends back east couldn’t understand why I would leave a steady job and a full network of contacts (that could eventually lead to higher-paying, even steadier jobs). But I wanted a new environment in which I could shape a new identity. And so I got to work teaching yoga, writing articles, freelancing as a violinist—doing all the things I wanted to do but didn’t before. I kept a busy schedule. There was never enough time in the day…or energy to give equally to all my projects. Depending on the circumstance (i.e., where the money was coming in from), I would choose my priorities. After a while I began to stress over the many hats I was wearing. In one day I might teach a vinyasa flow class, play a wedding gig, and then edit an article for a print deadline. I was tiring of my multiple identities—literally. “Uh-oh. What now? What does this mean?” I thought. And so began a period of doubt. Of limbo, when I kept doing what I was doing (i.e. everything) because I didn’t know what else to do. Except I really did know. I knew I needed to change yet again. I had forgotten that humans are always in motion, growing, changing—the only constant acknowledged in Buddhism. I doubted my gut, because in my mind I had just recently undergone a drastic career and identity change. To change paths yet again or cut back on my projects seemed irresponsible, fickle, flaky. Unluckily or luckily for me, my body decided to change on its own, without asking my permission. An imbalance of hormones caused me to become very sick. I had to stop everything—it was a struggle to walk or sit up for long periods of time. And when I started on the path to recovery, I could not have guessed how long it would take to return to normal. That time needed to heal ended up being a blessing. My illness forced me into considering alternatives to the stressful lifestyle I had been leading, something that I might not have been brave or wise enough to have done otherwise. I am learning that big changes take time and once in motion don’t quickly settle into stability. Revolutions are followed by an adjustment period naturally full of trial and error. For every Constitution there is an Articles of Confederation. And so I’ve had to rewrite my “life” game plan. But that’s OK. In fact, it’s NORMAL. Change is constant. Revision is normalizing. Sometimes this is easy to forget. And we all need reminders, especially when lost in the thick of it.
Ann is a writer and editor for Untapped Cities. Follow Ann (@annylam81) on Twitter and Instagram for daily updates and inspiration.
53. Wordless Wednesday
Spring forward…
52. O brave new world
Alright, the Write Transition, I am a laggard. Or clueless. Or, actually, both. Once Hollywood has released a mainstream movie about a new hot thing, it’s probably not the new hot thing anymore. Last year, Meryl Streep was nominated for, (but didn’t win) her third Oscar in a movie about blogging. Devastated, I didn’t start blogging until September. I blame the Academy. What does Margaret Thatcher have over Julia Child? I could have been blogging a whole six months earlier. Then maybe I could have at least ridden the Meryl-blogging aftershocky bump. Yes. There is probably a better way to say that, but I don’t know what it is. Instead, I will insist that “Meryl-blogging aftershocky bump” become a new meme. Tweet that, buddy.
All of which is to say: I thought I was writing about writing today. But I’m clearly feeling a little giddy and not at all sure that’s actually where I’m going. Did I also just use the word “meme” in a sentence? What the hell is a “meme?” Since I entered the blogosphere (there’s another one) – and for that matter the whole social media-o-sphere, I’ve felt like I’m operating in a foreign country. I want desperately to learn the language, but it feels hard. While it can be exhilarating, I frankly don’t think I’m very good at it. I mean, I’m the one who wouldn’t go near the microwave back in 1976. Granted, I was 7 years old, but it signified things to come. This business of trying new things doesn’t come easily to me.
After college, I moved to China to teach English. Talk about having your world turned upside down. When I left the U.S., I didn’t speak a word of Mandarin (or any other Chinese dialect). One afternoon, just a few months after my arrival, a Chinese teacher invited me to her in-laws’ home for Sunday lunch. In most respects, it was just like Sunday dinner here in the U.S. Kids underfoot, yummy food, polite (translated) chit-chat with the only stranger in the room. Who was me. I smiled a lot. After lunch, they invited me to xioxi, Mandarin for siesta (Spanish for nap). With more smiles and gestures, they indicated I should lie down on a straw mat laid across the concrete floor. Um. Ok. So I did. And I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I knew, the room was warm and still and striped with late afternoon sun. You know that feeling when you wake up and don’t know where you are? I have never felt it so profoundly. Because that’s how I felt for two years. Where am I? I’m just not sure. Not a bad feeling most of the time, actually. But occasionally disconcerting.
Which leads me to think about a conversation I had yesterday with Oscar, the janitor at my daughter’s former preschool. Calling it a “conversation,” might be something of a stretch, as he doesn’t speak English and my Spanish doesn’t extend much further past siesta. Still, it was a nice encounter, and in it, I was struck, again, and always, by the courage of the immigrant. Especially immigrants like this very real Oscar, who not only don’t have the language, but also aren’t accorded the honors I received in China as a welcomed guest. Thinking about this kind of voyage humbles me, and gives me such hope.
O Wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is!
O brave new world
That has such people in’t.
– The Tempest
I’m going to keep blogging.
Isabelle Pasco as Miranda in Prospero's Books (1991)
