Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

My hair is gone. I hate to make this into a huge deal (I currently have a facebook status mentioning it), but it's a rather big change to go from almost-middle-of-the-back length hair to above-the-ears length hair. I definitely wanted it, though. I've had the same haircut for about seven years of my life, and it was time for something drastic.

I can't tell if I like it or not yet. At first I loved it, and then the more I looked at myself in the mirror, the less the person staring back looked like me. Maybe it'll just take some getting used to, but somehow I feel like this hair doesn't fit the person wearing it. For one thing, teenage girls with really short hair tend to be edgy. I am in no way edgy. I started picturing myself in the various sweaters that I adore and wear all winter, and it was a fairly laughable image. Alas! My hair doesn't match my clothes!

Anyway, it will grow back if I decide I want long hair again, and in the meantime I'll just enjoy it and amuse myself by wearing baggy clothes and carrying skateboards and posing as a boy.

You honestly should have seen my mother's face when I walked out into the lobby of the salon (I hadn't told her what I was planning to do). It was the first time I've seen anyone outside of a TV show do an actual double take.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

A Good Thing That Happened to Me Today

It was around midday, after my first break, but still hours before my shift ended, and I was pushing a huge, heavy flat full of backstock into one of the storage rooms. This particular room had a door with a keypad, so naturally it wouldn't stay open on its own, and you were forced to tug the cart through using your back to prop the door. Unfortunately, my flat was so big and so cumbersome that I could only steer it in by pushing it, and thus could not keep the door open. As I struggled to overcome this obstacle, I spotted someone in the room across the way. I think his name is Aaron. He's roughly my age, I would guess, although my month at Target has taught me that people are often a completely different age than they appear. People I take to be in high school are married with three kids. It's scary, really.

Anyway, I called out to Aaron, asking him if he could do me a favor and hold the door open for me. He was really nice and obliging about it, and hurried over to help. As he leaned back against the door (no doubt praying that with all my swerving I would somehow manage to avoid crushing his feet with the flat), he joked about how difficult the flats are to handle. When I finally got the cart and myself fully inside the room, I thanked Aaron profusely, and he grinned and headed back to finish his work.

After I had dumped the flat and put all of the product away and was walking by the room where Aaron had been, I saw that he had the door (identical to the one he had held for me) propped open with a fire extinguisher. I immediately felt like kind of a bonehead; here I was calling for help like some silly damsel in distress when I had been perfectly capable of propping the door open and passing through all on my own.

I know this may not seem like much now, but at the time it struck me as very kind that Aaron hadn't merely yelled back in reply to my request that I could just prop the door. I don't know about you all, but I certainly appreciate people like that who don't feel the need to point out things that might make other people feel stupid or embarassed. And although I did feel like that later when I figured everything out for myself, it still made me smile to remember that instead of a dull fire extinguisher for a door prop, I got a living, breathing person who made my afternoon.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Talking About My Generation

I am currently feeling very proud of my generation, and for something that we as a group cannot necessarily take credit for. You know how the 60's had hippies and peace and the Beatles? And the 20's had jazz and F. Scott?

Well you know what the 90's had/has? Harry Potter. That's right everyone; you can keep your disco and your painted chapels and your Rin Tin Tin. We'll keep our magical world.

I suppose that J.K. is the one who really deserves the credit, although the movies never would have been made (and perhaps so many books wouldn't have been written), had the entire concept not been received so enthusiastically by us 90's children. People of other ages liked the books as well, but we were the ones who celebrated being the same age as Harry himself as we read, who trick-or-treated in robes and taped glasses, and who saw Harry first and foremost as a friend we knew as well as the kids across the street.

The final movies will be out within the next year or so. It makes me sad to think about the saga ending. Although I tend to think of the movies and the books as separate entities, it feels to me that with the release of Deathly Hallows Part 2, the magic will fly up and disappear in a thousand sparks. Harry will exist after that only on our book cases and in our DVD players. He will no longer grow and expand; he will simply remain as he is.

Someday, though, when our children reach that awkward, mystical age of eleven, we will sit by their bedsides, ignore their protests of, "oh but I'm too old to be read to!" and begin to tell them of the boy in the cupboard under the stairs. We won't stop until Harry matters to them as well.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Never Let Me Go II

Quickly I want to tell you that I just finished Never Let Me Go.
I didn't cry at the end as I expected to. Instead, I felt (feel) quiet, like instead of filling me up with something, the book has left me empty. Grasping for understanding, I guess. But that is, I think, what the novel is about. Something out of your reach, something you were never meant to have, and how empty your life suddenly seems now that you've missed it. Or maybe it's the realization that you don't miss it even now that you're aware of its existence, because you weren't taught how to miss it. It's about missing the choice, or even the ability, to miss what you don't have.
Not a sad ending, really. It's simply bleak. And very, very beautiful. Here, I'll quote a bit for you:

"I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field, and gradually get larger until I'd see it was Tommy, and he'd wave, maybe even call. The fantasy never got beyond that-I didn't let it-and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn't sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be."



Thank you to Mr. Ishiguro. It was a privilege to read, truly.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Never Let Me Go

I just finished watching Julie and Julia with my sister. We had an awful time tonight choosing a movie. It went back and forth with neither of us wanting to watch what the other person wanted to watch, while at the same time neither of us had a personal preference to offer to the other person. In the end, though, it was Julie and Julia, which Amy had never seen and which I had only seen once back in January. A good choice, I think, and when it was over all there was left to do was turn off the TV and head into our respective bedrooms. It is almost 2 a.m., after all.

I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed right now, with a blanket across my lap because the darn laptop is cold after sitting asleep on my desk for so long. The thunderstorm we've been trying to ignore all night has finally drifted away to the East, and although the dogs have settled down with its passing, I miss the background booms and flashes of light.

I've never been one to say that I love storms, and to run outside to watch the clouds as they flicker and the trees as they get ripped up at the roots and blown into the neighbor's yard. In fact, I used to hide under my covers and curl into a ball away from the window (because I didn't want my eye to be sliced out Spiderman 2 style if the glass broke, of course). Nowadays, I actually enjoy reading during storms. It seems like a sort of a cozy, romantic thing to do, doesn't it?

Anyway, as I said, the storm has passed and I am left as always in a silent house with my books, my computer, and a few thoughts rattling around up top.

Can't think of any at the moment, of course.

I guess I could tell you about the book I'm reading currently. It's called Never Let Me Go, written by Kazuo Ishiguro. I first decided to read it because I was making my usual rounds of my bookmarked websites, and came upon a movie trailer of a movie based on the book. The film has Carey Mulligan and Keira Knightley, two people I like very much, and guess what? The trailer actually looks really good. I know it's stupid to judge a movie by its trailer, but I'm very optimistic.

Despite my excitement over the movie, I wanted the book first. It's only right, after all, and as (as you're probably aware of by now) I don't entirely loathe the written world, I thought I'd crack open the novel and see if there was a good story behind the intriguing title.

Let me tell you, dear people, there certainly is. It's a good story, it's a well written story, and it's a story that is revealed to you bit by bit. I'm on page 142, which is roughly halfway through, and I'm completely enthralled. It isn't one of those books you can't put down, let me warn you. It's one of those books that is so fascinating that you have trouble picking it up, not only because you don't want it to be over too soon, but because you feel you have to read it somewhere special, where you can really sit back and savor it. This is not a book to be read on a bus or in a waiting room. You have to read it when you're alone, preferably outside.

But I won't make rules for you. Just pick it up for yourself and see what I mean. The Forest Lake library has four copies, if you're in the area, and when you've finished you can stop by Target and tell me how you liked it. I work 6 a.m. to 12:30 all next week and the week after.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Sleep Aids

I haven't been sleeping well lately. I go to bed at around 1 a.m., and I wake up around 11 a.m., which sounds like a solid amount of sleep, although it's not considering that in between those two times I wake up continually. When my alarm goes off at 11, I'm not tired, exactly; I simply feel like I missed out on sleep, like my brain isn't fully satiated. It's very similar to the feeling you get when you're incredibly thirsty, but you can only have a small glass of water. It doesn't quite hit the spot.

I wasn't sure why exactly I wasn't sleeping well until my mom suggested today that maybe it's because I haven't had enough mental stimulation. That kind of makes sense. Thanks, Mom.

I mean, think about it: I went from going to class every day and having to concentrate and take notes and grasp the material and then go back to my dorm and study for hours, to sitting around and reading and watching TV and working maybe 30 hours a week on average. My work can be stressful, sure, but at this point I know enough about what's going on that I have to concentrate a lot less.

How to get that mental stimulation back? Well, I have a few ideas.

Idea No. 1: Begin teaching myself German.
My Dad has old German textbooks around somewhere, and I found a great free language teaching website called livemocha that is very helpful. I am taking German 1 in the fall, but it certainly can't hurt to get a bit of a head start.

Idea No. 2: Write more.
I haven't worked on any of my stories for a few days. I should definitely get back on that.

Idea No. 3: Run around outside more.
I work so much that I don't really have time to get much exercise, or even to be out in the fresh air. I should take advantage of the time I have at home and go for a bike ride or something.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

The Bank

I had a day off from work today. What did I do? Well, I mainly lazed around reading books and watching TV and reading the newspaper and checking facebook and reading outside while watching the dogs out my peripheral. I did get some business-like stuff done, however; I did laundry and went to the bank.

I loathe the bank, despite the fact that it contains most of my life savings (or what's left of them after a year of college). The only thing I loathe more than the bank itself is going to the bank. For one thing, it's an extremely conspicuous place to go. I always feel like I have to dress up. The bank is no place for a messy ponytail and athletic shorts. Everyone watches you as you come in, you and your flip flops and your 'grown up' purse. They sit in cubicles with mugs of coffee, waiting for you to sit down in front of them in one of the conveniently-placed chairs.

If you don't sit down, however, if you're a disappointing teenager who only wants to put your latest paycheck into your savings account, they let their eyes slide past you onto the granite tile at your feet. You walk up to the counter and smile before sliding the check across. The teller is usually a pretty young woman. She's polite and asks you how you are as she zips your check through the computer. You don't answer. You're not supposed to, of course. If you've requested to receive some cash out of that paycheck, you have to wait while she counts it aloud for you. Then you have to fiddle with your wallet for a few tense seconds, trying to shove the bills in with the stray change and gum wrappers. The people behind you sigh and mentally tap their heels in your ear, and you finally finish and hurry away from the counter and through the door, feeling the air-conditioned chill slam you in the back as you leave. A final insult that reminds you that you're parked crookedly in the lot, and that you'll have another check to deposit in two weeks. Thank you, and come again.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Story Time

I thought I'd post a story for a change of pace. Here's one a wrote a few days ago. I sat down and typed it up in about an hour and a half; it's based off a sudden idea I had. It's a little Nicholas Sparks-esque, but it was fun to write, because I think it's about something that everyone secretly dreams will happen to them.

There's no title, unfortunately. Let me know if you think of a good one.

Jack felt something shift on the bed next to him. Heart thumping, he groped in the darkness for his lamp.
“Don’t!” a soft voice came, “you’ll spoil it!”
Jack paused. “Spoil what?” He asked finally, wondering how his death by the axe man beside him could possibly be ruined by a bit of light.
“This,” the now definitely female voice answered, “Your wish.”
“My…what?” Jack lowered his outstretched arm slowly.
“Your birthday wish of course. You wished to hold your true love in your arms for a night. So here I am.”
Jack was baffled now. His wish had been earnest, although certainly not expected to come true. True loves did not suddenly appear in one’s arms because of wishes made over flaming candles. Furthermore, in his dream he had meant the holding to take place in the future, preferably when he was not in a dorm room and wearing his pajama pants with the hole in the knee. He didn’t say any of this to the girl, of course. He didn’t want to be rude to such a nice-sounding apparition.
“But how did you get here?” It seemed sensible to start with this question. Go back from the beginning, and work forward. That was how Jack liked to do things.
The girl laughed a little, and turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing him. It suddenly struck Jack that there was a girl in his bed. Next to him. His amazement only increased with her reply: “Oh, someone sent me. I’m not sure who, actually. I was sleeping in my bed, same as you, and suddenly I heard a voice giving me instructions and I appeared here. I’m as surprised as you are, you know.”
“What instructions?”
“They were very cryptic. We’re not to see each other in the light, We’re not to tell our names, or reveal anything that will help us to find each other. And we’re not to do anything besides hold each other.”
“And then what happened?”
“Things went black in my room. Blacker than they were already. It was if I had closed my eyes. Then everything went fuzzy for a second, and I found myself here.”
There was another short silence as Jack thought about what the girl was saying. It was magic, or God. Must be. He supposed that he should believe it was the latter who had sent her to him, but somehow this seemed too fairy-tale-like to be of His doing.
He finally spoke again: “Then you’re my…” Jack trailed off.
“True love, yes. And you’re mine,” the girl said sweetly and simply. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she laughed.
Jack laughed too, and reached out to shake her hand in the darkness. Her fingers were small and strong, and her palm pressed firmly against his own.
“What happens if we break one of the rules?” He wondered.
“I disappear,” the girl said solemnly, “and we never meet again.”
“We’ll be careful,” Jack promised. He could hardly get the words out. He was still holding her hand.
The girl squeezed his thumb gently. “What now?” She asked him.
“Well,” Jack hardly dared to say it. “About my wish.” He ended with a period, not knowing how to articulate what he wanted more than anything.
“About your wish.” Her period was more definite than his, and she scootched closer to him, so that all he had to do was shift his arms and she’d be inside them, right up against his chest.
He did, of course, and wrapped them around her back. She snuggled her face in his shirt and sighed quietly.
They lay that way for hours, not talking, or even moving. Jack was so happy and contented that he felt if he closed his eyes he would drift into a peaceful sleep. So he didn’t close his eyes, for once not wanting to lose a real moment to the beauty of his dreams. Not that he had ever encountered a moment this beautiful.
He couldn’t see her, not even the curve of her cheek or the glint of her hair. But he could feel her nose pressing against his heart, her hand still in his, her feet tangled in his own. He could feel her strength and her wisdom and her clarity. He could feel the preciousness of what he held, and when he thought of when he would have to let her go and slowly continue to live the rest of his life, he almost couldn’t bear the cruelty of it all. He would plod the path alone for a long time, he knew.
This wish felt like a halfway point; it was a moment given to him so that he could face a million moments unlike it with courage. He was sure that this wish wouldn’t have been granted had he been destined to meet the girl in his arms tomorrow, or even next year.
He traced her face, smiling as he felt her grin under his hand. “Trying to figure out what I look like?” She teased.
“No,” Jack returned mockingly, “I expect I’ll find out soon enough.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” the girl said, suddenly sober, “I’ve been thinking of all the months and maybe years I’ll have to live without you.”
Jack pulled her closer. “At least we have this. Most people don’t, you know. They just have to live in mystery and hope that someone perfect for them is out there. We know for sure.”
“Do we?” the girl asked doubtfully. “What if this is a dream? What if we wake up and everything is the same?”
“Everything will be the same,” Jack replied. “We’re the ones who will have changed.”
Then they were quiet again, each thinking their own private thoughts, each holding on tighter to the other as they saw the morning creeping up under the window shades. Just as the light began to reach out onto the floor near the bed, the girl disappeared.
The room seemed to tilt sideways for a second, and then his arms were empty. Instinctively, Jack rolled over onto the spot where she had lain. The warmth from her body still lingered. So she had been real. Dreams do not leave body heat behind.
He was still for a minute, relishing the night. Then he got out of bed and began putting on his clothes in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the window and opened the shades, feeling himself flood with day and the promise of a girl who was looking out her own window into the same brightness.

-End-

Saturday, June 19, 2010

The Shawshank Redmeption

I watched the movie The Shawshank Redemption with my dad tonight. I had never seen it before, and randomly chose it off of his shelf filled with dozens of movies, most of which are war movies and westerns.

I guess I don't have to tell you that I loved it. According to the IMDB page, most people do. Even though it pretty much flopped in theaters, and didn't win one Oscar (despite several nominations), it was the most rented movie of 1995, and has graced many "Top Movies" lists.

The acting was phenomanal, of course, but I think I was struck the most by the writing. Shawshank was originally a novella written by Stephen King, but I think that a lot of credit belongs to the actual screenwriter, who turned a short little novella into a full-length movie.

Here's my favorite quote:
Andy Dufresne: That's the beauty of music. They can't get that from you... Haven't you ever felt that way about music?
Red: I played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost interest in it though. Didn't make much sense in here.
Andy Dufresne: Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget.
Red: Forget?
Andy Dufresne: Forget that... there are places in this world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside... that they can't get to, that they can't touch. That's yours.
Red: What're you talking about?
Andy Dufresne: Hope.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

This American Life

I first discovered the This American Life podcast through some strategic eavesdropping. I was tabling for the MCSA elections when Kathy, who was sitting next to me, began discussing it with a voter. They didn't say much about it, just that it was an addicting podcast that had some interesting (and humorous stories). As soon as I got back to my dorm room, I subscribed to it on itunes.

I didn't actually listen to the program seriously until a few days ago, however. Why? Oh, I suppose because I'm accustomed to using my ipod for music alone, and had a tough time even considering just listening to people talk instead. Also because I typically listen to my ipod when I'm doing something and just need some background noise. I thought I'd probably have trouble concentrating on a story someone was telling in my ears while I was also reading, writing, etc.

The perfect opportunity for T.A.L. came up at work on Tuesday. It was about 5 a.m. and my job was to scurry about the store dusting product and cleaning shelves. It was mundane work that certainly needed an accompanying story.

I had a few different episodes of T.A.L. to choose from. I chose well for the first one. It was called Behind Enemy Lines. The first interview they conducted was with with a former clergyman of the Catholic Church who had spent years at various parishes replacing clergy who had been accused of sexually abusing parishioners, or with sexual misconduct in general (although ironically enough, for clergyman who have taken a vow of celibacy, any sort of sexual conduct is misconduct), and had been thus withdrawn. This particular clergyman's instructions were to basically go into each parish and to completely ignore the crimes committed by his predecessor, all while performing the typical Mass-saying, baby-baptizing, funeral-presiding, marriage-making duties of a priest.

Eventually, the clergyman grew tired of pretending that these gross incidents weren't happening, and he quit the clergy and began to work with a lawyer who was helping sexually abused victims to sue the Church.

It was quite an interesting story, and it made me (once again) question the Catholic Church. I have my faith, yes. I won't go into it here, but I believe in God, and I have a continually developing relationship with Him. I have always liked going to Church; there is a reverence and tradition about a Catholic Mass that is very powerful, I think. But in recent years, all of the things I like about the Catholic Church have been eclipsed somewhat by all of the things that are wrong about the Catholic Church.

It's an institution. It truly is. Has been for centuries and centuries. There are rules one must follow, there are expectations that go beyond the Bible, and there is a deep and festering (and mostly ignored) implication that your loyalty and adherence to the Catholic Church is more important than your relationship with God, and that where the Church stands in politics is where every churchgoing person should stand as well. That is truly wrong.

I remember an incident back in 2008 when I was at Mass with my family and the priest started preaching against Barack Obama, and in support of John McCain. My entire family was very very close to getting up and walking out of that church. Some people did, actually. I realize that there are biases with every parish, and that priests are human just like the rest of us, with just as many opinions. But what I don't understand is how politics fit in with God. What place do they have under a holy roof? What right does any church have to imply, or even to assume that voting for a certain candidate will earn you favor in heaven? I hardly think that Saint Peter checks your political affiliations at the pearly gates.

A line uttered by the (former) clergyman in that T.A.L. podcast that especially struck me was this: "After awhile, I realized that the Catholic Church is not capable of change."

And it isn't. It has resisted any sort of change for centuries, while clenching any type of power deep in its Vatican-rooted fist. The thing is, I'm not proud of the history of the Catholic Church. Selling indulgences? Exchanging them for favors? Persecution? I'm even hard pressed to pinpoint any good the Church has ever done for the world.

I know this all may sound sort of harsh, but I don't feel that it's unwarranted. It's not written on a whim, either; I truly have been pondering all of this for years now. The death of Pope John Paul and the rise of Benedict has especially influenced my thoughts on the matter. John Paul was a truly truly good person who did good things in the world. I don't pretend to know a lot about his policies, but I admired his character greatly. I don't know about Benedict. I just don't know if his values, if his priorities are sound. And with a pope, you should know. It's rather an important position.

Well, I think I'll be done for the night. Thanks for listening, and I hope I haven't offending anyone in any way, especially because I believe there is truth in what I've written here.

I don't know that I'll ever leave the Catholic Church. I think I would if I ever felt like there was absolutely no hope left, and if I stopped getting God out of the Masses, but I also think that switching churches is a big decision, and not one that should be made lightly, nor without complete certainty.

For now, I'll just sit in my pew and listen and look for God in the rafters above the altar.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Night Life Is the Life

I've been busy, my dear friends. Holly Lynn Gruntner has officially been living the night life, and while it is undoubtably exciting, it seems that lately I've been doing nothing but sleeping and working. Yesterday I dusted about a million shelves, and then sprayed them with a cleaner that somehow turned my fingertips white. The day before yesterday I spent my entire seven and a half hour shift in the same two makeup aisles, walking back and forth with lipstick and eyeshadow until I found their spots in the display.

You know what else I've been doing? Writing.
I began a new story on Sunday, and I've been working on it every day since. I don't want to speak too soon, but I think that this one might actually make it. I've always wanted to be able to stick my nose in the air and proclaim to the world, "I'm writing a novel!" My dream may come true, folks.

I think I'll give you an excerpt. This is a snippet currently near the beginning of the story, although it is certainly subject to change, especially since I'm not entirely sure what exactly my story is going to be about yet. I'm just making it up as I go along, which is one part exhilerating and five parts annoying.

Here you go:

I walkied as I left the break room: “This is Holly. I’m back from my fifteen and swinging through electronics.” Electronics was an important guest service area for Target. Whenever a team member began work for the day or returned from a break, they were supposed to walk through the department and ask any guest they saw if they needed help finding something. It kept our guest service ratings in the green, our GPS’s and TV’s selling, and our bodies circulating. Our red shirts radiated availability like monkeys in estrous.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Up in the Air

You know, I don't think I've ever before come across song lyrics that are so true to my position in life. Here they are. Enjoy:

Up In The Air (Kevin Renick)

I'm up in the air,
Choices drifting by me everywhere.
And I can't find the one
That would help me do the work I've left undone,
Cause I'm up in the air.

I'm making some plans,
Finding out there's always new demands.
And I can't be precise;
When people ask me what I'm doing with my life,
I say, It's up in the air.

I'm thinking of my past,
The comfort in my home that couldn't last.
Now my family tells me work for your success,
And they want to see me find some happiness.
But I'm not sure where that is,
Cause I'm up in the air.

I'm out in the woods;
Something here does my heart so good.
I breathe the air, and I know that I'm alive.
And I stare at all the birds as they fly by.
I guess it all comes down to them,
Cause they're up in the air.

-End Song-

I really am up in the air, aren't I? Well, that's fine with me for now. I just finished my freshman year of college. I think I can still afford to be floating about.

I worked for 7 hours and 15 minutes today. Please excuse me while I collapse on my bed with Fahrenheit 451 and a Peach Schnapps. (Just kidding about the schnapps.)

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

All Hands on Deck

I was studying my hands just now. I have a slight obsession with hands, you know. It's not creepy or anything, I simply think they're rather amazing. Where would we be without hands? We do so much with them, from writing to fixing cars to carrying things to making rude (though sometimes deserved) gestures.

You can also tell a lot about a person by looking at their hands. For example, I have a gash across my right thumb from when I broke a glass a few nights ago. So, I'm a klutz.

Most of my fingernails are regulation length, but my index and second fingernails on my left hand are short. So, I recently stopped biting my nails, but it's a work in process.

I have small lines of ink randomly spattered across the fingers of my left hand. So, I write.

The life line on my right palm is long and very pronounced. So, I will live to be 108, have 60 grandchildren and 60 dogs, and write a dozen bestsellers, all of which will become part of Oprah's Reading list.

(Just kidding on the last one, by the way)

Besides vainly gazing at my own manos, I haven't done a whole lot this fine evening except read and watch Glee. I'm trying desperately to finish the book series I'm currently working on so that I can switch to something harder. I think this summer I'll go back to the old pattern of alternating lighter, easier books with dense classics. It seems to work, and then I don't feel like reading the classics is such a chore. Not that I don't ever enjoy the classics, but I'm not going to pretend that they're not difficult to get through sometimes. Depends on the book, of course.

Here's the list of classics I definitely want to get through this summer (note: I haven't read any of these before):
1. King Lear
2. Jane Eyre
3. This Side of Paradise
4. The Bell Jar
5. The Stand (Yes, I consider Stephen King to be somewhat of a classic author. You would too if you had dated the boy I did last year)
6. Crime and Punishment (or SOMETHING Russian)
7. Ivanhoe
8. Either Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn (or both, if I'm feeling ambitious)
9. Dickens (I sort of want to do David Copperfield first. Don't ask me why)
10. Uh oh this list is getting long. But I just can't leave anyone out!
11. The Picture of Dorian Gray
12. The Old Man and the Sea
13. Invisible Man (I guess...Since it was the only assigned book I didn't finish in high school, and because I hated it so much, and because everyone else in the world loves it...I'll try again)
14. Let's do another Toni Morrison. What has she written besides The Bluest Eye? Beloved? Okay.

Okay I'm going to stop before my entire reading list for life ends up in this post (I have one, by the way). How about if I read 8 off of this list I'll be satisfied that I didn't waste my summer reading rubbish? If I read 10 I'll do a happy dance and pat myself on the back a few times. If I read 13 I'll treat myself to a trip to Barnes and Noble and buy more books for next summer's list. Deal? Deal.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Talking to F. Scott Fitzgerald (and praying he won't answer back)

I had a bad night last night. It was one of those nights where I suddenly began doubting my abilities as a writer. I was reading these F. Scott quotes online, and he was talking about writing and how it should be done and who should do it. It really upset me, actually, and I reread the story I was working on extremely critically and considered just giving up on it. I remember at one point I rolled my eyes towards the heavens (and F. Scott, I assumed) and said quietly, "What do you know? I know you were a great writer, and that as a result you obviously know quite a lot about your craft, but what right do you have to define my career, or even my state of mind concerning my career?" After that I rolled over and read my book until I fell asleep.

The lesson here? Well, there are a few.
1. Talking out loud at 1 a.m. to long dead authors is probably the first sign of madness.
2. No one (dead or alive) should be able to make you feel a certain way about yourself and your abilities. It's perfectly natural to have influences, but in the end it should just be you and your talent standing alone and confidant.

There's my nightly revelation. Let's move on to some morning talk. Early, early morning talk, that is.
Tomorrow Tim and I are driving down to Morris to help incoming freshman register for classes. We're doing it as part of our OGL (orientation group leader) duties.
I'm excited for this. Not only will it be nice to see Tim again, but it will be extremely nice to be back in Morris. I miss it there. I really, really do.
What aren't I excited for? Waking up at 3:40 a.m. in order to be at the school where we're meeting at 5:20 a.m. in order to be in Morris at 9:00 a.m. But it'll all be worth it, I think.

Do you know why you shouldn't assume?
Because it makes an ass out of you and me (look at the word).
Excuse the profanity (my first in this blog, perhaps?), but I recently figured out this saying, and I wanted to clarify for anyone else who's missed the boat on it. Clever, isn't it?

Friday, June 4, 2010

An Argument Kindled

I was stocking shelves at Target the other day, and a few of my coworkers were discussing the Amazon Kindle, which our Target will carry beginning in a few days. They were raving about the Kindle and how many books it can hold and how convenient it is.
I kept my mouth shut as they conversed. You see, I'm anti-Kindle.

It's not that I don't see the joys of a portable library. It's convenient, it's easy, it's a lifesaver for people with bad eyes who need bigger fonts, people who travel a lot and don't want to carry heavy books around, and even for people who fancy themselves up on the newest technology.

It's just that I like my books. I like the weight of them in my hands. I like being able to flip back to a certain page with ease. I like the notes on the inside front cover of some of them ("From Grandma and Grandpa , November 2005"). I like that I even own a signed copy (how does an author sign a Kindle book??). I like that I can look over at my bookshelf and see all of my books lined up, their spines colorful and varied and enticing. But most of all, I think, I like the tradition of books. Books began as something so valuable and so rare that only the wealthy could afford to own them (and read them, for that matter). They have done so much for us throughout the centuries. Books have been deemed dangerous enough to ban, and even to burn. They've told stories and started wars and won awards.

I think it hurts me a little bit to think of something so wonderful being traded in for words on a screen. The story's still there, I know, but the magic is lost for me. I look into the future and I find that I might someday have to face a bitter reality; my career as a writer may very well be limited to something entirely electronic.

The thing is, though, my brain is not a computer.

I can embrace technology when it saves lives. I can embrace technology when it helps to stem the oil spurting from the Gulf of Mexico. But I cannot embrace technology when it turns the form of art dearest to me into a mere white box with a keyboard attached.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

In Which Fun is Had

I've started writing again, thank goodness. It began with that story I mentioned being inspired to write a few days ago. Well, I haven't exactly worked on that story today. I've just begun something new, and I think this one may be it.

You know what? There's this boy I know at Morris. A lot of things he says annoy me, upset me, and generally make me indignant and (slightly) pouty. But the thing about this boy is that once I'm alone in my room, staring at a wall, everything he has said suddenly strikes me as incredibly (and sometimes painfully) truthful.

For example, he was reading my blog one day, and he told me that my writing was good here, that I was clearly having fun with my posts. He asked me if I had fun while writing my research papers.
Huh.
I do have fun writing my blog. And while my writing may be incredibly sloppy and unpolished at times, I think it's fairly obvious that I enjoy doing it. So maybe (I thought) if I begin stories with the intent to just enjoy what I write instead of with an intense desire to write something "really great," I'll actually write better.
It's a lovely revelation, and I only hope that it will hold. If Dan Humphrey can be published in the New Yorker at 16, then I can get published somewhere at 19.

Enjoy the night.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Wina Winnebago

Oh goodness. This is about to be one of those posts where I begin typing with absolutely no idea as to what I should write about. Please keep the exasperated sighs down; I can hear them from here.

Today was pretty good. I worked from 9-3:30. The drive to F.L. was nice despite the early hour, because I like to just talk to myself in the car. No music, no nothing. Just me. I know it sounds really strange, but I find that when I think aloud to myself, I can properly sort out my thoughts. Orating is a good substitute for writing in that way.

Work itself was very nice, actually. For the first time, I felt like I was a real contributing member of the Target team. I was given quite a few independent tasks (i.e. organizing the freezers and putting up signs), so I got to work by myself and show everyone what I could do without help. Of course, there were a few moments when I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and I had to remind myself that it's fairly pathetic to sit there and be ashamed of what you don't know. So I called for aid (using my nifty walkie talkie, I might add).

Now I'm home sitting on my bed in the dark. (This isn't supposed to be a morbid scene, actually; I prefer natural light over artificial.) I'm about to flop down and read "Heaven to Betsy" (by Maud Hart Lovelace). If you haven't read the Betsy-Tacy books you're seriously missing out. They're absolutely wonderful. In fact, they just about tie with Little House on the Prairie in my book (no pun intended).

That's all I have, I'm afraid. Not bad for a no topic post, though, eh?