I've had a lot of random thoughts/encounters today:
* I am really sore today. I mean, like limping around the office sore. I can't remember the last time I was this sore. I remember I often felt this way in high school, as I would gingerly lower myself into my seat in 1st period English. Usually it was the result of a killer track workout or some ridiculous lunge-athon. I did not do a killer track workout yesterday, but I did do a lot of lunges. I used to relish this feeling. Today I'm rueing my stupidity. My, what 10 years will do to one's sense of adventure.
* I think I'm chickening out on the haircut. I feel like I shouldn't whack it until I'm 100% sure. My appointment is in 3 hours and I'm still not sure. AND, today my hair actually cooperated and I felt sort of pretty for like 30 minutes until I realized when I got to the metro that I had forgotten my wallet, keys, phone, EVERYTHING, and had to walk back home, knock until someone opened the door, run upstairs to my blasted hot room on the third floor, run back down, RE-walk to the metro, and then get on a train with hundreds of tourists (who can't use their day passes until after 9:30) because, guess what, it was after 9:30. My hair did not look so cute after that ordeal. And I was late to work. Really late.
* Emily started sending me quotes from The Importance of Being Earnest this morning. I started looking for some of my own and then got so engrossed that in between phone calls and other tasks I read the entire play. It is just so funny. It stands in my memory as the first play that I actually sat down and read and understood and enjoyed. I've been revisiting several pieces of literature the last couple of months in preparation for my test next week. It's been interesting to see how I've changed as a reader and as a person over the years. And how I haven't.
* On the subject of books, today I finished a book I've picked up at least once before and put down because I just couldn't get into it. However, the other day I needed a break and plucked it out of my drawer o' books at work. I haven't been able to put it down. It's a C.S. Lewis book that no one seems to talk about (Till We Have Faces). Either that or I just haven't been listening. Some quotes from it that I found particularly moving:
"Of the things that followed I cannot at all say whether they were what men call real of what men call dream. And for all I can tell, the only difference is that what many see we call a real thing, and what only one sees we call a dream. But things that many see may have no taste or moment in them at all, and things that are shown only to one may be spears and water-spouts of truth from the very depth of truth."
"When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?"
As the years go by and I continue to read and search and grow, my understanding of the value of literature increases. I read 293 pages, felt confused about how this didn't feel anything like C.S. Lewis, wondered how this horribly tragic tale would resolve, and then I got to the wham of the book. I don't know that it would have had the same impact in any other form, at any other time. For me, anyway.
* My boss today asked me if I thought all this rain meant the end of the world. I laughed but turns out he was only joking a little bit. He had recently watched this special on the Mayan calendar and how it ended the world at December 2012 and that the pictures on the calendar suggested the end of the world would come by flooding. He got a little spooked. I assured him that the world would not end by flooding. I also told him I didn't think this rain was out of the ordinary for this area. Coming from a place where it rains maybe 10 times a year, out here it's just another day of what feels like nonstop rain. (p.s. The streets were on last night: 18th and Hayes!)
* I have had the craziest dreams this week. I have started emailing them to my roommates in the mornings. Yesterday one of them called my dreams "creative." I'd never thought of it that way, but maybe I should take the records of my dream and make at least a short story out of them. Honestly, I wake up and think, "there is no way I could make that up."
A little taste of one:
Jeff Harps and Matt Knight had put together a video of Leanna with some footage and dubbed-in dialogue. What was the video of? Leanna driving around a hovercraft with machine guns over Duck Beach. She was gunning down people on the beach (there was a lot of chaos on the ground perhaps related to Leanna's offensive, perhaps not). She turned to all of us as we watched it and said, "no one else sees this until I address this with them." She then tried to explain that it wasn't what it seemed, that she was merely gathering food for her baby penguins...not her pet baby penguins, but her actual baby penguins...
I think my room is too hot.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
A better confession than White Christmas viewing in the morning
So, I'm moving almost as soon as I get back from the Christmas holidays. Not far, just a few blocks away from where I currently am. As such, I'm trying to get most of my life packed up before I take off so that I can enjoy Christmas at home and not have to stress about packing things up as soon as I get back. Tonight, my goal was to get all my books packed up. That might not seem like a very big goal, unless you've been in my house or helped me move. (A great Reid quote: "You know, Julie, this move would be a whole lot easier if you weren't such a nerd.") And here is my confession:
Number of standard-sized file boxes I just filled with my books: 14.
And I still have a few stragglers without a home, but I'm out of boxes.
My room feels so naked.
The best part about packing up the books is being reunited with the gems I have read (I don't revisit certain shelves often enough) and discovering some gems that I haven't read yet (thank you Stephen for stocking me up). I have some great books to read over the break and some great winter reading for when I get back (failed expeditions to the South Pole anyone?) without having to spend a dime. Good thing, too, since I'm now on a spending freeze...
[sigh]
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
"I finally found my people"
Some of you know of my love for Anne Fadiman, a contemporary author and editor. The first book of hers I ever read was Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader. This collection of essays awoke a part of my literary soul, and I quickly dubbed it my favorite book without really knowing why. That was about 5 years ago. I originally determined my "favoriteness" based on subject matter--I realized (with a mixture of relief and delight) I was not alone in my literary quirks. I remember also loving her writing style, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what made her so different from other essayists I had read.
I soon discovered she was the same Anne Fadiman who was the editor of a magazine of which I had just taken a subscription, The American Scholar. Again, it was a magazine with content I loved but couldn't quite put my finger on why, or at least why I loved it so much more than other literary magazines. In my frenzied grad-school state, I simply attributed it to the talent of Anne Fadiman and moved on. I had Tolkien to dissect, after all. Then grad school ended and my quest for finding books on my own began. It has been an interesting process of discovery, learning to articulate my likes and dislikes with 6 years of education behind me. You'd think I would be better at it than I am, but school mostly taught me theory and dissection, not so much enjoyment and identification. Add in there the recovery from burn-out and you have a very eclectic reading list and one confused reader.
In my search, I discovered a book Anne wrote about 10 years ago called The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down. Odd name for a book, I thought, but I was excited to read it. It had been recommended to me by a friend and was by an author who, up until that time, I had only known and loved as an essayist/journalist. I could write an entire posting on why I loved this book, but I will spare you the book review (for now). Suffice it to say for this discussion that it was during this book that I began to (i) discover why I liked Anne and (ii) identify her genre.
Anne is a creative journalist--I don't know if that's a real term, but that's how I like to define her. She takes a story, a subject, gives you really interesting information - succinctly - and then personalizes it. I got to the end of the book and found myself crying with this beautiful, loving Hmong family. Anne had me the entire way along, but she did not emotionally manipulate me. She simply told me a story that mattered in a way that captured me. The book went on my shelf next to my copy of Ex Libris.
Which brings us to yesterday. Almost. Two or three weeks ago I attended a book exchange. Of course I brought out Ex Libris (both copies, one recently given to me by my best friend who read it and knew I would love it. It's comforting to have friends who know me so well...). It has been a while since I've read these essays, and as I explained the contents of this book I found myself getting excited; I decided it was time to reread them myself. As I have revisited this book in the last week or so, I have felt almost giddy inside. With a little bit more experience behind me, some of these essays have taken on new meaning and give me new reasons for delight. Inspired, I went to Borders yesterday in search of another collection of essays recommended to me, hoping they might be in the "Anne" category. I was planning on just perusing the essays, not buying, but Borders didn't have the book. Plan foiled. I decided while I was there to enter Anne Fadiman's name into the computer, just to see if I had by chance missed any books she had recently written or edited. Turns out she put out another collection of essays last year. I walked straight to the shelf, breathed a sigh of relief to find a copy there, and went straight to the register. (Thank you again Millie for the gift card.) I had a feeling Anne wasn't going to let me down.
When I purchased the book, I expected to glean inspiration from her essays (which I have). I was surprised to find that (at least so far) her preface is what has impacted me the most. In fact, I can say that I experienced a revelatory moment as I read, one of the most profound I've ever had in my search for my authorial identity. In her preface, Anne gave her genre a name--the familiar essay--and began to outline its form and structure. It sounded so much like what I was trying to construct but have always felt just off the mark. She identified her inspiration, Charles Lamb (people, we have a predecessor!), and the time period when it had its heyday (early nineteenth century). (Mom, I finally have something we can put on my Christmas wish list.) I kept thinking, why have I never heard of this genre before? Well, Anne goes on to explain that while it is considered a dying genre, it is clearly one people still enjoy reading because the small amount out there is still being devoured.
What is the familiar essay? Quoting from Anne's preface in At Large and At Small:
The familiar essayist didn't speak to the millions; he spoke to one reader, as if the two of them were sitting side by side in front of a crackling fire with their cravats loosened, their favorite stimulants at hand, and a long evening of conversation stretching before them. His viewpoint was subjective, his frame of reference concrete, his style digressive, his eccentricities conspicuous, and his laughter usually at his own expense. And though he wrote about himself, he also wrote about a subject, something with which was so familiar, and about which he was often so enthusiastic, that his words were suffused with a lover's intimacy. [...] in other words, about the author but also about the world. (x-xi)
I found myself grasping for a pencil to underline this paragraph and in the margin the words spilled out: "I have found my people." The flow of thoughts that came after that and the understanding that began to overwhelm me felt as beautiful and delicious and smooth as mint being covered in dark chocolate.
Maybe this excitement seems disproportionate to the discovery, but for me it has opened up a new world. I now have examples to study, to emulate, to perfect and then from which to digress, to make the style my own, to innovate, and, maybe even one day, to improve. In her first essay in this new book, Anne quotes her brother Kim as saying, "When you collect nature, there are two moments of discovery. The first comes when you find the thing. The second comes when you find the name." She continues the thought: "Without classification, collection is just a hodgepodge." For this writer who has been floundering, viewing her jump drive of files as "just a hodgepodge," finding "classification" has suddenly made those files take on new meaning.
The thoughts which followed that revelation are for another discussion another time, but they are worth addressing at some point: why do I need classification to validate my style's existence? Part of it is because I needed something to focus it, a mentor and a teacher; I have now found a great source for that. But why the psychological relief? It is something worth thinking about. More on that later...
I soon discovered she was the same Anne Fadiman who was the editor of a magazine of which I had just taken a subscription, The American Scholar. Again, it was a magazine with content I loved but couldn't quite put my finger on why, or at least why I loved it so much more than other literary magazines. In my frenzied grad-school state, I simply attributed it to the talent of Anne Fadiman and moved on. I had Tolkien to dissect, after all. Then grad school ended and my quest for finding books on my own began. It has been an interesting process of discovery, learning to articulate my likes and dislikes with 6 years of education behind me. You'd think I would be better at it than I am, but school mostly taught me theory and dissection, not so much enjoyment and identification. Add in there the recovery from burn-out and you have a very eclectic reading list and one confused reader.
In my search, I discovered a book Anne wrote about 10 years ago called The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down. Odd name for a book, I thought, but I was excited to read it. It had been recommended to me by a friend and was by an author who, up until that time, I had only known and loved as an essayist/journalist. I could write an entire posting on why I loved this book, but I will spare you the book review (for now). Suffice it to say for this discussion that it was during this book that I began to (i) discover why I liked Anne and (ii) identify her genre.
Anne is a creative journalist--I don't know if that's a real term, but that's how I like to define her. She takes a story, a subject, gives you really interesting information - succinctly - and then personalizes it. I got to the end of the book and found myself crying with this beautiful, loving Hmong family. Anne had me the entire way along, but she did not emotionally manipulate me. She simply told me a story that mattered in a way that captured me. The book went on my shelf next to my copy of Ex Libris.
Which brings us to yesterday. Almost. Two or three weeks ago I attended a book exchange. Of course I brought out Ex Libris (both copies, one recently given to me by my best friend who read it and knew I would love it. It's comforting to have friends who know me so well...). It has been a while since I've read these essays, and as I explained the contents of this book I found myself getting excited; I decided it was time to reread them myself. As I have revisited this book in the last week or so, I have felt almost giddy inside. With a little bit more experience behind me, some of these essays have taken on new meaning and give me new reasons for delight. Inspired, I went to Borders yesterday in search of another collection of essays recommended to me, hoping they might be in the "Anne" category. I was planning on just perusing the essays, not buying, but Borders didn't have the book. Plan foiled. I decided while I was there to enter Anne Fadiman's name into the computer, just to see if I had by chance missed any books she had recently written or edited. Turns out she put out another collection of essays last year. I walked straight to the shelf, breathed a sigh of relief to find a copy there, and went straight to the register. (Thank you again Millie for the gift card.) I had a feeling Anne wasn't going to let me down.
When I purchased the book, I expected to glean inspiration from her essays (which I have). I was surprised to find that (at least so far) her preface is what has impacted me the most. In fact, I can say that I experienced a revelatory moment as I read, one of the most profound I've ever had in my search for my authorial identity. In her preface, Anne gave her genre a name--the familiar essay--and began to outline its form and structure. It sounded so much like what I was trying to construct but have always felt just off the mark. She identified her inspiration, Charles Lamb (people, we have a predecessor!), and the time period when it had its heyday (early nineteenth century). (Mom, I finally have something we can put on my Christmas wish list.) I kept thinking, why have I never heard of this genre before? Well, Anne goes on to explain that while it is considered a dying genre, it is clearly one people still enjoy reading because the small amount out there is still being devoured.
What is the familiar essay? Quoting from Anne's preface in At Large and At Small:
The familiar essayist didn't speak to the millions; he spoke to one reader, as if the two of them were sitting side by side in front of a crackling fire with their cravats loosened, their favorite stimulants at hand, and a long evening of conversation stretching before them. His viewpoint was subjective, his frame of reference concrete, his style digressive, his eccentricities conspicuous, and his laughter usually at his own expense. And though he wrote about himself, he also wrote about a subject, something with which was so familiar, and about which he was often so enthusiastic, that his words were suffused with a lover's intimacy. [...] in other words, about the author but also about the world. (x-xi)
I found myself grasping for a pencil to underline this paragraph and in the margin the words spilled out: "I have found my people." The flow of thoughts that came after that and the understanding that began to overwhelm me felt as beautiful and delicious and smooth as mint being covered in dark chocolate.
Maybe this excitement seems disproportionate to the discovery, but for me it has opened up a new world. I now have examples to study, to emulate, to perfect and then from which to digress, to make the style my own, to innovate, and, maybe even one day, to improve. In her first essay in this new book, Anne quotes her brother Kim as saying, "When you collect nature, there are two moments of discovery. The first comes when you find the thing. The second comes when you find the name." She continues the thought: "Without classification, collection is just a hodgepodge." For this writer who has been floundering, viewing her jump drive of files as "just a hodgepodge," finding "classification" has suddenly made those files take on new meaning.
The thoughts which followed that revelation are for another discussion another time, but they are worth addressing at some point: why do I need classification to validate my style's existence? Part of it is because I needed something to focus it, a mentor and a teacher; I have now found a great source for that. But why the psychological relief? It is something worth thinking about. More on that later...
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Pornification of a Generation
I just read an article in Newsweek entitled, "The Pornification of a Generation." The article offered no surprises, but was a reminder as to what we are facing as far as sex in the media and the way it shapes our ideas of sexual identity and sexual behavior.
The following is a quote from the article that I feel summarizes the problem quite well: "...[P]orn themes have gone from adult entertainment to prime time, seeping into nearly every aspect of popular culture. Sarracino and Scott define "porning" as the way advertising and society in general have borrowed from the ideas and characteristics central to most American pornography: sex as commodity, sexuality as overt, narrow views of women and male-female relationships, bad girls and dirty boys, domination and submission."
The article focuses on how this "porning" of a nation is affecting teens' conceptions of their sexuality and their sexual behavior (including the way they dress and the way they view themselves in relation to the opposite sex), but I think the portion of my generation that remains single also needs to take a good hard look at how it is affecting our view of our own sexuality, how we interact in male-female relationships, and how it affects our ideas of how relationships should feel and be.
I have struggled with my relationship with my body for years. Of course, some of it is the normal female obsession/comparison, but a lot of it has to do with images in print and film media that I have internalized, both consciously and unconsciously. I made a decision early last year to eschew any and all of these images. I came to realize just how harmful they were to my self-esteem as well as the adverse affect they were having on my relationships with men (i.e., not feeling pretty enough to think I had much of a shot with any of them). I decided I needed to detox. I stopped going to certain types of movies, stopped watching television (not that I watched a ton, but I just didn't even turn it on--the commercials are even terribly sexual!), avoided even looking at magazine covers in the grocery store, listened to music conducive to feeling the spirit, and became concerned with just being healthy and being the best person I could be. A lot of changes occurred, one of the most important being that I became much less self-centered. I began to see myself and others in healthier ways. I am sometimes still plagued by the images of airbrushed women and get scared that the men of my association are expecting that unrealistic perfection in a companion (if I had a million dollars, hours a day to work out, and was grumpy from not eating, I could maybe look like that too, but alas, I am solidly middle-class, have limited time to work out, and like to have energy when I run...), but I can't worry about it. I push those fears away and try to have faith that as I try to avoid becoming over-sexed by media, others are making similar efforts.
I guess my point in blogging about this is to encourage us to take a step back, try to cleanse ourselves of these images and these expectations, and to show more reverence for the human body. It is sacred and should be treated with respect. It is not something to be worshipped the way the world worships, but to be worshipped the way God worships it. It is a gift from Him. It is a part of our soul. When we are resurrected our bodies will be reunited with our spirits, never to be parted again; it is part of the process of perfection, but that means so much more than having it look perfect, according to whatever cultural standard we happen to be living in. We should show it reverence through good health and constant care, but that attention should be matched and balanced by the attention we give to the perfection and health of our spirits. It is a balance I find difficult to achieve because I see my body in the mirror every day, and my spirit requires a little more effort to assess, but I believe that if we will heed the admonition to nourish both our bodies and spirits then we will be blessed with feelings of the approval from God as well as a healthier relationship with ourselves and others.
Thoughts?
The following is a quote from the article that I feel summarizes the problem quite well: "...[P]orn themes have gone from adult entertainment to prime time, seeping into nearly every aspect of popular culture. Sarracino and Scott define "porning" as the way advertising and society in general have borrowed from the ideas and characteristics central to most American pornography: sex as commodity, sexuality as overt, narrow views of women and male-female relationships, bad girls and dirty boys, domination and submission."
The article focuses on how this "porning" of a nation is affecting teens' conceptions of their sexuality and their sexual behavior (including the way they dress and the way they view themselves in relation to the opposite sex), but I think the portion of my generation that remains single also needs to take a good hard look at how it is affecting our view of our own sexuality, how we interact in male-female relationships, and how it affects our ideas of how relationships should feel and be.
I have struggled with my relationship with my body for years. Of course, some of it is the normal female obsession/comparison, but a lot of it has to do with images in print and film media that I have internalized, both consciously and unconsciously. I made a decision early last year to eschew any and all of these images. I came to realize just how harmful they were to my self-esteem as well as the adverse affect they were having on my relationships with men (i.e., not feeling pretty enough to think I had much of a shot with any of them). I decided I needed to detox. I stopped going to certain types of movies, stopped watching television (not that I watched a ton, but I just didn't even turn it on--the commercials are even terribly sexual!), avoided even looking at magazine covers in the grocery store, listened to music conducive to feeling the spirit, and became concerned with just being healthy and being the best person I could be. A lot of changes occurred, one of the most important being that I became much less self-centered. I began to see myself and others in healthier ways. I am sometimes still plagued by the images of airbrushed women and get scared that the men of my association are expecting that unrealistic perfection in a companion (if I had a million dollars, hours a day to work out, and was grumpy from not eating, I could maybe look like that too, but alas, I am solidly middle-class, have limited time to work out, and like to have energy when I run...), but I can't worry about it. I push those fears away and try to have faith that as I try to avoid becoming over-sexed by media, others are making similar efforts.
I guess my point in blogging about this is to encourage us to take a step back, try to cleanse ourselves of these images and these expectations, and to show more reverence for the human body. It is sacred and should be treated with respect. It is not something to be worshipped the way the world worships, but to be worshipped the way God worships it. It is a gift from Him. It is a part of our soul. When we are resurrected our bodies will be reunited with our spirits, never to be parted again; it is part of the process of perfection, but that means so much more than having it look perfect, according to whatever cultural standard we happen to be living in. We should show it reverence through good health and constant care, but that attention should be matched and balanced by the attention we give to the perfection and health of our spirits. It is a balance I find difficult to achieve because I see my body in the mirror every day, and my spirit requires a little more effort to assess, but I believe that if we will heed the admonition to nourish both our bodies and spirits then we will be blessed with feelings of the approval from God as well as a healthier relationship with ourselves and others.
Thoughts?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Book Snob
Okay, I admit it. I'm a book snob. Someone once accused me of it and I was offended. And now I'd like to say I'm sorry I was offended. You were right.
Book recommendations are a tricky thing. My taste sometimes falls into mainstream and sometimes falls into quirky. Most of the time when people ask me for book recommendations I hem and haw until they get tired of waiting for me and end up changing the subject. In fact, I think I sort of bank on the fact that they won't wait for my response. Why? Because most of the time the books I love other people hate and it hurts my book self-esteem when someone bothers to come back and tell me they just couldn't get into one of my favorite books. I mean, it's fair enough. I find sort of random things funny. I identify with characters on strange levels and for strange reasons (they aren't strange to me...people just look at me real funny sometimes when I say what I really think about certain books. In grad school I could do this and be thought of as a valuable contributor to class. Now I'm just the local book snob.).
Well, here comes the snobbery for all to see because I have a rant. It's a rant against mediocre fiction. The last two books I have read have been terrible. Not just sort of bad, but really awful. Now, I do have to take some responsibility for my actions at this point. I have this annoying trait of finishing something I've started. I could have, at any point, put these books down. I was disgusted enough with them both that I should have. But I didn't. Why? Because I had to know if there was going to be any redeeming moment in them at all. I have this unfailing hope and faith that somewhere in the 400 pages of awfulness, evidence that an editor actually read the manuscript would come forth and the book would stop careening down the path of cliche and unoriginality!! I know this sounds harsh, but honestly, I want my time and money back. I'm not even going to admit which book was the first one I read. It's not even worth mentioning. All I can say is that I read it out of a "needed to know" obligation. The End.
The second book was a book by Shannon Hale, an author I really feel is very creative. I like her children's literature and have found it to be some of the most original and delightful fantasy I've come across (The Goose Girl and Enna Burning - the second one is particularly good). I recently came across a new-ish book she wrote in the non-kiddie section (I typed "adult section" but that sounded kind of wrong). I thought, hmmmm, and opened up the front cover. The prologue had me intrigued. It appeared to be about a girl who was obsessed over the Colin Firth version of Pride & Prejudice and was determined to rid herself of her fantasy obsession. The prologue was biting and I thought, ooooh, a good satire. I love a good satire. And since Hale had a good record with me, I bought it to take with me to the beach. What a disappointment.
The idea had such potential, but my biting satire instead turned out to be wish-fulfillment, and not even well done at that. I kept reading until the end, hoping for some ending other than the one I knew was coming. Even during the airport scene (which could have been so much funnier than it actually was) I kept thinking, there's no way this guy is getting on the plane. She wouldn't do that. But she does. I chucked the book across the room.
Now, please don't think I'm a cynic. I'm not. (I prefer to describe myself as an optimistic realist.) That being said, it's not that I didn't want the dude to get on the plane. There just wasn't nearly enough precedent for him to get on the plane. It was weird. It felt forced. I found myself examining my own writing, questioning what my own first story would be, if I were to finish writing it. Would it get caught in this weird place between satire and wish fulfillment? Maybe. Hopefully I'll have the good sense to never try and publish it. I'll lock it away in a drawer and pirate it for material 10 years down the road, not subject already vulnerable women to unlikely (and ultimately unentertaining) scenarios.
[sigh] Okay. Rant over. I'm returning to non-fiction for a while. I've had a lot of good luck with that genre this year, thanks to some excellent recommendations. (My friend, you know who you are, you have not failed me once. Thank you. You're at the top of my list. Don't blow it.)
N.B. I realize this may deter many of you from ever recommending a book to me again. That is not my intention. I love book recommendations. In all fairness I should point out that these books were not recommended to me. I chose them all by my lonesome. I wonder what that says about my own judgment... It reminds me of the time I rented P.S. I Love You and was mad the whole time and am still talking about how much I hated the movie.
Assignment: Please leave a comment about any of the following: Rants about books you hate/were disappointed in (and why - I'm curious). Praise for books you love (and why - I'm curious). What wish fulfillment literature does for you (love it? hate it? indifferent? it serves its purpose?). Or anything else you want to say (but try to be nice...or if you can't be nice, be articulate.)
Book recommendations are a tricky thing. My taste sometimes falls into mainstream and sometimes falls into quirky. Most of the time when people ask me for book recommendations I hem and haw until they get tired of waiting for me and end up changing the subject. In fact, I think I sort of bank on the fact that they won't wait for my response. Why? Because most of the time the books I love other people hate and it hurts my book self-esteem when someone bothers to come back and tell me they just couldn't get into one of my favorite books. I mean, it's fair enough. I find sort of random things funny. I identify with characters on strange levels and for strange reasons (they aren't strange to me...people just look at me real funny sometimes when I say what I really think about certain books. In grad school I could do this and be thought of as a valuable contributor to class. Now I'm just the local book snob.).
Well, here comes the snobbery for all to see because I have a rant. It's a rant against mediocre fiction. The last two books I have read have been terrible. Not just sort of bad, but really awful. Now, I do have to take some responsibility for my actions at this point. I have this annoying trait of finishing something I've started. I could have, at any point, put these books down. I was disgusted enough with them both that I should have. But I didn't. Why? Because I had to know if there was going to be any redeeming moment in them at all. I have this unfailing hope and faith that somewhere in the 400 pages of awfulness, evidence that an editor actually read the manuscript would come forth and the book would stop careening down the path of cliche and unoriginality!! I know this sounds harsh, but honestly, I want my time and money back. I'm not even going to admit which book was the first one I read. It's not even worth mentioning. All I can say is that I read it out of a "needed to know" obligation. The End.
The second book was a book by Shannon Hale, an author I really feel is very creative. I like her children's literature and have found it to be some of the most original and delightful fantasy I've come across (The Goose Girl and Enna Burning - the second one is particularly good). I recently came across a new-ish book she wrote in the non-kiddie section (I typed "adult section" but that sounded kind of wrong). I thought, hmmmm, and opened up the front cover. The prologue had me intrigued. It appeared to be about a girl who was obsessed over the Colin Firth version of Pride & Prejudice and was determined to rid herself of her fantasy obsession. The prologue was biting and I thought, ooooh, a good satire. I love a good satire. And since Hale had a good record with me, I bought it to take with me to the beach. What a disappointment.
The idea had such potential, but my biting satire instead turned out to be wish-fulfillment, and not even well done at that. I kept reading until the end, hoping for some ending other than the one I knew was coming. Even during the airport scene (which could have been so much funnier than it actually was) I kept thinking, there's no way this guy is getting on the plane. She wouldn't do that. But she does. I chucked the book across the room.
Now, please don't think I'm a cynic. I'm not. (I prefer to describe myself as an optimistic realist.) That being said, it's not that I didn't want the dude to get on the plane. There just wasn't nearly enough precedent for him to get on the plane. It was weird. It felt forced. I found myself examining my own writing, questioning what my own first story would be, if I were to finish writing it. Would it get caught in this weird place between satire and wish fulfillment? Maybe. Hopefully I'll have the good sense to never try and publish it. I'll lock it away in a drawer and pirate it for material 10 years down the road, not subject already vulnerable women to unlikely (and ultimately unentertaining) scenarios.
[sigh] Okay. Rant over. I'm returning to non-fiction for a while. I've had a lot of good luck with that genre this year, thanks to some excellent recommendations. (My friend, you know who you are, you have not failed me once. Thank you. You're at the top of my list. Don't blow it.)
N.B. I realize this may deter many of you from ever recommending a book to me again. That is not my intention. I love book recommendations. In all fairness I should point out that these books were not recommended to me. I chose them all by my lonesome. I wonder what that says about my own judgment... It reminds me of the time I rented P.S. I Love You and was mad the whole time and am still talking about how much I hated the movie.
Assignment: Please leave a comment about any of the following: Rants about books you hate/were disappointed in (and why - I'm curious). Praise for books you love (and why - I'm curious). What wish fulfillment literature does for you (love it? hate it? indifferent? it serves its purpose?). Or anything else you want to say (but try to be nice...or if you can't be nice, be articulate.)
Friday, September 5, 2008
Discoveries
It's a slow day at work. I could feel the oppression of nothing to do creeping in on me. My boss is out sick, deals are a little slow these days, and really I'm just too darn efficient at my job. So, I did what I always do when I'm going stir-crazy: I started throwing things away. I started with a pile of papers I created when I got back from my 2 month "vacation". They were papers to be filed but not with any urgency. I feel like my aversion to paperwork is a mix of my father and my mother. If I was 100% Mom, I would have filed the papers away the moment I sorted or received them. If I was 100% Dad, the bottom of the pile would date back to 2003, when I first started at this firm, and be 3 feet high. But alas, I am a perfect mix of aversion and address; I've only been ignoring it for two weeks and today was the day to get rid of it. I always think these projects are going to take me more time than they do, which is why I think I put it off, but it never does. I had the filing whittled down in about 5 minutes and, because I'm so organized at work, had it all in its proper place about 5 minutes after that. I only killed 10 minutes on filing and now my desk is clean. Now what?
I looked around at what else I could clean or throw away and my eyes wandered to the dreaded drawer, my one personal drawer amongst the other tens of drawers I keep for the people I work for. This drawer is pretty representative of one of my life's paradoxes: I'm really good at keeping other people organized. I'm also really good at keeping common space in my house clean; I love a spotless house (this is 100% Mom). However, my bedroom...[sigh] No matter how hard I try, I can't keep it clean for more than a few days. Somehow things get out of place and I can't manage to get them back to where they belong with any kind of speed. It turns into an all-day affair, usually on a Saturday when I'd really rather be riding my bike or something. I try to tell myself it's because I have a house full of things crammed in my not-so-tiny room, but really I think it's because I have too much paperwork I don't address, too many things that don't have a place, and too many clothes that I don't really care about enough to hang them up at the end of the day. Oh, and too much surface area to put those things without it terribly inconveniencing my daily routine. So, back to the drawer (I bet you forgot we were talking about my work drawer).
This drawer is the work version of my bedroom. I try to keep it clean, but it just keeps collecting things. (You like the passive voice there? That's me not taking responsibility for the bottomless pit.) I decided today to find out what exactly was in there. I was shocked and appalled at what I found. Ladies and gentlemen, a catalog of the work drawer:
1. Towing receipts from Percy's mishaps earlier this year: Why these aren't at home are a mystery to me. Oh, wait! No, no mystery. I don't have a fax machine at home, therefore they are here because after I faxed them to my insurance company I "filed" them away in my drawer(thus avoiding filing away paperwork at home...).
2. A technical writing book and course materials from an online course at BYU I started earlier this year. 
I never got past the first lesson: "Why Technical Writing is Fun." I totally forgot I was even signed up for this class until I saw the book. My experiment was successful: I have zero desire to enter into a career of technical writing.
3. La Sombra Del Viento, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. 
Apparently to work on my Spanish at work.
4. A box set of C.S. Lewis' collected works.
Again, why these aren't at home is somewhat of a mystery to me. I must have bought them on a lunch break and not taken them home, perhaps anticipating a day like today when I would have nothing to do and would like nothing more than to read a little Lewis. This is a plausible explanation. It does not, however, explain numbers 5 through 8.
5. C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces.
See #4. Did I buy this book before or after the box set?
6. Hunger, by Sherman Apt Russell.
I was in the middle of reading this book when I got sick (though I don't think the two are related). It's a really interesting read. I need to finish it. Bought after the Lewis box set, I'm sure of it.
I must have brought this from home, but who knows when. I've actually been looking for it and had recently convinced myself that I had never really owned it and just had it confused with some other institute manual.
8. The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss.
Recently bought, though I probably should have just checked it out of the library. Give me a Border's gift card and I'm dangerous. This was the only book I actually knew or remembered was in this drawer. Had I remembered I had Lewis, I may not have purchased. It's a different kind of style and I like it, but the subject matter...I'm not sold yet. The gamble of book recommendations.
9. A redweld full of drafts of my own book. I really should look those over and get back to work on it.
10. A letter I wrote but never sent to my mom. It wasn't very articulate, which is maybe why I didn't send it. I have a tendency to do things like that.
11. A letter I wrote to another individual but never sent. This one was actually very articulate and rather insightful. I must not have sent it because I was feeling self-conscious. Who writes letters anymore? I do, but most people don't, so when someone gets a letter, especially one with evidence of much thought, it can sometimes be taken as meaning something more than it really does. So I didn't send it. Funny thing is, even thought I wrote it in March, I still want to send it. But I probably won't.
12. Stationery and envelopes. For all those letters I'm going to write but never send.
13. A dusty nickel.
14. Two tampons. Must restock.
I'm not quite sure what this list says about my work life or, rather, my life in general... But the drawer is now organized (all books will remain until read) and my purse actually fits in it without requiring me to get creative.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Recycled. Again.
Change. I like it; I crave it. And I resist it. Paradoxical? Maybe. Let me 'splain.
Change I resist:
1. Taco Tuesday-D.C. Edition: It began as a simple little dinner with me, Jane, and Laura Cannon and ended in a firey ball of hot oil (with Laura still faithfully stirring the beans). Our little family grew over the course of the next few months, newbies dropped in and out, but the core remained. Now?...now [sigh] the band is breaking up. Ali and Lincoln are heading to CA for the rest of the summer, Jane has gone and gotten herself engaged and will soon be adios-ing and, well, Taco Tuesday will never quite be the same. My inner-circle continues to depart, slowly but surely. Suddenly, I feel as if I am the last woman standing. It's no secret: when I love, I love deeply, and when bonds of friendship are formed, they are firm and loyal. So when changes occur (even happy changes) that change the dyanmic of those friendships, of course I feel a sense of loss. That kind of change is hard.
2. My deskmate at work just got moved to the third floor. Now I sit alone at a job I already dislike, left to entertain only myself. We were kind of like those two old muppets who sat in the box seats with their running commentary. They needed each other in order to be funny. I am now one old muppet guy, left alone in the box seat. Email just doesn't have the same kind of rhythm. [sigh] I guess #2 is really the same as #1 in this category...I'm kind of a predictable creature.
Change I embrace:
1. Hair color: I'm tired (yet again) of my hair. I always hated the red the girl put in it (grrr). Now that my hair is growing out, my original light brown/dark blonde color is clashing magnificently with this reddish hue that I detest so much, making it look like this yucky, mousy brown. I will be blonde again by the end of the week. My family will be pleased. Now if only I would grow my hair back out, they would really be pleased. But it just isn't going to happen. I tried. I felt ugly. I'm keeping it short. Sorry to disappoint.
2. Purging material possessions: This weekend I got rid of all the books in my room that I hate. I know, I know. Hate is a strong word. Here's the thing. A load of them were for this cultural studies course I had to take in grad school. The books we had to read could have been essays and made their points more effectively, and yet each author eked out 100+ pages so that they could charge poor grad students $20 to read about and potentially legitimize their ideas. I will admit, some of the class discussions were actually pretty interesting. Sadly, during my undergraduate career I mastered the art of skipping my way around books I didn't want to read, reading just enough in the right places to arm myself with enough information to get by. I didn't read one lousy book in its entirety that entire semester and ended up being one of the star students. I rocked an A and felt totally guilty about it. However, I did write an awesome paper on romantic comedies, so my guilt is slightly assuaged. Anyway, I convinced myself that I might really be interested in reading about reality television or a pseudo-utopian society in Florida when I wasn't both working and going to school full time, so I hung onto them. Every single book. But really folks, who am I kidding? I'm never going to read them. And having them on my shelf is just a reminder of the work I didn't do over two years ago. Therefore, they are being donated to a library so that people who actually care about popular culture, Foucault and Adorno can read to their heart's content. I am not one of those people.
3. Food choices: I have recently grown tired of all foods but cookies, smoothies, fruit leather and kabobs. Lately fried food has been strangely alluring. This craving is not normal. I need more variety in my diet with minimal impact on my time.
4. Educational opportunities: I feel the itch to return to school...
Change I resist:
1. Taco Tuesday-D.C. Edition: It began as a simple little dinner with me, Jane, and Laura Cannon and ended in a firey ball of hot oil (with Laura still faithfully stirring the beans). Our little family grew over the course of the next few months, newbies dropped in and out, but the core remained. Now?...now [sigh] the band is breaking up. Ali and Lincoln are heading to CA for the rest of the summer, Jane has gone and gotten herself engaged and will soon be adios-ing and, well, Taco Tuesday will never quite be the same. My inner-circle continues to depart, slowly but surely. Suddenly, I feel as if I am the last woman standing. It's no secret: when I love, I love deeply, and when bonds of friendship are formed, they are firm and loyal. So when changes occur (even happy changes) that change the dyanmic of those friendships, of course I feel a sense of loss. That kind of change is hard.
2. My deskmate at work just got moved to the third floor. Now I sit alone at a job I already dislike, left to entertain only myself. We were kind of like those two old muppets who sat in the box seats with their running commentary. They needed each other in order to be funny. I am now one old muppet guy, left alone in the box seat. Email just doesn't have the same kind of rhythm. [sigh] I guess #2 is really the same as #1 in this category...I'm kind of a predictable creature.
Change I embrace:
1. Hair color: I'm tired (yet again) of my hair. I always hated the red the girl put in it (grrr). Now that my hair is growing out, my original light brown/dark blonde color is clashing magnificently with this reddish hue that I detest so much, making it look like this yucky, mousy brown. I will be blonde again by the end of the week. My family will be pleased. Now if only I would grow my hair back out, they would really be pleased. But it just isn't going to happen. I tried. I felt ugly. I'm keeping it short. Sorry to disappoint.
2. Purging material possessions: This weekend I got rid of all the books in my room that I hate. I know, I know. Hate is a strong word. Here's the thing. A load of them were for this cultural studies course I had to take in grad school. The books we had to read could have been essays and made their points more effectively, and yet each author eked out 100+ pages so that they could charge poor grad students $20 to read about and potentially legitimize their ideas. I will admit, some of the class discussions were actually pretty interesting. Sadly, during my undergraduate career I mastered the art of skipping my way around books I didn't want to read, reading just enough in the right places to arm myself with enough information to get by. I didn't read one lousy book in its entirety that entire semester and ended up being one of the star students. I rocked an A and felt totally guilty about it. However, I did write an awesome paper on romantic comedies, so my guilt is slightly assuaged. Anyway, I convinced myself that I might really be interested in reading about reality television or a pseudo-utopian society in Florida when I wasn't both working and going to school full time, so I hung onto them. Every single book. But really folks, who am I kidding? I'm never going to read them. And having them on my shelf is just a reminder of the work I didn't do over two years ago. Therefore, they are being donated to a library so that people who actually care about popular culture, Foucault and Adorno can read to their heart's content. I am not one of those people.
3. Food choices: I have recently grown tired of all foods but cookies, smoothies, fruit leather and kabobs. Lately fried food has been strangely alluring. This craving is not normal. I need more variety in my diet with minimal impact on my time.
4. Educational opportunities: I feel the itch to return to school...
Friday, June 20, 2008
Escapism
My father once asked me (a month before I started my grad program in English lit), "Julie, can I ask you, what is the purpose of fiction?" I was rendered speechless; I was embarrassed to discover I had no good answer. I fumbled around for something to legitimize my new course of study, but was never really satisfied with my answer. I mean, there are lots of good things about fiction. It can be highly instructional. It provides a forum for creativity. It's good for lots of things. Recently, though, I discovered, or finally admitted, that one more exists: Escapism.
I don't often use literature to escape because I'm usually reading for information or edification. It is still escaping in a sense, because it transports me from my current surroundings to the world contained in the pages of a book, but escaping my world is not usually my primary purpose in reading. However, my confession today is that there are two books (well, one book and one series) I use exclusively as escape-literature (one more than the other) and they both fall into the same genre: Fantasy.
I should explain that I consider this admission a confession because I have been accused in the past of being a book snob. Maybe I earned that label. Maybe not. I will say this: There aren't many fantasy authors out there that are high on my respectable list of well-knowns. That being said, I may not look the type, but I did almost my entire master's degree on medieval literature, its appropriations in literature throughout history, and, more specifically, Tolkien and his creation of Middle-earth. I know I just said I "don't do fantasy" and that Tolkien technically falls under fantasy, but Tolkien really is in a category all by himself. Growing up, I had never given much thought to Tolkien or The Lord of the Rings and was only vaguely aware of the existence of The Silmarillion, though I had no idea what it was or what it was about. Fantasy lit just wasn't my thing. But I'll admit, the movies came out and I was mesmerized. I read LOTR for the first time the fall before I started graduate school. I loved it. Then I took this heinous research methods class required of all first-semester students. [A side note of little interest to anyone but me: My professor was frightening. I'm not kidding. She was severe, socially inept, and brilliant. I have never been more intimidated in all my life. Sadly, she was one of only two medievalists on campus and I spent almost my entire graduate career under her watchful, condescending, tactless eye.] When my professor assigned the class to choose an author and read the authorized biography, I chose Tolkien. I was curious to find out more about the creator of Middle-earth. I passed many lovely fall evenings in front of my fireplace learning about his many eccentricities and acknowledged brilliance. A top philologist (he was recruited to work on portions of the O.E.D.) and medieval studies professor at Oxford, he wrote in his "spare time" (usually between the hours of midnight and 2 or 3 a.m.). I had no idea such a brilliant individual would deign to write something that could be termed fantasy literature. Just goes to show you the trouble book-snobbery can get you into.
While everyone walked around calling Tolkien's creation fantasy, he declared his creation a "mythology for England." Since England had been conquered and reconquered so many times, no solid mythology exists, no great origination story for this tiny, powerful Island, so Tolkien took matters into his own hands and created one himself (The Silmarillion). The creation story in that book is one of the most beautiful I have ever read. I could go on and on, but I'll just say this: One of the reasons Tolkien's version of fantasy is so excellent is because it has just enough of the world I recognize and know, but with an other-worldliness that isn't so far out there that I have to work to imagine it. It just feels familiar.
I know many people make the jump from Tolkien to Harry Potter, and I do so here only to point out that while they are not on the same level academically, they are on a similar level of accessibility to escapism. While Tolkien doesn't require me to work to believe, he does require me to think. Rowling, however, doesn't demand that I think because she eventually explains everything, whether it's through Dumbledore or his Penseive (or a thorough explanation from Hermione or Harry). Regardless of the level it's written on, Rowling has masterfully crafted something that evokes some of the same feelings as Tolkien's world: it is just close enough to my world for me to relate, but creates another world so magnificent and fantastic (as in fantasy-like) that I am willingly led into believing that Hogwarts does exist and that Harry really is going to save the world. Which brings me to my next point.
Savior literature. Had I finished my thesis, you would have have 70+ pages on this (aren't you glad I didn't? ha ha). I think this is the reason these two stories resonate so deeply with readers, the reason these are two of the best-selling novels/franchises ever. Well-crafted stories about good vs. evil, about one individual in whose hands the destiny of the earth resides, resonate because it is the essence of our existence. It is the story that is being written every day. Savior literature. It's powerful.
Anyway, this posting started out discussing escapism because I was going to confess that I just spent the last two weeks reading Harry Potter from start to finish--2 weeks, all 7 books-- because I was emotionally escaping from the news that my dad has cancer. It was the only way I could think of to cope. Harry Potter is an easy world to escape to, and I went easily and willingly. I emerged from Book 7 just yesterday. I've been thinking a lot over the last two weeks and have come to a few conclusions [spoiler alert, fair warning]:
Book Conclusions
1. No matter how many times I read the series (I think this was my 4th time through), I will always cry when Dumbledore dies. Always.
2. This was my third time through Book 7, and I still cried when Snape revealed to Dumbledore that his patronus is a doe...And this time through it finally registered that the reason Snape asks Harry to look at him right before he dies is so he can die with the vision of Lily's eyes before him. I know, I'm a little slow.
3. Snape is Rowling's most masterfully crafted character. I had a lot of theories about Snape. One of them was true. The other half of the puzzle, though, that part that completes Snape, the part about his connecton with Lily, I never would have guessed. Never. But it makes perfect sense. Brilliant.
4. My imagination will never be as alive as Rowling's. Ever. Hallows, horcruxes, souls splitting and connecting, wand lore...never in a million years would I have come up with it. I hope I get more creative as I get older. Maybe my children will teach me a thing or two.
Life Conclusions
1. Sometimes your mind needs to shut down when it's traumatized. It's good to listen and give it the rest it needs for however long it needs it. Don't push yourself back into the real world before you're ready to be there. Don't worry about it - you'll know when you're done. Also, it's good to escape to something that gives you a happy ending. Harry's friends and family suffer, some die, but there is hope in the end. That's always a good note to emerge on.
I've had the urge to go back and start reading the series again, but I know it's time to be done escaping and time to deal with reality.
Go fiction.
I don't often use literature to escape because I'm usually reading for information or edification. It is still escaping in a sense, because it transports me from my current surroundings to the world contained in the pages of a book, but escaping my world is not usually my primary purpose in reading. However, my confession today is that there are two books (well, one book and one series) I use exclusively as escape-literature (one more than the other) and they both fall into the same genre: Fantasy.
I should explain that I consider this admission a confession because I have been accused in the past of being a book snob. Maybe I earned that label. Maybe not. I will say this: There aren't many fantasy authors out there that are high on my respectable list of well-knowns. That being said, I may not look the type, but I did almost my entire master's degree on medieval literature, its appropriations in literature throughout history, and, more specifically, Tolkien and his creation of Middle-earth. I know I just said I "don't do fantasy" and that Tolkien technically falls under fantasy, but Tolkien really is in a category all by himself. Growing up, I had never given much thought to Tolkien or The Lord of the Rings and was only vaguely aware of the existence of The Silmarillion, though I had no idea what it was or what it was about. Fantasy lit just wasn't my thing. But I'll admit, the movies came out and I was mesmerized. I read LOTR for the first time the fall before I started graduate school. I loved it. Then I took this heinous research methods class required of all first-semester students. [A side note of little interest to anyone but me: My professor was frightening. I'm not kidding. She was severe, socially inept, and brilliant. I have never been more intimidated in all my life. Sadly, she was one of only two medievalists on campus and I spent almost my entire graduate career under her watchful, condescending, tactless eye.] When my professor assigned the class to choose an author and read the authorized biography, I chose Tolkien. I was curious to find out more about the creator of Middle-earth. I passed many lovely fall evenings in front of my fireplace learning about his many eccentricities and acknowledged brilliance. A top philologist (he was recruited to work on portions of the O.E.D.) and medieval studies professor at Oxford, he wrote in his "spare time" (usually between the hours of midnight and 2 or 3 a.m.). I had no idea such a brilliant individual would deign to write something that could be termed fantasy literature. Just goes to show you the trouble book-snobbery can get you into.
While everyone walked around calling Tolkien's creation fantasy, he declared his creation a "mythology for England." Since England had been conquered and reconquered so many times, no solid mythology exists, no great origination story for this tiny, powerful Island, so Tolkien took matters into his own hands and created one himself (The Silmarillion). The creation story in that book is one of the most beautiful I have ever read. I could go on and on, but I'll just say this: One of the reasons Tolkien's version of fantasy is so excellent is because it has just enough of the world I recognize and know, but with an other-worldliness that isn't so far out there that I have to work to imagine it. It just feels familiar.
I know many people make the jump from Tolkien to Harry Potter, and I do so here only to point out that while they are not on the same level academically, they are on a similar level of accessibility to escapism. While Tolkien doesn't require me to work to believe, he does require me to think. Rowling, however, doesn't demand that I think because she eventually explains everything, whether it's through Dumbledore or his Penseive (or a thorough explanation from Hermione or Harry). Regardless of the level it's written on, Rowling has masterfully crafted something that evokes some of the same feelings as Tolkien's world: it is just close enough to my world for me to relate, but creates another world so magnificent and fantastic (as in fantasy-like) that I am willingly led into believing that Hogwarts does exist and that Harry really is going to save the world. Which brings me to my next point.
Savior literature. Had I finished my thesis, you would have have 70+ pages on this (aren't you glad I didn't? ha ha). I think this is the reason these two stories resonate so deeply with readers, the reason these are two of the best-selling novels/franchises ever. Well-crafted stories about good vs. evil, about one individual in whose hands the destiny of the earth resides, resonate because it is the essence of our existence. It is the story that is being written every day. Savior literature. It's powerful.
Anyway, this posting started out discussing escapism because I was going to confess that I just spent the last two weeks reading Harry Potter from start to finish--2 weeks, all 7 books-- because I was emotionally escaping from the news that my dad has cancer. It was the only way I could think of to cope. Harry Potter is an easy world to escape to, and I went easily and willingly. I emerged from Book 7 just yesterday. I've been thinking a lot over the last two weeks and have come to a few conclusions [spoiler alert, fair warning]:
Book Conclusions
1. No matter how many times I read the series (I think this was my 4th time through), I will always cry when Dumbledore dies. Always.
2. This was my third time through Book 7, and I still cried when Snape revealed to Dumbledore that his patronus is a doe...And this time through it finally registered that the reason Snape asks Harry to look at him right before he dies is so he can die with the vision of Lily's eyes before him. I know, I'm a little slow.
3. Snape is Rowling's most masterfully crafted character. I had a lot of theories about Snape. One of them was true. The other half of the puzzle, though, that part that completes Snape, the part about his connecton with Lily, I never would have guessed. Never. But it makes perfect sense. Brilliant.
4. My imagination will never be as alive as Rowling's. Ever. Hallows, horcruxes, souls splitting and connecting, wand lore...never in a million years would I have come up with it. I hope I get more creative as I get older. Maybe my children will teach me a thing or two.
Life Conclusions
1. Sometimes your mind needs to shut down when it's traumatized. It's good to listen and give it the rest it needs for however long it needs it. Don't push yourself back into the real world before you're ready to be there. Don't worry about it - you'll know when you're done. Also, it's good to escape to something that gives you a happy ending. Harry's friends and family suffer, some die, but there is hope in the end. That's always a good note to emerge on.
I've had the urge to go back and start reading the series again, but I know it's time to be done escaping and time to deal with reality.
Go fiction.
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