Throughout my childhood, I always had a sneaking suspicion that I might be an actual genius. No one corroborated me in my theory, but that was because I was misunderstood just like all true geniuses.
My main clue was that I was already exceptional at eavesdropping having spent the better part of my preschool years hiding in pantries and underneath tables to listen to my parents' and older brother's conversations.
This was actually the only clue I had to work with, but boy, did I run with it.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Monday, June 23, 2014
Turning Back Time
Dear 14 Year Old Shasta,
Greetings, young one! This is yourself about thirteen years into the future. I just wanted to check in on you and see how you're doing. You've been uncharacteristically quiet lately, like, really quiet and this is concerning because you typically have a way with words as evidenced by your parents' monthly phone bills and your endless journalling that would put James Joyce to shame (in terms of quantity anyway, though some of his work is a little willy-nilly if you ask me).
Greetings, young one! This is yourself about thirteen years into the future. I just wanted to check in on you and see how you're doing. You've been uncharacteristically quiet lately, like, really quiet and this is concerning because you typically have a way with words as evidenced by your parents' monthly phone bills and your endless journalling that would put James Joyce to shame (in terms of quantity anyway, though some of his work is a little willy-nilly if you ask me).
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Growing Up in a Girl's World
At a very early age, I wanted to go to college and have some kind of career. I spent most of third grade writing extra credit papers about all of the planets to hone my writing and research skills.
When I found out about a nearby college-prep middle school, I begged my parents to send me even though that meant years of carpooling.
As soon as I could drive, I started taking community college classes and learning about scholarships.
I never aspired to be married or to have a family. Maybe it's because I was so hyper-intense about school, but my parents never encouraged me to do that or even made mention of it.
When I found out about a nearby college-prep middle school, I begged my parents to send me even though that meant years of carpooling.
As soon as I could drive, I started taking community college classes and learning about scholarships.
I never aspired to be married or to have a family. Maybe it's because I was so hyper-intense about school, but my parents never encouraged me to do that or even made mention of it.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Ch-ch-ch-chaaaanges
Every time I sit down to write something, it ends up sounding really morose and negative. Since many people tell me that I already write like I talk, I'm concerned that I'm becoming a huge downer. I think it has a lot do with job dissatisfaction and some injuries that are plaguing my runs, but there are times where I find myself in a deep, dark, uncool funk that is so unlike me.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Movies of My Life
It's easy to look at your life like it's some kind of yearbook. If you keep a journal or blog, you might find yourself cringing at your past attempts to express yourself. If you're a scrapbooker or a devout photo album maker (bless you), then you might also find yourself cringing at your past haircuts. I decided to take a look at my life through movies.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
2012 - What What!
Happy New Year, you crazy hooligans!
Did you party until the wee hours of the morning?
Or did you fall asleep to the sound of Ryan Seacrest's voice on TV?
Whatever you did, I hope you did it safely. I, for one, stayed up well past midnight, but that's only because I took an 18-hour nap earlier that day.
I'm serious. I really did sleep that long. Impressed? I thought so.
I'm not one for resolutions, mostly because I forget them. I also think that they can be rather limiting because of the boundaries they can create in your daily life.
If you want to "eat healthier" this year, your intake of cookies and ice cream dramatically decreases. If you want to "lose weight" for 2012, you spend less hours watching Real Housewives and more hours at a gym. If you want to "save more money," you're shopping less.
People, I cannot live life like that. A life with less dairy, NeNe Leakes, and Sephora is not the life for me. However, I see the value of having a resolution (or a few) because it's like having a personal tracker of stuff you want to do in the next year that can make you feel happier.
I just don't like the word "resolution" very much because it's, um, rather resolute. Like, if you don't do it, then you're a big failure at life. What if you start out the year, you know, lifting more weights, like you resolutely promised yourself, and you realize that going to the gym is not your cup of tea? Why stick with something that makes you unhappy?
Resolutions should bring you joy and open some doors to new possibilities! You want to limit yourself? Well, that's what Lent is for.
Anyway, here are my resolutions-slash-things-I-want-to-do-to-be-a-little-happier for 2012:
1) Try out homemade laundry detergent
I know this might seem like a weird one, but have you seen what's in a bottle of Tide or Gain detergent? Laundry chemists or whoever put some crazy shit in those bottles, and then I wash my sheets in that, and then I rub my face on those sheets at night getting that crazy shit all over my skin and sometimes my mouth because, you know, we all drool a little bit, and who knows what that's doing to me internally.
I'm normally not worried about toxins and additives (HELLO! I eat cheese in a can sometimes!) but the folks at Yellow Brick Home sold me on the idea with their cute glass container of homemade detergent.
WHAT CAN I SAY? I'M A SUCKER FOR PACKAGING! Sue me!
Who knows, maybe this will inspire a whole eco-friendly, green-tastic way of living for me. Or maybe I'll just have some cute soap in my laundry room.
2) Go on day/weekend trips in the surrounding area more often
I spend a lot of weekends on my couch in my pajamas, which is great, but maybe I could change things up and wear jeans outside the house for once. By no means am I an outdoorsy sort of gal, but I can appreciate the occasional vista or sunset or rising tide here in the Great Northwest (so long as there is a major metropolitan area within 1.5 hours) and since my days here are numbered, I really should get outside more.
And who better to do it with than my partner incrime life? We deserve to have some mini-blasty-blasts together.
3) Write more. In general. Overall.
I know that some writers are very strict about how prolific they are in a given time period, but I'm not there yet in terms of my writing prolific-ness. As evidenced by my sporadic blog posts, I really don't have a distinct writing or publishing schedule. I write when I write and sometimes, things get published, and sometimes, things get scrapped.
Even still, I want to write more. In general.
I don't want to start on page quotas or anything like that until I feel comfortable because that is too resolution-y for me. You know how some people get rid of their scales and just gauge their weight gain/loss tango based on how tightly or loosely their clothes fit? I'm going to try and do that with writing on this here ol' blog.
Overall.
So that is how I'm going to spend 2012, in addition to my usual 2011 shenanigans that involve Oreos and reality television.
What are your non-resolutions?
Did you party until the wee hours of the morning?
Or did you fall asleep to the sound of Ryan Seacrest's voice on TV?
Whatever you did, I hope you did it safely. I, for one, stayed up well past midnight, but that's only because I took an 18-hour nap earlier that day.
I'm serious. I really did sleep that long. Impressed? I thought so.
I'm not one for resolutions, mostly because I forget them. I also think that they can be rather limiting because of the boundaries they can create in your daily life.
If you want to "eat healthier" this year, your intake of cookies and ice cream dramatically decreases. If you want to "lose weight" for 2012, you spend less hours watching Real Housewives and more hours at a gym. If you want to "save more money," you're shopping less.
People, I cannot live life like that. A life with less dairy, NeNe Leakes, and Sephora is not the life for me. However, I see the value of having a resolution (or a few) because it's like having a personal tracker of stuff you want to do in the next year that can make you feel happier.
I just don't like the word "resolution" very much because it's, um, rather resolute. Like, if you don't do it, then you're a big failure at life. What if you start out the year, you know, lifting more weights, like you resolutely promised yourself, and you realize that going to the gym is not your cup of tea? Why stick with something that makes you unhappy?
Resolutions should bring you joy and open some doors to new possibilities! You want to limit yourself? Well, that's what Lent is for.
Anyway, here are my resolutions-slash-things-I-want-to-do-to-be-a-little-happier for 2012:
1) Try out homemade laundry detergent
I know this might seem like a weird one, but have you seen what's in a bottle of Tide or Gain detergent? Laundry chemists or whoever put some crazy shit in those bottles, and then I wash my sheets in that, and then I rub my face on those sheets at night getting that crazy shit all over my skin and sometimes my mouth because, you know, we all drool a little bit, and who knows what that's doing to me internally.
I'm normally not worried about toxins and additives (HELLO! I eat cheese in a can sometimes!) but the folks at Yellow Brick Home sold me on the idea with their cute glass container of homemade detergent.
WHAT CAN I SAY? I'M A SUCKER FOR PACKAGING! Sue me!
Who knows, maybe this will inspire a whole eco-friendly, green-tastic way of living for me. Or maybe I'll just have some cute soap in my laundry room.
2) Go on day/weekend trips in the surrounding area more often
I spend a lot of weekends on my couch in my pajamas, which is great, but maybe I could change things up and wear jeans outside the house for once. By no means am I an outdoorsy sort of gal, but I can appreciate the occasional vista or sunset or rising tide here in the Great Northwest (so long as there is a major metropolitan area within 1.5 hours) and since my days here are numbered, I really should get outside more.
And who better to do it with than my partner in
3) Write more. In general. Overall.
I know that some writers are very strict about how prolific they are in a given time period, but I'm not there yet in terms of my writing prolific-ness. As evidenced by my sporadic blog posts, I really don't have a distinct writing or publishing schedule. I write when I write and sometimes, things get published, and sometimes, things get scrapped.
Even still, I want to write more. In general.
I don't want to start on page quotas or anything like that until I feel comfortable because that is too resolution-y for me. You know how some people get rid of their scales and just gauge their weight gain/loss tango based on how tightly or loosely their clothes fit? I'm going to try and do that with writing on this here ol' blog.
Overall.
So that is how I'm going to spend 2012, in addition to my usual 2011 shenanigans that involve Oreos and reality television.
What are your non-resolutions?
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
The Real Housewives of Seattle
If you're not into scripted, trashy reality TV shows, then we might not be able to get along because there are few things that I love more than a new episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. The southern hospitality mixed with the ghetto-fied Louis Vuitton bags is like a dream come true.
Kim Zolciak? I need to meet you and your wig, mostly because I want to know if your lips have been surgically enhanced or not.
Is Atlanta not your scene? Maybe The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, New York, Jersey or Miami get recorded on your DVR every week or maybe none of these shows meet your television standards. I'm honestly perplexed as to why Bravo has not included the city of Seattle in the mix.
As someone who has lived either in the heart of the city or the surrounding Seattle area for most of her life, I think I have a pretty good idea of what the housewives cast of Seattle would be like.
Let's meet them!
Skylar
As a former dot-com entrepenuer in the early 2000's, Skylar sold her online company for a cool 1.5 millions dollars and now lives in the perfect, pleasantville-esque, neighborhood of Magnolia with her young family. She opened a hot yoga studio last year in order to "have something to do" but her husband's salary at Boeing is enough to pay for her Range Rover, their kids' private school educations, and all the debt that her yoga studio is accumulating. Skylar considers herself to be very liberal and does her part to help the environment by bringing her own mug to Starbucks for her non-fat, no-whip, sugar-free, decaf mocha every morning.
Emma
Born and raised in the tiny bubble of Mercer Island (a.k.a. Millionaire Central), Emma had been living the high life. She met Skylar at University of Washington where they both majored in Communications and were sorority sisters at Tri Delta. Recently divorced, Emma has been down on her luck because she only receives forty grand a month in alimony, so she is a frontrunner in the local Occupy Wall Street movement here in Seattle. As an activist, Emma spends a lot of time baking cookies and creating care packages from her three-story, waterfront home on the Montlake Cut for her OWS brethren who stay outside in the cold night after night.
Maddie
After dropping out of college twice, Maddie spent her early twenties bar-hopping and cocktail waiting at various restaurants and clubs in the Belltown area hoping to land a rich man. While maxing her dad's credit card at the downtown Nordstrom last spring, a pro-football athlete for the Seattle Seahawks mistook her for a model, and the rest, they say, is history. Right now, she is planning her 650+ person wedding, but she has to hurry because there is already a baby on the way for the engaged couple!
Linda
If you're in need of some relaxing lamaze classes or you need to find an amazing midwife/doula, then you only need to give Linda a phone call. After having a traumatic hospital experience with her first child's birth, she has made it her goal in life to provide Seattle women with natural and therapeutic baby care, that is, for those who can afford her services and products. She invented and patented an eco-friendly baby sling, and has since opened three different birthing centers in the local area. Skylar and the expecting Maddie are just some of her many high-profile, big-bank-account clients.
Nicole
Originally from Spokane, Washington, Nicole is a gun-owning, deer-hunting, mountain-climbing Republican OB/GYN who is married to a Microsoft programmer. As an outspoken doctor who is confident in the power of medicine and science, Nicole has a hard time believing that the natural, pre-natal care that Linda provides is medically safe and sound. Even though they are complete opposites, Nicole is a close friend and neighbor to fellow housewife, Skylar, probably because they both drive Range Rovers without any gas-guzzling shame.
Maureen
While she has never been married and tells everyone that she is happy being single, Maureen is still looking for love in the Emerald City. Unfortunately for her, this liberal tattoo artist lives on Capitol Hill: the gayest, most-rainbow-lovin' neighborhood in the area. An avid bike rider and No-Shave-November participant, Maureen is not your typical housewife, but as a true Seattle native, her colorful personality is just what the other housewives need.
Will Maureen find love on this season of The Real Housewives of Seattle?
Will Maddie be able to have her grandiose, NFL-star-studded wedding before she has her baby?
Will Nicole convince Maddie that Linda's birthing center is not safe enough for her delivery?
Will Emma get her head out of her ass and realize how filthy rich she really is?
Stay tuned!
Kim Zolciak? I need to meet you and your wig, mostly because I want to know if your lips have been surgically enhanced or not.
Is Atlanta not your scene? Maybe The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, New York, Jersey or Miami get recorded on your DVR every week or maybe none of these shows meet your television standards. I'm honestly perplexed as to why Bravo has not included the city of Seattle in the mix.
As someone who has lived either in the heart of the city or the surrounding Seattle area for most of her life, I think I have a pretty good idea of what the housewives cast of Seattle would be like.
Let's meet them!
Skylar
As a former dot-com entrepenuer in the early 2000's, Skylar sold her online company for a cool 1.5 millions dollars and now lives in the perfect, pleasantville-esque, neighborhood of Magnolia with her young family. She opened a hot yoga studio last year in order to "have something to do" but her husband's salary at Boeing is enough to pay for her Range Rover, their kids' private school educations, and all the debt that her yoga studio is accumulating. Skylar considers herself to be very liberal and does her part to help the environment by bringing her own mug to Starbucks for her non-fat, no-whip, sugar-free, decaf mocha every morning.
Emma
Born and raised in the tiny bubble of Mercer Island (a.k.a. Millionaire Central), Emma had been living the high life. She met Skylar at University of Washington where they both majored in Communications and were sorority sisters at Tri Delta. Recently divorced, Emma has been down on her luck because she only receives forty grand a month in alimony, so she is a frontrunner in the local Occupy Wall Street movement here in Seattle. As an activist, Emma spends a lot of time baking cookies and creating care packages from her three-story, waterfront home on the Montlake Cut for her OWS brethren who stay outside in the cold night after night.
Maddie
After dropping out of college twice, Maddie spent her early twenties bar-hopping and cocktail waiting at various restaurants and clubs in the Belltown area hoping to land a rich man. While maxing her dad's credit card at the downtown Nordstrom last spring, a pro-football athlete for the Seattle Seahawks mistook her for a model, and the rest, they say, is history. Right now, she is planning her 650+ person wedding, but she has to hurry because there is already a baby on the way for the engaged couple!
Linda
If you're in need of some relaxing lamaze classes or you need to find an amazing midwife/doula, then you only need to give Linda a phone call. After having a traumatic hospital experience with her first child's birth, she has made it her goal in life to provide Seattle women with natural and therapeutic baby care, that is, for those who can afford her services and products. She invented and patented an eco-friendly baby sling, and has since opened three different birthing centers in the local area. Skylar and the expecting Maddie are just some of her many high-profile, big-bank-account clients.
Nicole
Originally from Spokane, Washington, Nicole is a gun-owning, deer-hunting, mountain-climbing Republican OB/GYN who is married to a Microsoft programmer. As an outspoken doctor who is confident in the power of medicine and science, Nicole has a hard time believing that the natural, pre-natal care that Linda provides is medically safe and sound. Even though they are complete opposites, Nicole is a close friend and neighbor to fellow housewife, Skylar, probably because they both drive Range Rovers without any gas-guzzling shame.
Maureen
While she has never been married and tells everyone that she is happy being single, Maureen is still looking for love in the Emerald City. Unfortunately for her, this liberal tattoo artist lives on Capitol Hill: the gayest, most-rainbow-lovin' neighborhood in the area. An avid bike rider and No-Shave-November participant, Maureen is not your typical housewife, but as a true Seattle native, her colorful personality is just what the other housewives need.
Will Maureen find love on this season of The Real Housewives of Seattle?
Will Maddie be able to have her grandiose, NFL-star-studded wedding before she has her baby?
Will Nicole convince Maddie that Linda's birthing center is not safe enough for her delivery?
Will Emma get her head out of her ass and realize how filthy rich she really is?
Stay tuned!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Let Me Talk About Harry Potter, Thank You
I don't remember the exact day, and considering how important Harry Potter is to my life I really wish I could remember, but it was in the Autumn of My Sixth Grade Year-eth when I came across Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling tucked away on a bookshelf in the young adult section of Ye Olde School Library.
Hey, 13 years ago is a long time for us spritely folk.
My school was undergoing some serious budget cuts, so I was surprised to find a new book on the shelf, especially one that wasn't covered in a suspicious sticky substance resembling hot dog vomit. It looked extremely out of place with its shiny, colorful dust cover and clean white pages. I was instantly drawn to it, and I quickly grabbed it from the shelf before that one kid in my class licked it because, uh, he licked everything.
There's always one in every class.
Anyway.
You know how Moses found that burning bush in the desert and it was blindingly beautiful and frightening and he was in awe and God was there and was all, "What's up, Moses?" from His place on high? It was kind of like that for me, but I was in my school library and I didn't hear any voices.
Yet.
But seriously, people, this book changed my life. It was like Lumos! up in my head with my imagination running wild across the Hogwarts greens and Quidditch field. I don't think I put it down the entire weekend. I would say that that is a challenging feat for a 12 year old in the middle of the school sports season, but I was an extremely pale and nerdy kid with bad allergies and I was in band, so staying inside and reading a book was not very unusual for me.
Harry Potter isn't just about spells and charms and chocolate frogs though. It's about love and friendship and doing what is right all the time. I know that sounds OH SO TOTALLY BORING ZZZZZ AM I DROOLING, but it's not, I promise. It's easy for us to dismiss the HP series as a bunch of children's books, and while children have enjoyed reading this beloved story about their favorite wizard, these books aren't just for kids.
I re-read all seven tomes virtually every year, and I think I enjoy them more and more every time with my increasing accumulation of wisdom and life experience. If that makes me a little bit of a loser, then I don't want to know what your idea of winning is because YOU ARE SO COMPLETELY WRONG.
Supposedly, scientists and the celebrity fragrance makers have discovered that scents trigger memories and nostalgia and other mind stuff. So that bottle of Britney Spears' Curious that I have about 3.9 drops left inside of? Middle school rages through the VCR of my brain and I see myself in braces and itchy wool sweaters at top speed whenever I spritz some through the air. It's like a yearbook for my nose.
Well, the Harry Potter books? Totes do the same thing, but better because I don't have memories of my bad dental and frizzy hair, and no spritzing is involved.
Instead, I remember a kid who was extremely happy and book-ish and excited about libraries. Waiting for each additional book to be released was more difficult than waiting to open my presents on Christmas morning, and whenever I crack open the worn out spines, I have the same holiday rush of anticipation.
It doesn't matter that I know what's going to happen (SIRIUS DIES EVERY TIME). It doesn't matter that the last book was published in 2009, and Rowling swears that there are no sequels or Hermione spinoffs in the future (sob).
None of that matters because the books are like some of the dearest, oldest friends in my life. And while we learn that friends come and go, it is wonderful to know that there are seven of them that will always be there for you waiting on some shelf and ready to give you advice, make you laugh and cry, and remind you that love and loyalty are all you'll ever need.
OK, that might seem a little esoteric and, quite possibly, rather sad because books as friends?
Really, Shasta?
But I have never felt such a powerful connection to any particular story until then, and while many books have come close, the Harry Potter series will always be closest to my heart.
I didn't care and I still don't care if that's not very "cool" of me. I will gladly be a nerd or a geek or a dork or whatever for this series. If my daughter comes across a book that gives her happiness and makes her not care about being "cool" then I want her to love that story for her whole life as well.
Would it be wrong of me to re-read the series twice in one year? Because I'm thinking about it now.
Hey, 13 years ago is a long time for us spritely folk.
My school was undergoing some serious budget cuts, so I was surprised to find a new book on the shelf, especially one that wasn't covered in a suspicious sticky substance resembling hot dog vomit. It looked extremely out of place with its shiny, colorful dust cover and clean white pages. I was instantly drawn to it, and I quickly grabbed it from the shelf before that one kid in my class licked it because, uh, he licked everything.
There's always one in every class.
Anyway.
You know how Moses found that burning bush in the desert and it was blindingly beautiful and frightening and he was in awe and God was there and was all, "What's up, Moses?" from His place on high? It was kind of like that for me, but I was in my school library and I didn't hear any voices.
Yet.
But seriously, people, this book changed my life. It was like Lumos! up in my head with my imagination running wild across the Hogwarts greens and Quidditch field. I don't think I put it down the entire weekend. I would say that that is a challenging feat for a 12 year old in the middle of the school sports season, but I was an extremely pale and nerdy kid with bad allergies and I was in band, so staying inside and reading a book was not very unusual for me.
Harry Potter isn't just about spells and charms and chocolate frogs though. It's about love and friendship and doing what is right all the time. I know that sounds OH SO TOTALLY BORING ZZZZZ AM I DROOLING, but it's not, I promise. It's easy for us to dismiss the HP series as a bunch of children's books, and while children have enjoyed reading this beloved story about their favorite wizard, these books aren't just for kids.
I re-read all seven tomes virtually every year, and I think I enjoy them more and more every time with my increasing accumulation of wisdom and life experience. If that makes me a little bit of a loser, then I don't want to know what your idea of winning is because YOU ARE SO COMPLETELY WRONG.
Supposedly, scientists and the celebrity fragrance makers have discovered that scents trigger memories and nostalgia and other mind stuff. So that bottle of Britney Spears' Curious that I have about 3.9 drops left inside of? Middle school rages through the VCR of my brain and I see myself in braces and itchy wool sweaters at top speed whenever I spritz some through the air. It's like a yearbook for my nose.
Well, the Harry Potter books? Totes do the same thing, but better because I don't have memories of my bad dental and frizzy hair, and no spritzing is involved.
Instead, I remember a kid who was extremely happy and book-ish and excited about libraries. Waiting for each additional book to be released was more difficult than waiting to open my presents on Christmas morning, and whenever I crack open the worn out spines, I have the same holiday rush of anticipation.
It doesn't matter that I know what's going to happen (SIRIUS DIES EVERY TIME). It doesn't matter that the last book was published in 2009, and Rowling swears that there are no sequels or Hermione spinoffs in the future (sob).
None of that matters because the books are like some of the dearest, oldest friends in my life. And while we learn that friends come and go, it is wonderful to know that there are seven of them that will always be there for you waiting on some shelf and ready to give you advice, make you laugh and cry, and remind you that love and loyalty are all you'll ever need.
OK, that might seem a little esoteric and, quite possibly, rather sad because books as friends?
Really, Shasta?
But I have never felt such a powerful connection to any particular story until then, and while many books have come close, the Harry Potter series will always be closest to my heart.
I didn't care and I still don't care if that's not very "cool" of me. I will gladly be a nerd or a geek or a dork or whatever for this series. If my daughter comes across a book that gives her happiness and makes her not care about being "cool" then I want her to love that story for her whole life as well.
Would it be wrong of me to re-read the series twice in one year? Because I'm thinking about it now.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
That One Time I Read Romance Novels for 4 Months
I have an English degree. Sometimes, this is a cool thing, like when people ask if they need to add a comma somewhere (no) or what Shakespeare meant in Sonnet 116 (no idea) and, you know, that sort of English-major-y type stuff.
Most of the time, though, this is a trivial thing.
I majored in English because a bunch of books by a bunch of dead white guys seemed interesting to me, and I wanted to know what they had to say, and then I wanted to know what old white professors had to say about the dead white guys.
I might sound like I'm joking, but that is a fairly accurate summary of what happened during my four years of college.
I also majored in English because other than writing, I'm not very good at many other subjects. If I could have written more papers about math instead of doing math, I might have a different story to tell you, but I gave my TI-83 calculator to my brother during my senior year of high school (and I haven't seen it since), so allow me to feign ignorance when you talk to me about balancing my checkbook BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. NUMBERS? HUH?
Don't get me wrong - I loved being an English major! I didn't have class before 10am. I could find my books for fifty cents a pop at used bookstores. My classes never required full attendance (Mostly because I avoided the professors who took attendance....) so I spent a lot of class hours sleeping in my bed every quarter. Other than reading and writing papers, I didn't even have homework.
It was awesome.
When I actually went to class, I studied a lot of wonderful literature. John Milton, Anne Bradstreet, John Donne, and Sherman Alexie are some of my favorite writers, and had it not been for my major, I would never have picked up any of their works.
Reading English lit books day-in and day-out can take a toll on you, especially when you can't find the Cliff Notes versions, so I decided to stop taking English classes for a little bit. I wanted to read books that weren't assigned and discover authors who weren't Pulitzer prize winners. I started reading personal blogs more regularly. I picked up the occasional magazine and newspaper. I wanted to read fluff and enjoy reading fluffy stuff again.
That is when I decided to read romance novels, and those, my friends, are the fluffiest and some of the best damn books I've ever read.
When I say these books were of the romance variety, I'm talking, like, England regency era novels with, like, horse-drawn carriages and butlers and parasols and shit. There were rogue bachelors with family fortunes and scullery maids with hidden, royal lineage and a lot of cravats and corsets. The woman was always beautiful and free of love handles, and the man was dashing or daring or devilish, and they always ended up married after a lot of courting and riding in carriages and going to balls, etc.
I don't even know why I'm telling you this because that is sort of humiliating to admit, but then again, I am that girl who wrote a paper about sparkly vampires and spoke on that very same subject in front of a group of English literature smartypants-types in a giant auditorium. Had it not been for me, they never would have known about Edward Cullen and his impossibly perfect hair.
You're welcome, Stephenie Meyer.
But yeah, the one quarter that I decided to take a "break" from my English courses and register for a bunch of "fun" courses (SCI-FI FILM? NOT FUN! NOT FUN!) was the same quarter I reserved every Lisa Kleypas and Julia Quinn novel at my city library to balance my brain against the upcoming tide of Beowulf and Paradise Lost.
Despite what you might think of my college experience, I have never done drugs, so I don't know what that's like, but I think that the addictive quality that makes, uh, drugs addictive must have been sprinkled onto all of their books. I have read everything those women have ever written, and that's like 50 corset-ripping novels apiece because romance novelists? PROLIFIC TO THE NTH DEGREE!
Because there are so many romance novels and romance writers out there, I can see why The People Who Decide What is Good English Literature turn a blind eye toward them and ignore one of the biggest sections at any Barnes & Noble. There is just too much to read, and after awhile, all of the novels start to bleed together into one giant MidnightKissofStolenEmbracesForeverandAlwaysTheSequel. I get it.
But romance novels are happy, and they make for happier readers and happy people don't kill other people, so really what is so smutty and awful about reading a fluffy romance novel and believing that it is a legitimately good book?
Now that I'm all graduated and not around my English major peers, I have the confidence to give a voice to my fellow romance novel aficionados and tell the rest of the world to not judge a book by its airbrushed, mustachioed and bicep-bulging cover because it is probably better than that one book about a bunch of random people going on a pilgrimmage to visit a shrine.
Actually, any book is probably better than The Cantebury Tales.
I have a degree in this sort of stuff, so I have the authority to make such claims.
Most of the time, though, this is a trivial thing.
I majored in English because a bunch of books by a bunch of dead white guys seemed interesting to me, and I wanted to know what they had to say, and then I wanted to know what old white professors had to say about the dead white guys.
I might sound like I'm joking, but that is a fairly accurate summary of what happened during my four years of college.
I also majored in English because other than writing, I'm not very good at many other subjects. If I could have written more papers about math instead of doing math, I might have a different story to tell you, but I gave my TI-83 calculator to my brother during my senior year of high school (and I haven't seen it since), so allow me to feign ignorance when you talk to me about balancing my checkbook BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. NUMBERS? HUH?
Don't get me wrong - I loved being an English major! I didn't have class before 10am. I could find my books for fifty cents a pop at used bookstores. My classes never required full attendance (Mostly because I avoided the professors who took attendance....) so I spent a lot of class hours sleeping in my bed every quarter. Other than reading and writing papers, I didn't even have homework.
It was awesome.
When I actually went to class, I studied a lot of wonderful literature. John Milton, Anne Bradstreet, John Donne, and Sherman Alexie are some of my favorite writers, and had it not been for my major, I would never have picked up any of their works.
Reading English lit books day-in and day-out can take a toll on you, especially when you can't find the Cliff Notes versions, so I decided to stop taking English classes for a little bit. I wanted to read books that weren't assigned and discover authors who weren't Pulitzer prize winners. I started reading personal blogs more regularly. I picked up the occasional magazine and newspaper. I wanted to read fluff and enjoy reading fluffy stuff again.
That is when I decided to read romance novels, and those, my friends, are the fluffiest and some of the best damn books I've ever read.
When I say these books were of the romance variety, I'm talking, like, England regency era novels with, like, horse-drawn carriages and butlers and parasols and shit. There were rogue bachelors with family fortunes and scullery maids with hidden, royal lineage and a lot of cravats and corsets. The woman was always beautiful and free of love handles, and the man was dashing or daring or devilish, and they always ended up married after a lot of courting and riding in carriages and going to balls, etc.
I don't even know why I'm telling you this because that is sort of humiliating to admit, but then again, I am that girl who wrote a paper about sparkly vampires and spoke on that very same subject in front of a group of English literature smartypants-types in a giant auditorium. Had it not been for me, they never would have known about Edward Cullen and his impossibly perfect hair.
You're welcome, Stephenie Meyer.
But yeah, the one quarter that I decided to take a "break" from my English courses and register for a bunch of "fun" courses (SCI-FI FILM? NOT FUN! NOT FUN!) was the same quarter I reserved every Lisa Kleypas and Julia Quinn novel at my city library to balance my brain against the upcoming tide of Beowulf and Paradise Lost.
Despite what you might think of my college experience, I have never done drugs, so I don't know what that's like, but I think that the addictive quality that makes, uh, drugs addictive must have been sprinkled onto all of their books. I have read everything those women have ever written, and that's like 50 corset-ripping novels apiece because romance novelists? PROLIFIC TO THE NTH DEGREE!
Because there are so many romance novels and romance writers out there, I can see why The People Who Decide What is Good English Literature turn a blind eye toward them and ignore one of the biggest sections at any Barnes & Noble. There is just too much to read, and after awhile, all of the novels start to bleed together into one giant MidnightKissofStolenEmbracesForeverandAlwaysTheSequel. I get it.
But romance novels are happy, and they make for happier readers and happy people don't kill other people, so really what is so smutty and awful about reading a fluffy romance novel and believing that it is a legitimately good book?
Now that I'm all graduated and not around my English major peers, I have the confidence to give a voice to my fellow romance novel aficionados and tell the rest of the world to not judge a book by its airbrushed, mustachioed and bicep-bulging cover because it is probably better than that one book about a bunch of random people going on a pilgrimmage to visit a shrine.
Actually, any book is probably better than The Cantebury Tales.
I have a degree in this sort of stuff, so I have the authority to make such claims.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
It's November? And I'm Still 11 Years Old
I know. I know. Where have I been? What happened? Did I stop blogging? Did I die?
No. I'm not dead, and don't worry, this blog has already lasted longer than Kim Kardashian'sfake marriage.
I was gone for most of October. It was a, uh, work thing, but it was also kind of like camping, and definitely a lot like prison (so I've heard from other people). I don't even want to get into it because the important thing is that I'm back, and my cats didn't kill anyone while I was away.
But what I really want to write about is something for the fifth grader that's still inside of me. Let us focus on the word "get" actually. When I was a wee fifth grader, my teacher was named Mrs. Keller. Her first name was Georgiana, and she was the first woman I had met with a pseudo-man-name.
Sure, there are female name counterparts to male names. Michael/Michelle, Alexander/Alexandria, Christopher/Christina - good examples. Even some unisex names are OK - like Riley or Morgan or Skylar.
But Georgiana? Are you kidding me? The female George name was not meant to happen.
My eleven year old self commented on this one day to a friend, and to reinforce my point, I thought of another horrible female/male name situation.
"Georgiana is a weird name, but at least it's not, like, Franktwina! Francis is terrible too, but Franktwina is AWFUL!"
"....My mom's name is Franktwina."
"Oh of course it is."
And on that day, Emily and I stopped being friends, not because she hated me for hatin' on her mama's name but because I couldn't look at her in the face anymore without seeing hot franks, Frankensteins, and the French franc floating around her head.
But this isn't about Mrs. Keller's name, this is about how she didn't understand the word "get" and my usage of it. Now, "get" is a verb about receiving something or coming into possession of something else. You get presents for Christmas. You got presents for Christmas. You are getting presents for Christmas. Etcetera, etcetera - it is verb-tastic.
You also can use the word "get" when you understand something that isn't physical, like you received knowledge or came into possession of the knowledge to understand a concept. Most people, aside from psycho English majors, don't think about the word "get" in this way because you JUST GET IT ALREADY and you don't need to put this shit into words!
You see what I mean? You guys getting it?
Mrs. Keller did not understand the word "get" in all its many definitions. We were writing these papers wherein we pretended to be children locked inside a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and we were supposed to communicate how awful it was and how much we wanted to escape and live like Americans.
It was kind of a messed up assignment that reinforced arrogant patriotism, but whatever.
I wrote a complicated, long-drawn escape plan in complicated code-speak that was way cool, and at the end of my letter, I wrote, "I hope you get my point and find the spotted dog."
By "spotted dog" I was referring to the opening that I would have cut out in the fence-lined perimeter of my fictional concentration camp.
Subtle.
I was marked down on my shining example of genius and asked to re-write it because, according to Mrs. Keller, I didn't use the word "get" correctly. In fact, my homework that night included writing the definition of "get" from the dictionary.
Also, I may have had to re-write my assignment because I wasn't grasping just how tough it must have been for a child in a concentration camp because, you know, I was a healthy American child in the 1990's. Since when does an eleven year old have the empathy to actualize the traumas that the Nazis inflicted on an entire population of people anyway? SINCE WHEN, MRS. KELLER?
I came home that night fuming, and in a teenage fashion that was well beyond my years, I locked myself up in my room to finish my damn homework. I re-wrote everything, and if you think I hate re-writes now, it's because of this first re-write in my young career.
Without a second glance, I turned my crappy story back into the "Additional Homework" box the next morning. After recess, I came back to my desk to find a smiley-face sticker on my paper and a note from Mrs. Keller that read:
I think you really got the story right this time!
...........
........
.....
...
She thought I really GOT the story right?
Thanks, Georgiana, for proving that fifth graders are smarter than their teachers.
No. I'm not dead, and don't worry, this blog has already lasted longer than Kim Kardashian's
I was gone for most of October. It was a, uh, work thing, but it was also kind of like camping, and definitely a lot like prison (so I've heard from other people). I don't even want to get into it because the important thing is that I'm back, and my cats didn't kill anyone while I was away.
But what I really want to write about is something for the fifth grader that's still inside of me. Let us focus on the word "get" actually. When I was a wee fifth grader, my teacher was named Mrs. Keller. Her first name was Georgiana, and she was the first woman I had met with a pseudo-man-name.
Sure, there are female name counterparts to male names. Michael/Michelle, Alexander/Alexandria, Christopher/Christina - good examples. Even some unisex names are OK - like Riley or Morgan or Skylar.
But Georgiana? Are you kidding me? The female George name was not meant to happen.
My eleven year old self commented on this one day to a friend, and to reinforce my point, I thought of another horrible female/male name situation.
"Georgiana is a weird name, but at least it's not, like, Franktwina! Francis is terrible too, but Franktwina is AWFUL!"
"....My mom's name is Franktwina."
"Oh of course it is."
And on that day, Emily and I stopped being friends, not because she hated me for hatin' on her mama's name but because I couldn't look at her in the face anymore without seeing hot franks, Frankensteins, and the French franc floating around her head.
But this isn't about Mrs. Keller's name, this is about how she didn't understand the word "get" and my usage of it. Now, "get" is a verb about receiving something or coming into possession of something else. You get presents for Christmas. You got presents for Christmas. You are getting presents for Christmas. Etcetera, etcetera - it is verb-tastic.
You also can use the word "get" when you understand something that isn't physical, like you received knowledge or came into possession of the knowledge to understand a concept. Most people, aside from psycho English majors, don't think about the word "get" in this way because you JUST GET IT ALREADY and you don't need to put this shit into words!
You see what I mean? You guys getting it?
Mrs. Keller did not understand the word "get" in all its many definitions. We were writing these papers wherein we pretended to be children locked inside a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and we were supposed to communicate how awful it was and how much we wanted to escape and live like Americans.
It was kind of a messed up assignment that reinforced arrogant patriotism, but whatever.
I wrote a complicated, long-drawn escape plan in complicated code-speak that was way cool, and at the end of my letter, I wrote, "I hope you get my point and find the spotted dog."
By "spotted dog" I was referring to the opening that I would have cut out in the fence-lined perimeter of my fictional concentration camp.
Subtle.
I was marked down on my shining example of genius and asked to re-write it because, according to Mrs. Keller, I didn't use the word "get" correctly. In fact, my homework that night included writing the definition of "get" from the dictionary.
Also, I may have had to re-write my assignment because I wasn't grasping just how tough it must have been for a child in a concentration camp because, you know, I was a healthy American child in the 1990's. Since when does an eleven year old have the empathy to actualize the traumas that the Nazis inflicted on an entire population of people anyway? SINCE WHEN, MRS. KELLER?
I came home that night fuming, and in a teenage fashion that was well beyond my years, I locked myself up in my room to finish my damn homework. I re-wrote everything, and if you think I hate re-writes now, it's because of this first re-write in my young career.
Without a second glance, I turned my crappy story back into the "Additional Homework" box the next morning. After recess, I came back to my desk to find a smiley-face sticker on my paper and a note from Mrs. Keller that read:
I think you really got the story right this time!
...........
........
.....
...
She thought I really GOT the story right?
Thanks, Georgiana, for proving that fifth graders are smarter than their teachers.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Thirteen on 9/11
Normally, I don't like to post about serious stuff because I try my best not to take myself too seriously, but 9/11 is not something I can make very funny, and honestly, I don't want to make it funny because it changed me and everyone I know.
When I was 13, I woke up at 7:00am right on the dot during the school week. My parents carpooled with another family, and that morning, Mrs. Fernando was supposed to pick me up. Usually, she was running a little late because she was both a teacher and a mother, so her mornings were very busy and frazzled. Sometimes we would make it to school by 8:00am, and sometimes her son and I would be racing the clock to make it to Mr. Canfield's door before he locked it for first period.
On September 11, 2001, Mrs. Fernando and her son, were already waiting outside my house by 7:45am. The car was turned off. When I got in and said good morning, they didn't acknowledge me right away. I was confused by their behavior, and then I realized the radio was on and they were listening very intently, but it wasn't music we were listening to - someone was crying on the radio.
They were talking about the people of New York City in between sobs.
Mrs. Fernando turned around and asked me if I heard what had happened in the news. I didn't watch TV in the mornings, and my parents were always at work by the time I woke up, so I didn't have contact with the outside world until I stepped out of my house. I had no clue what she was talking about.
I felt stupid, a feeling I usually didn't experience that early in the morning, and she told me very slowly and kindly that the Twin Towers in New York City were attacked by two hijacked American airplanes.
I looked over at her son, Kevin, in the front seat, and he simply nodded and asked his mom if we still had to go to school that day. I didn't understand why we wouldn't go to school that day because I still didn't believe that this had happened slash/ was happening still slash/ would affect us for the rest of our lives slash/ be a moment in history that we would never forget.
At some point, we went to school. I don't remember the drive or anything until we got to school. Instead of dropping us off at the curb, Mrs. Fernando parked and walked us over to the main parking lot where students, teachers, and parents were already gathering.
First period had started by then, but no one was inside of the buildings.
I found my best friend and her mom standing in the middle of the crowd. They were waiting for me, and before I could stop it from happening, her mom pulled me into a hug.
I did not realize that I needed a hug until that moment.
It was a weird day. Our principal made it clear that anyone who wished to leave that day to be home with their families could do so. Some students left with their parents immediately because they were so upset. Though, I'm not sure if "they" were the students or the parents.
I don't think it matters.
My parents did not pick me up early, nor did I call them from the school secretary's phone like so many of my classmates did. I wanted to go to school that Tuesday because I didn't understand what was happening, and school was something I could understand.
At some point that day, I realized that my dad might leave because of these events. I knew my dad had an office, computer-type job, but he wore an Army uniform every day, and that was his job first. I don't remember when I realized that exactly, but until my dad got out of the Army a few years later, I was scared that he would leave and be part of this war like so many other parents and brothers and sisters and friends and sons and daughters were a part of already.
Other than the first few hours of that morning, I don't remember how the day progressed.
I don't remember if it was my mom or Mr. LaRose who picked me up from school that afternoon.
I don't remember if my teachers gave me homework on that very dark and different day.
I don't remember if my parents talked to me about it all, or if I even talked to anyone about it all. It was actually the first day I skipped in my journal because I didn't know how or what to write about at 13 years old.
What I do remember, though, is feeling insanely proud to be an American. Even though our country had just been attacked, and we were experiencing a national crisis, there was no other place I'd rather be.
Even now, 10 years later, our country might be trillions of dollars in debt and we might still be engaged in one of the most exhausting and confusing wars we've ever faced, there is still no other country I'd rather live in because this is the greatest country in the world.
I know some people would disagree with me. Many Americans would even disagree with me, but I don't care. I've witnessed so many people give up their native citizenships so that they can fight this war as Americans that it would be an insult to their dedication (and their memory for those who have lost their lives) if I thought anything less of my nation.
On 9/11, I felt like I was 13 going on infinity because it was the first time in my life where I was connected to millions of other Americans in a more profound way than I could fathom. Regardless of what has happened since or what will happen later, we are all still connected.
When I was 13, I woke up at 7:00am right on the dot during the school week. My parents carpooled with another family, and that morning, Mrs. Fernando was supposed to pick me up. Usually, she was running a little late because she was both a teacher and a mother, so her mornings were very busy and frazzled. Sometimes we would make it to school by 8:00am, and sometimes her son and I would be racing the clock to make it to Mr. Canfield's door before he locked it for first period.
On September 11, 2001, Mrs. Fernando and her son, were already waiting outside my house by 7:45am. The car was turned off. When I got in and said good morning, they didn't acknowledge me right away. I was confused by their behavior, and then I realized the radio was on and they were listening very intently, but it wasn't music we were listening to - someone was crying on the radio.
They were talking about the people of New York City in between sobs.
Mrs. Fernando turned around and asked me if I heard what had happened in the news. I didn't watch TV in the mornings, and my parents were always at work by the time I woke up, so I didn't have contact with the outside world until I stepped out of my house. I had no clue what she was talking about.
I felt stupid, a feeling I usually didn't experience that early in the morning, and she told me very slowly and kindly that the Twin Towers in New York City were attacked by two hijacked American airplanes.
I looked over at her son, Kevin, in the front seat, and he simply nodded and asked his mom if we still had to go to school that day. I didn't understand why we wouldn't go to school that day because I still didn't believe that this had happened slash/ was happening still slash/ would affect us for the rest of our lives slash/ be a moment in history that we would never forget.
At some point, we went to school. I don't remember the drive or anything until we got to school. Instead of dropping us off at the curb, Mrs. Fernando parked and walked us over to the main parking lot where students, teachers, and parents were already gathering.
First period had started by then, but no one was inside of the buildings.
I found my best friend and her mom standing in the middle of the crowd. They were waiting for me, and before I could stop it from happening, her mom pulled me into a hug.
I did not realize that I needed a hug until that moment.
It was a weird day. Our principal made it clear that anyone who wished to leave that day to be home with their families could do so. Some students left with their parents immediately because they were so upset. Though, I'm not sure if "they" were the students or the parents.
I don't think it matters.
My parents did not pick me up early, nor did I call them from the school secretary's phone like so many of my classmates did. I wanted to go to school that Tuesday because I didn't understand what was happening, and school was something I could understand.
At some point that day, I realized that my dad might leave because of these events. I knew my dad had an office, computer-type job, but he wore an Army uniform every day, and that was his job first. I don't remember when I realized that exactly, but until my dad got out of the Army a few years later, I was scared that he would leave and be part of this war like so many other parents and brothers and sisters and friends and sons and daughters were a part of already.
Other than the first few hours of that morning, I don't remember how the day progressed.
I don't remember if it was my mom or Mr. LaRose who picked me up from school that afternoon.
I don't remember if my teachers gave me homework on that very dark and different day.
I don't remember if my parents talked to me about it all, or if I even talked to anyone about it all. It was actually the first day I skipped in my journal because I didn't know how or what to write about at 13 years old.
What I do remember, though, is feeling insanely proud to be an American. Even though our country had just been attacked, and we were experiencing a national crisis, there was no other place I'd rather be.
Even now, 10 years later, our country might be trillions of dollars in debt and we might still be engaged in one of the most exhausting and confusing wars we've ever faced, there is still no other country I'd rather live in because this is the greatest country in the world.
I know some people would disagree with me. Many Americans would even disagree with me, but I don't care. I've witnessed so many people give up their native citizenships so that they can fight this war as Americans that it would be an insult to their dedication (and their memory for those who have lost their lives) if I thought anything less of my nation.
On 9/11, I felt like I was 13 going on infinity because it was the first time in my life where I was connected to millions of other Americans in a more profound way than I could fathom. Regardless of what has happened since or what will happen later, we are all still connected.
Monday, August 1, 2011
I Wrote a Paper About Twilight Once...
While most of my peers wrote about Harper Lee or Sylvia Plath and their various works, I decided to write about sparkly vampires. It was a legimiate college research paper with citations and shit for English 493: American Women Writers. Fifteen pages, people.
Yeah.
I bashed Stephenie Meyer for ruining the American vampire archetype that so many better writers worked hard to create before her. I don't even know what that means anymore, but it was a good paper that saved my grade from all the damage I did for skipping class every week. (Sorry, Dr. Roberts. It wasn't you - it wasme my alarm clock.)
But I love the Twilight series. Like, no-joke-don't-hate-you-best-step-off-right-now variety of love.
I started reading Twilight in 2008 when my husband was just my new boyfriend. I'm not sure how or why I picked the book up, but I did not put it down until Edward and Bella went to the prom because, you know, that's the end of the first book.
It was like I got slapped in the face because there I was, an English literature major, having just read a glorified romance novel about virginal vampires complete with cheesy dialogue, and totally loving it. If my professors and peers could have seen me then, I'm pretty sure they would have disenrolled me from the English program right away.
Vampires? Werewolves? Long, drawn out descriptions about clothes and hair? I'm in!
As soon as I finished the first book, I actually insisted that my then-boyfriend-now-husband take me to the nearest Barnes & Noble (in Billings, Montana...let me tell you what, that was quite a scavenger hunt) so that I could buy New Moon and Eclipse because I needed to read them, like, yesterday.
I'm not sure what he was thinking, but I must have looked crazed and dangerous enough to convince him to take me to the bookstore right then and there. It's the same look I have when I am bringing Double Stuf Oreos home from the grocery store.
It means I'm fucking serious.
OK, yeah, the books are little on the fluffy side, and there are some smutty moments here and there, but what's the crime in that? I know that I hated on Stephenie Meyer for being the Worst Writer Ever in a 15-page-long research paper, but I'm really not one to judge considering how frequently I throw unnecessary adjectives and adverbs around this place.
I honestly wrote a paper about Twilight because it gave me an excuse to re-read the series, and I didn't read any of the books on the reading list for that course. Woops.
Team Jacob.
Yeah.
I bashed Stephenie Meyer for ruining the American vampire archetype that so many better writers worked hard to create before her. I don't even know what that means anymore, but it was a good paper that saved my grade from all the damage I did for skipping class every week. (Sorry, Dr. Roberts. It wasn't you - it was
But I love the Twilight series. Like, no-joke-don't-hate-you-best-step-off-right-now variety of love.
I started reading Twilight in 2008 when my husband was just my new boyfriend. I'm not sure how or why I picked the book up, but I did not put it down until Edward and Bella went to the prom because, you know, that's the end of the first book.
It was like I got slapped in the face because there I was, an English literature major, having just read a glorified romance novel about virginal vampires complete with cheesy dialogue, and totally loving it. If my professors and peers could have seen me then, I'm pretty sure they would have disenrolled me from the English program right away.
Vampires? Werewolves? Long, drawn out descriptions about clothes and hair? I'm in!
As soon as I finished the first book, I actually insisted that my then-boyfriend-now-husband take me to the nearest Barnes & Noble (in Billings, Montana...let me tell you what, that was quite a scavenger hunt) so that I could buy New Moon and Eclipse because I needed to read them, like, yesterday.
I'm not sure what he was thinking, but I must have looked crazed and dangerous enough to convince him to take me to the bookstore right then and there. It's the same look I have when I am bringing Double Stuf Oreos home from the grocery store.
It means I'm fucking serious.
OK, yeah, the books are little on the fluffy side, and there are some smutty moments here and there, but what's the crime in that? I know that I hated on Stephenie Meyer for being the Worst Writer Ever in a 15-page-long research paper, but I'm really not one to judge considering how frequently I throw unnecessary adjectives and adverbs around this place.
I honestly wrote a paper about Twilight because it gave me an excuse to re-read the series, and I didn't read any of the books on the reading list for that course. Woops.
Team Jacob.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)