tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31059233819031331422024-02-06T21:25:15.872-08:00Everything UnrealBecause Nonfiction is OverratedPearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-58408970110092899172015-12-06T21:34:00.001-08:002015-12-06T21:34:49.817-08:00Well, At Least I'm Reading NowSo this has been a weird year.<br />
<br /><br />
I can't help but feel that all year I've been... off. Not myself. Lacking luster. I think I've talked about on here. Repeatedly. I've looked for excuses, and made resolutions, and had good days where it seemed like everything was going to be fine again, but... overall, looking at the big picture, the whole year's just be a weird one and I have no good explanation.<br />
<br /><br />
Okay, so maybe saying that <em>the whole year's </em>been weird is misstating the situation somewhat. Generally speaking, it's actually been a pretty great year. I've spent a lot of time with friends especially, hanging out, emailing, liking the people I spend time with more and more and, more importantly, feeling more liked than I ever have before. I've had some truly amazing days. My life, my real, solid, outside-of-my-own head life has been flourishing in ways I'm utterly unaccustomed to.<br />
<br /><br />
It's the other life that's been weird, the one that plays out between the pages of books and the keys on my keyboard and the margins of journals. I feel like I've been reading more slowly and enjoying books less. And as for writing... oof. I've started books and not finished them. I started a <em>short story</em> and didn't finish it. I've said I'm going to start books and not actually done so. I didn't do NaNoWriMo. I haven't posted on this blog in FOUR FREAKING MONTHS. I've gotten ideas and gotten sick of them immediately. I've actually opened my word documents, determined that today, <em>today</em> I'm going to start in earnest, <em>today</em> is the day that the writer's block will finally be broken, <em>today</em> is the day I will start feeling like my old self again... and then proceeded to write only a sentence or two before closing them and pushing them to the back of my mind again. <br />
<br /><br />
Now that I write it, now that I put it all into words (heck, now that I'm actually <em>writing something</em> that isn't just an email or a comment on Facebook) it sounds so wrong, it <em>feels</em> so wrong. It's baffling to face it, to admit it, to recognize that these failures I'm describing are my own, that this whole past year has transpired in my life and can't be relived, rewritten, <em>fixed</em>. But only now. It's like I've been in some kind of haze for months, blissfully unaware that something somewhere is somehow broken. I've been at peace with my inactivity. My stillness. My wordlessness.<br />
<br /><br />
But I think something may finally have changed. Because I'm reading again.<br />
<br /><br />
Of course, I never stopped reading. It'd probably be easier for me to go without food than to go without a book or two on my nightstand with bookmarks comfortably positioned somewhere among their pages. But over the past few weeks, I've suddenly been reading quickly. Really quickly. To give an example, since this time last week I've read three and a half books. Short books, sure, but considering the fact that several of the books I've read this year took me more than a week to read, I think I should be allowed to celebrate small victories.<br />
<br /><br />
Can I explain this unexpected change for the better? No. Well, maybe, but the vague theory I have involves a lot of factors and would take a while to explain and still doesn't really fully account for the kind of change I've noticed. <br />
<br /><br />
Luckily, I don't need an explanation. I'm just happy that whatever's happened has happened, and hopeful that I keep reading the way that I am now - that the enthusiasm I've rediscovered persists, that I keep finding books I like or even love, that I don't fall back into a reading slump. And I'm also hopeful, cautiously, tentatively hopeful, that this shift is only the first sign of something bigger. That maybe, just maybe, <em>my</em> words are going to come back. That in the coming year, I'm really going to <em>write</em>.<br />
<br /><br />
So... there you go. A long-overdue update of sorts on my life. <br />
<br /><br />
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a book to finish. <br />
<br /><br />
Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-53119897095639815512015-08-02T23:44:00.001-07:002015-08-02T23:44:16.176-07:00The Rest of The Moon is a Harsh Mistress: What's the Point of all This, Anyway? I actually finished <em>The Moon is a Harsh Mistress </em>a couple days ago, but until yesterday I didn't feel much like writing and I was busy yesterday. But at least I'm writing now.<br />
<br />
<br />
So how was the second half of the book?<br />
<br />
<br />
Terrible. I think. Maybe. I don't know. I feel like I've completely lost my ability to judge books objectively. Because this is yet another highly acclaimed book that's supposed to be so amazing and life-changing and here I am, a presumably intelligent person who believes herself to possess a reasonable knowledge of books and what makes them good or not, who thought that it was poorly written, uninteresting, disheartening, cynical, and in all other ways basically a waste of time.<br />
<br />
<br />
Seriously, why does Science Fiction even exist? <br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, I admit that questioning the existence of an entire genre because I've encountered a few books that I haven't managed to get along with might be a slight overreaction, but... no, really, why does it exist?<br />
<br />
<br />
From what I've seen over the past month, it's partly an idea-based genre. And that sentence might very well be ridiculous, because obviously all fiction is "idea-based"; but Science Fiction is highly speculative, arguably moreso than other genres. "What would happen if Martians invaded the Earth?" "What would a society that had evolved on the moon look like?" "What if computers could think for themselves?"<br />
<br />
<br />
But it's also an idea-based genre in another way: it is a way for authors to express ideas.<br />
<br />
<br />
Hey, look, another mildly ridiculous sentence. What I mean by <em>that </em>is that I feel a lot of Science Fiction exists because an author had something profound he (or, occasionally, she) wanted to say about humanity or politics or the way things ought to be. So <em>The War of the Worlds </em>indirectly denounced colonialism while also staunchly declaring that Man is ascendant and the Earth is our home (I'm still a little confused by that juxtaposition, by the way). And the Foundation series stated that mankind is cyclical and predictable and that we cannot escape our destinies. And <em>The Moon is a Harsh Mistress </em>had quite a lot to say about how we should be living our lives and running our government which massively grated on my nerves. <br />
<br />
<br />
The trouble is that often the story and the characters get completely lost in the midst of all those ideas. As I think I sufficiently expressed, this was the case with the Foundation trilogy. Likewise, it was the case with <em>The Moon</em>. <br />
<br />
<br />
For example: there's a character in <em>The Moon is a Harsh Mistress </em>who is a professor and scholar, who taught the protagonist/narrator everything he knows. You may recall from my last post that the book provides little information about the characters beyond their backgrounds and their political philosophies. So what's this professor's political philosophy?<br />
<br />
<br />
He describes himself as a "rational anarchist" (so immediately upon his launching into his political spiel, I wanted to throw a textbook of some sort at him and tell him that if he's such an all-fired brilliant professor he should know what an oxymoron is and that it's generally best to avoid using them if you want to sound smart and be taken seriously) (I wasn't in the best of moods when I was reading this book). If I understood the lengthy expository speech in which he described his philosophy and how awesome it is correctly, this means that he believes that there should be no centralized government, but that each person should take governing and law into his own hands, always accepting full responsibility for his actions. Thus, if the professor thinks that someone who is alive would be a more productive and useful citizen if he or she was dead, the professor will graciously help said person achieve deadness and then accept the consequences for it. He also accepts that there will be consequences, because even though rational anarchy is the only sensible way of running anything, everybody else in the world is too stupid to realize it, so the professor can do nothing but strive to live perfectly in an imperfect world. (I'm paraphrasing slightly, but that's essentially what he said.) (Except for the living perfectly in an imperfect world bit; he really <em>did</em> straight-up say that.) (Our hero, ladies and gentlemen, a shining example of self-awareness and humility.......) (Rolls eyes)<br />
<br />
<br />
So because this is his philosophy, the professor spends the entire book manipulating everyone else and looking down on everyone because they're all far less intelligent and capable of handling things than he is. To make things more interesting, the narrator keeps mentioning how poor the professor's health is, like I'm supposed to be worried that he might die. <br />
<br />
<br />
But here's the kicker: I know, and am fond of, people with this same philosophy.<br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe not the citizens' army I-should-be-allowed-to-kill-people-because-every-man-is-responsible-for-his-own-morality bit. But I do know people who take a very cynical view of government and think that the less involvement it and similar institutions have in people's personal lives the better. <em>I</em> even agree to an extent with some of the things this professor says. <br />
<br />
<br />
But it's <em>all</em> he says.<br />
<br />
<br />
Almost all of the professor's dialogue is based around politics and the political situation playing out in the book. The narrator has a few two-or-three-sentence-long flashbacks to his days of studying with the professor, but otherwise the only role the book ever shows the professor in is one of a manipulative politician who claims to be striving for miniscule government when it seems like what he actually wants is a government completely controlled by him and his very closest associates. I'm not willing to look over and consider this character's philosophy and approach because I don't like the character. I don't really even dislike the character, because I know next to nothing about the character. If he had been developed more, been shown interacting with people in non-political contexts, or in any other way been made into an even remotely appealing three-dimensional sort of character, I think I would have been more open to mulling over the ideas he puts forward and less likely to be so utterly put off by his apparent arrogance.<br />
<br />
<br />
And I know that I keep going on about the lack of character development in these books. Every time I get started on a new post I tell myself I'm not going to complain about the characters again, and then it always ends up happening.<br />
<br />
<br />
So let's get back to this post's title - what's the point of all this? <br />
<br />
<br />
I'm not just referring to the genre in general. I'm also referring to this project.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I got started, my hope in reading all this Sci-Fi was to gain a larger understanding and experience in this genre, maybe find a book or two that I really liked, and try to better determine what it is about this genre that I don't like. I feel I've succeeded in the first and third goal. Clearly I've failed at the second.<br />
<br />
<br />
So I'm cutting the project short.<br />
<br />
<br />
Originally, I was going to read one more book, <em>Snow Crash</em> by Neal Stephenson. Stephenson is a current Science Fiction writer, a favorite of my dad's. <em>Snow Crash</em> was his first successful book. I actually started it; I read a little more than 100 pages. It's much easier to read than any of the other books I read and whined about here, and its characters are actually a lot more well-rounded and interesting than the ones I've been encountering - but I still wasn't enjoying it. <br />
<br />
<br />
I feel really terrible about opting not to finish it, because I always feel terrible about leaving things unfinished, and I've never failed to complete one of these summer projects before (and isn't <em>that</em> embarrassing; I got through all four <em>Twilight</em> books with only minor psychological and emotional damage, and then I hit the end of my rope reading brainy, mentally nutritious Science Fiction classics), and because it's better in some ways (if worse in others, which I don't feel like I need to go into, since I'm not finishing the book). But I feel like I've done what I set out to do and gotten what I set out to get, and I'm tired of forcing myself through books I'm not enjoying when I'd rather be working on the long list of books I actually want to read. I don't think it's healthy, either for me or the people who have to live with me and experience the full force of my whining firsthand.<br />
<br />
<br />
So I'm quitting. Guiltily.<br />
<br /><br />
But before I do, there's one more thing I want to say.<br />
<br /><br />
I asked what the point of Science Fiction was. Throughout this last month, many times it's seemed like it doesn't <em>have</em> a point. If you're looking for social and political commentary, there are dozens of other books from other genres that provide it while also providing characters and stories worth caring about, that feel more like meaningful journeys than opportunities for the authors to show off how brilliant they are and how much better their ideas are than everybody else's. So why would you write or read Sci-Fi when you could be writing or reading something else instead?<br />
<br /><br />
Well, something occurred to me today.<br />
<br /><br />
Historical Fiction chronicles the world as it once was. Modern-day fictions of all types chronicle the world as it is. Fantasy chronicles the world as it isn't and can't be. But Science Fiction chronicles the world as it <em>could</em> be. Sci-Fi authors' great challenge is pulling stories from the furthest reaches of their imaginations while keeping their stories plausible. Science Fiction is all about imagining the future. Predicting the future. Even creating the future.<br />
<br /><br />
Science Fiction has value. I'll willingly admit it, even if I ended up with a lot of books that didn't click with me. Wrapping up this little summer project isn't renouncing Science Fiction forever; I'll read more of it in the future. Surely <em>somewhere</em> there has to be a Sci-Fi book that'll appeal to me.<br />
<br /><br />
And if not... well, maybe I can write one. <br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-7332158695470543372015-07-27T17:24:00.000-07:002015-07-27T17:24:17.248-07:00The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, Day 1: The Underqualified Chauffeur After Wells and Asimov, who to experiment with next? As I've said, there are a lot of well-known names in the Science Fiction field, and I won't be getting to most of them. <br />
<br />
<br />
But next up, I wanted to try something by Robert Heinlein (or, as the book I have credits him, Robert A. Heinlein; I suppose the middle initial is optional).<br />
<br />
<br />
Robert (A.) Heinlein won the Hugo Award (which I'm pretty sure is one of the biggest, if not <em>the</em> biggest honor in Science Fiction) four times. The <em>totally</em> unbiased description on the book jacket of this book calls him "the dominant science fiction writer of the modern era". He's well-known and popular. In short, there are a number of reasons I felt I should include him in my lineup.<br />
<br />
<br />
But like I said in my first Foundation post, choosing an author is only half of the process. Next I had to decide which book I was going to read, and I had three candidates: <em>Starship Troopers</em> (because it's been made into a movie, which seems to indicate that it's fairly popular), <em>Stranger in a Strange Land</em> (because, from what admittedly little I've seen, it appears to be his best-known work), and <em>The Moon is a Harsh Mistress</em> (because a friend of mine read it last year and had good things to say about it, which is how I first heard of Robert Heinlein) (or Robert <em>A.</em> Heinlein). <br />
<br />
<br />
So I asked a widely-read mentor knowledgeable about these sorts of things which of the three she thought was his most famous and important work, and she said <em>The Moon is a Harsh Mistress</em> (she later changed her answer to <em>Stranger in a Strange Land</em>, but I opted to go with her first instinct).<br />
<br />
<br />
Thus...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
I've gotten tired of saying negative things about books that are popular, well-loved, and come to me recommended, and I'm sure that anybody reading these posts has gotten tired of reading said negative comments. But it's starting to seem like it can't be helped. <em>I don't like Science Fiction</em>. And I'm sorry about that. I'm really, truly sorry, for a lot of reasons. <br />
<br /><br />
I'm not really enjoying this book. Again... lots of reasons for this. <br />
<br />
<br />
First of all: this book is kind of hard to read. <br />
<br />
<br />
The basic setup of the book is that in the not-too-distant future the Earth sets up a penal colony on the moon. Criminals of all different calibers and a few voluntary colonists are sent up from every major country on Earth, where they live and work. Decades later, the Moon is shared by the more recently arrived criminals and by the children of the earlier groups, born free and raised on the Moon (or Luna, as its citizens call it). And, as one might imagine, the Lunar citizens (or Loonies) have developed their own unique dialect.<br />
<br />
<br />
This is where the difficulty comes from.<br />
<br />
<br />
Of course, it makes perfect sense for the Loonies to have their own dialect. Language is constantly evolving, and a group of people isolated from the main body of humanity as they are would certainly be talking differently within a few generations. Honestly, I think it's almost unrealistic how little Heinlein's future Moon-language differs from modern English. There are only two major differences - first, a number of foreign words and phrases of various origins have become incorporated into everyday English, and second, the language has grown more abrupt, with Loonies frequently leaving out words like "I", "you", "a", or (most notably) "the". <br />
<br />
<br />
And the book is written in first-person narration. So <em>the entire book </em>is made up of sentence fragments and sentences completely devoid of the word "the". <br />
<br />
<br />
But wait, there's more.<br />
<br />
<br />
Like a lot of Science Fiction, this book deals with social science as much as it does physical science. The book chronicles the main characters' decision to revolt against Earth (or, as they say, Terran) rule and establish their own Lunar government (think American Revolution but in space and instead of the Founding Fathers you have an AI computer running everything). This decision is brought about because of the unfortunate economic situation on Luna - the Authority (which I think is the Lunar government established by Earth; the book's never actually said) controls everything, which leads to overpricing of necessities and inefficient trade (like I said; American Revolution). What this all amounts to is that the book has a lot of explanations of complex economics, introductions of various unconventional political ideologies, inflammatory speeches, statistical analyses, lengthy conversations, and, eventually, long descriptions of the steps taken to set up a revolutionary party and start engineering the revolt - <em>all</em> written in this choppy patois, as if everything going on wasn't hard enough to understand already.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now, I get what Heinlein's doing. As I said, it makes sense to have a unique Lunar dialect. And it probably wasn't easy for an obviously educated and well-read man like Heinlein to write a whole book in this style. I respect the intelligence of the decision and the effort it must've taken to pull it off. But in practice, it's driving me a bit crazy.<br />
<br />
<br />
There is a small amount of relief in that there are two characters who don't speak in the dialect, an eloquent earthborn Professor and the aforementioned AI computer who is running and organizing the revolt. Why the book couldn't have been narrated by one of them is anyone's guess. <br />
<br />
<br />
As for characters, they're slightly more developed than Foundation's characters are, because the whole book is one continuous story and it's much more a story about people (and a computer) than it is about human history and human nature in general. But there still isn't an overlarge amount of time spent with the characters. I know the main characters' physical descriptions, backstories, political ideologies, and not much else.<br />
<br />
<br />
Such is the case with just about every aspect of the book. Anything essential to the central plot is described in detail. Everything else the readers have to figure out on their own. For example - Lunar society involves both polygamy and polyandry, often simultaneously. But there are no expository paragraphs helpfully telling the reader this or explaining how such uncommon and outdated practices have become the norm in this highly advanced, futuristic society. Rather, there's a scene early on where the narrator briefly chats with a new acquaintance about his four wives and four co-husbands and if the readers can't figure out what's going on and shift all their paradigms accordingly, that's their problem. I have only the vaguest idea what the cities on Luna look like. I barely understand <em>why </em>this revolution is happening in the first place. <br />
<br />
<br />
But Heinlein makes sure to spend sixty pages describing the financing of the revolutionary party, the circulation of propaganda, and a lucky sequence of events that gains the revolution an ally on Earth.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've talked before over the course of this project about preferring character-driven books over plot-driven ones. Here I want to say that there's nothing inherently wrong with plot-driven books. I've read plot-driven books before without having trouble getting through them. I've even enjoyed them. Just because they're not my preference doesn't mean I can't think they're good.<br />
<br />
<br />
But I think that in order for a plot-driven book to work, in order to have a book that has almost no emphasis on character or setting be readable and enjoyable, <em>the plot has to actually drive the story</em>. And so far, in my opinion, this one just doesn't. <br />
<br />
<br />
But maybe it will. (This is me trying to get some positivity and optimism into the post.) I'm only halfway through the book; so far it might all have been set up for a thrilling and engaging second half. Plots can become better and more engaging. This could easily prove to be a really great example of a plot-driven book... provided you can get through the first half.<br />
<br /><br />
*Shrugs* Well, I suppose I'd better go read some more...<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-91964955854501837942015-07-23T21:11:00.003-07:002015-07-23T21:11:48.805-07:00The Foundation Trilogy, Days 9 & 10: And Thus, He Gets to the Point Well, I've now read <em>Second Foundation</em>, the third Foundation book. I probably won't read the four additional books he wrote decades after the trilogy. My apologies to Mr. Asimov, but I'm just not all that interested in seeing where the story goes from here.<br />
<br />
<br />
First of all, I'd like to say that it's very confusing to have the third book in the series be called <em>Second Foundation</em>. I can't help but feel like it would have made more sense to have <em>Second Foundation</em> be the second book in the series. In fact, considering how short these books are, I think it would've been quite manageable. Asimov would've just had to split <em>Foundation and Empire</em> down the middle, combining the first half with <em>Foundation</em> and the latter half with <em>Second Foundation</em>, and he'd have ended up with two longer, more reasonably named books. It would've made more sense from a storytelling standpoint, too, because the overarching plot of <em>Second Foundation</em> has its origins about halfway through <em>Foundation and Empire</em>. <br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, I know I'm just pointlessly nitpicking. I wonder if this is something all aspiring and/or successful writers do; constantly think about what we would've done differently had we written the book that we're reading. <br />
<br />
<br />
But on to the book itself.<br />
<br />
<br />
This book was weird.<br />
<br />
<br />
It was weird in a number of different ways, not least of which in the fact that there's a fairly substantial difference in tone and feel between this book and the other two. It's almost entirely free of political discussions (hooray!) and instead introduces the rather bothersome concept of mind control. For the entire book, the reader can never be sure whether someone is behaving or speaking in a certain way because they're under mind control or because they're mentally controlling someone else, but it's safe to assume that's it's one of the two. Thus, there's a new surprise revelation every few chapters. It turns out <em>this</em> person you thought was stupid is really in charge of the entire situation! (Jarring chord) And it turns out <em>this</em> person who you thought was working against <em>this</em> organization was actually working <em>for</em> them and using mind control to keep people from figuring it out! (Jarring chord) But in fact, he and the organization <em>wanted</em> him to get caught and used mind control to make sure he would, because it was <em>all part of the plan</em>! (<em>Jarring chord</em>) And by the way, <em>this</em> character who you thought was the most independent character in the book and the only one who'd escaped being controlled has been under mind control for the past fifteen years! (JARRING CHORD)<br />
<br />
<br />
There are so many "shocking" twists in this book that they cease to be shocking. By the time I got to the last two, which were probably supposed to be the most shocking of all, I was far past the point of being surprised.<br />
<br />
<br />
The effect is even more damaged by the fact that the reveal of the second-to-last shocking twist was brought about through one character delivering a lengthy monologue to another character... full of information the second character already knew. Asimov attempted to explain this little issue away by saying that the first character wasn't really speaking to the second character and was more expositing to himself. Which, if you ask me, makes even less sense. "I'm just going to stand here staring out a window, outlining at great length and in great detail the brilliant plan which I have just personally carried out with rousing success. I'm so awesome."<br />
<br />
<br />
I wonder if Asimov ever stood staring out a window describing the plot of the Foundation trilogy in great detail to no one in particular when he'd finished it.<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<br />
I got the distinct feeling reading this book that this was what Asimov was leading up to, that the only reason for the first two books' existence is to set up the action of <em>Second Foundation</em>. <em>This</em> was what he was heading for all along. <em>This</em> is where he gets to the point. <em>This</em> is where he makes his big profound statement about humanity and existence.<br />
<br />
<br />
And I have <em>no</em> idea what it is.<br />
<br />
<br />
Truly. I think he's trying to tell me something, and I can't figure out what it is.<br />
<br />
<br />
See, throughout most of the book the organization with all the mind control is set up as the bad guys. They're fought against and hated and feared. Because of course, you don't want your mind and your thoughts and actions controlled by an outside force. That's human nature. And as the book progressed, it felt more and more like a strong, embittered anti-deist statement (not actually sure if anti-deist is the exact phrase I'm looking for, but... y'know... anti-God).<br />
<br />
<br />
But in the end (spoilers), the organization with the mind control wins. Because of course the mere mortals aren't going to succeed against the all-powerful organization capable of mind control; that wouldn't make any sense. And there are a couple of indications, in the last chapter and a place or two earlier in the book, that it's good that they win. That without them, humanity would destroy itself, and that because of their success, humanity can now proceed into its bright future, into a golden age unlike any experienced before in its history.<br />
<br />
<br />
So... what am I supposed to be feeling? Is this meant to be a crushing ending, inspiring despair with the thought that no matter what actions humans take or how much they fight it, they'll (we'll) always be forced along an unchangeable path by some manipulative higher power? Or is it meant to be hopeful, communicating the idea that no matter how presumptuous or foolish or unaware of what's good for us we get, there's always someone greater looking out for us, guiding us to the place where we belong and where we'll be happiest and most prosperous?<br />
<br />
<br />
I don't know too much about Asimov, but I'm guessing that for him it was probably the former. But like I said, I can only guess. His message isn't clear.<br />
<br />
<br />
His message, whatever it is, is also really hard to get to.<br />
<br />
<br />
There were a lot of things that bothered me about this series. Some of them I've attempted to articulate in these posts, others I've had difficulty pinpointing. Characters are thrown about carelessly, often underdeveloped and randomly abandoned midway through their stories. Whole subplots and events take place and are practically forgotten, barely effecting the bigger story. A lot of things are under-explained. A lot more things are exhaustingly over-explained. There are explanations that make very little sense. <em>Second Foundation </em>is the best and easiest to read of the trilogy (as you may have gathered from the fact that I read it in two days after taking a week to get through <em>Foundation and Empire</em>), but it still has some of these drawbacks, and it also has all the crazy mind control, which was frustrating in its own way, since I was having to go through the whole book knowing that nothing was as it seemed and nobody was trustworthy. <br />
<br />
<br />
The point that I'm attempting to get to is that if I had merely been experimenting with this series, reading it on my own time rather than blogging about it, I probably wouldn't have read past the first book. And in light of that, I question Asimov's decision to put his big, grandiose conclusion (whatever that happened to be) after over three hundred pages of dry, repetitive inaction and another hundred and fifty pages of headache-inducing mind games. Didn't he ever worry about losing readers before he got the chance to tell them... whatever he was trying to tell them?<br />
<br /><br />
***<br />
<br /><br />
I feel like I'm not really saying anything of much importance here (maybe my readers will disagree; that would be nice). It goes back to that burden of intellectualism post I wrote after finishing the first book in this trilogy. Science Fiction is an intellectual genre. It's known for allegory and for probing human nature and making sweeping political commentaries and sociological statements. People write papers about Sci-Fi books, people discuss them at length. And so, I feel like this last Foundation post ought to be describing some huge epiphany I had about Science Fiction or humankind or something along those lines.<br />
<br /><br />
But it's not. Because I didn't have any grand epiphanies or discoveries. This series didn't change my life or my way of looking at the world. It didn't make me fall in love with Science Fiction. Honestly, there were times while I was reading it when I'd stare blankly at the page number, stunned that I'd read so much and been so little impacted by it. These books washed over me, when I was able to make progress through them. I think I'll be lucky to remember anything of significance about them by this time next year.<br />
<br /><br />
I still feel bad that that's the case. I feel bad that this whole genre and I have yet to get along. But there's not much of anything I can do about it. I don't have the ability to make myself appreciate things that some people possess. Oh, well.<br />
<br /><br />
There're still two more books on my roster, books that appear to have few similarities to the Foundation trilogy. So I still have some hope of eventually writing a less whiny, critical post. Stay tuned. <br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton<br />
<br />
<br />
Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-57465649889171945632015-07-21T15:38:00.002-07:002015-07-21T15:38:39.549-07:00The Foundation Trilogy, Days 3-8: The Struggle ContinuesSo, needless to say, I've gotten really thrown off. I've spent the past week slogging through <em>Foundation and Empire</em>, the second book in the trilogy, and - obviously - not posting anything here about my progress. I don't have an excuse or an explanation or anything. Merely that every time it was a good time to be reading, I thought of something else to do, and that whenever I did manage to force myself through a chapter or two, I felt like I hadn't read enough to warrant a new post. So then I decided I would just post when I'd finished the book. And then that kept not happening. <br />
<br />
<br />
In the first three years of doing this type of project, I never took so long to finish a book, and I don't think I ever went this long without posting an update on my reading. I don't even know if the "Days 3-8" caption in the title is accurate, because I've gone so many days without writing anything new, and I'm pretty sure there were days when I didn't read. As a planner and a scheduler, I'm frustrated that I've gotten so messed up and that this reading isn't going smoothly. As a generally fast reader, I'm frustrated that it took me an entire week to read a 150-page-long book. As a people pleaser, I'm frustrated by the fact that I'm struggling so much with a book series that people I know and respect enjoyed and recommended. And as someone used to being able to articulate her opinions and know her own mind, I am incredibly and increasingly frustrated by the fact that I don't like these books and I <em>don't know why</em>.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's not only that feeling of an intellectual obligation to like it that I described in my last post anymore. There are descriptions that I like. There are characters I almost like and almost care about. There have been little observations and asides of Asimov's that have amused me. Like this one, for instance:<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>"Inevitably, he said, 'What is the meaning of this?'</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>It is the precise question and the precise wording thereof that has been put to the atmosphere on such occasions by an incredible variety of men since humanity was invented. It is not recorded that it has ever been asked for any purpose other than dignified effect."</em><br />
<br />
<br />
See, that's amusing. I liked those two paragraphs. Also, <em>Foundation and Empire</em> was better than <em>Foundation</em>. It has a more concentrated plot, and more developed, central characters. There's even a female character, shockingly enough. She's got a name and she sort of has a personality and everything. The lengthy conversations aren't only devoted to politics and psychology. <br />
<br />
<br />
But even if they <em>were </em>- <br />
<br />
<br />
Alright, for some reason I'm having a lot of trouble getting my thoughts on paper (or, um, screen) at the moment. I actually started a post about the first third of <em>Foundation and Empire </em>several days ago that I never ended up finishing because I couldn't get the words out in any kind of comprehensible order. I have no more explanation for this dilemma than I do for any of the others I've been running into in my attempts to get through this series. So please forgive me if this post ends up being a little choppy. I'm doing my best.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's the thought that occurred to me somewhere midway through reading this book: <em>I read nineteenth-century slice-of-life novels</em>. I've talked about this in other posts this summer. I like Jane Austen. I like some of the Bronte sisters' books. I read a book by Thomas Hardy earlier this summer and I'll probably read more books by him at some point in the future. I have repeatedly read books that have no plots beyond, "this is the story of a few months or years in the lives of some characters experiencing drama somewhere in England". There is a book on my handwritten list of favorites called <em>North and South </em>(by Elizabeth Gaskell) that features lengthy scenes made up almost entirely of characters debating the morality and fairness of labor distribution and wages during the Industrial Revolution. <em>North and South </em>is longer than the entire Foundation trilogy. <br />
<br />
<br />
What I'm saying here is that I have happily read books which are probably far more boring and certainly substantially longer than these ones with a fraction of the difficulty I'm having now. I can no longer in good conscience say I don't like these books because they're dry, or political, or lacking action, because I've read books that are dry and political and lacking action before without any trouble (or at least, with a lot less trouble). And I can also no longer blame my disinterest on underdeveloped, insignificant characters, because like I said, <em>Foundation and Empire</em> is more character-focused than<em> Foundation</em>. <br />
<br /><br />
So I don't have an explanation for disliking these books. Unless I want to go with the idea that labor debates are just way more appealing than political dialogues. <br />
<br /><br />
The optimistic view I can gain from this conclusion? Maybe now that I've acknowledged that there's no logical reason for me to be struggling to get through them, I'll be more likely to enjoy the third book and it'll be easier to get through.<br />
<br /><br />
The cynical view? I'll keep disliking the series without knowing why and that'll drive me insane.<br />
<br /><br />
Which view will prove correct? Watch this space for developments. <br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton<br />
<br />
<br />Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-22593335384044365562015-07-14T03:14:00.000-07:002015-07-14T03:14:52.747-07:00The Foundation Trilogy, Day 2: The Burden of Intellectualism Today I finished <em>Foundation</em>, the first book in the trilogy. In a shocking change of pace, the second half of the book contained not only many <em>many </em>more political dialogues, but also some very exciting trade discussions and a courtroom scene. As I rapidly approached the conclusion, I felt certain that some sort of thrilling climax must be near, some great burst of action or unexpected reveal that the whole book had been building up to. <br />
<br /><br />
I proved to be incorrect. It was really just more talking and then something that doesn't even quite deserve to be called an abrupt ending. And then it was over.<br />
<br /><br />
Also, today's reading featured a character who I briefly felt might be this story's equivalent of Han Solo (because, having first noticed similarities to<em> Star Wars</em>, I fully intend to keep looking for them). But then he just turned out to be the exact same conniving, scheming, unsympathetic, too-smart-for-his-own-good politician that the first half of the book was about. And I really mean that; if you asked me to make a list of all the noticeable, extreme differences in character, personality, or methods of action between the two men who are the closest things to protagonists this book has, I doubt I'd be able to come up with anything.<br />
<br /><br />
Because, you see, this book isn't really much of a book. <br />
<br /><br />
Yes, yes, I know it's a <em>book</em>. When I say book, though, I mean the written-out, nicely bound version of a fictional or retold story. <br />
<br /><br />
Most of the books you're likely to find in the fiction section of your library will be about a person or group of persons in some kind of interesting situation. The book, or series of books, will then follow the person or group of persons through the twists and turns and pitfalls of the interesting situation to that situation's resolution. Maybe new characters will be introduced along the way. Maybe the action will unfold over the course of several years. Maybe the situation will become increasingly complicated and multi-layered, until the situation that is ultimately resolved at the story's end is completely different from the original situation. There are mystery series that take readers through multiple different stories in the life of one central character. There are multi-generational epics that tell the converging and complementary and evolving life stories of characters and their children and grandchildren. Whatever it is, there is almost always some common thread of character or plot to tie everything together and keep the reader interested. The ending of a book is rarely the ending of all its characters' stories; rather, it is the ending of that particular epoch, or situation, or incident, or whatever you want to call it in their lives that the author wished to chronicle. Books are things of finite ambition that describe contained incidents. <br />
<br /><br />
And it could be argued that <em>Foundation</em> contains some of these elements. It describes characters and their movements through contained incidents. But every contained incident is part of a larger narrative. <br />
<br /><br />
Essentially, there is a presumed conclusion to some of humanity's current (that is, current in the far-distant future) struggles that will come about several centuries (further) in the future. The only way to get to this desirable conclusion is through a series of crises. So... the book is a series of crises. There's a problem, a man emerges who somehow knows exactly what needs to be done to fix the problem, he rises to ultimate power with stunning ease, he does what needs doing, the crisis is averted. Skip forward several decades to the next crisis and the cycle is repeated.<br />
<br /><br />
So to get back to my earlier point, this book isn't a book, it's a freaking essay.<br />
<br /><br />
That's why the characters are cardboard cutouts which are practically indistinguishable from each other. They don't need to be any more than that, because this isn't about them. This isn't a story of people, or individual triumphs, or isolated occurrences with beginnings and endings. This first book doesn't so much end as stop; pause, more like. Because, again, it's not a book. It's Asimov's commentary on politics and ideologies, on the inevitable trends of humanity, on reoccurring cycles of power and control, on the endlessly fickle masses and the ever-changing but unstoppably repetitive tides of popularity and fate that they mindlessly ride. It subtly paints a picture of hopeless, depressing, exhausting, headache-inducing infinity. You know that even if humanity reaches this objective that every major decision in the story is being made in pursuit of, it'll be no more an ending or a reprieve than any other pause in the story has been. The tides will keep coming in and before too long the solution will have unraveled and the human race will have to go through the whole mess again. Asimov studied, and pondered, and philosophized, and finally wrote his thesis, converting it into dialogue and half-hiding it behind thin characters and something vaguely resembling an overarching plot in order to get it to the masses, to the people whom he felt most needed to read it. <br />
<br /><br />
(My sense of pacing demands that there be some sort of pause following a paragraph like that, so imagine me sighing heavily, leaning back in my chair, rubbing my temples, knocking back the dregs of a glass of iced tea, and taking a deep breath before resuming.) <br />
<br /><br />
I don't know if I'm actually doing a good job of expressing myself at the moment, being by no means a good or impartial judge of my own writing. As it often does, my frustration has made me feel addled and incoherent. Whether I actually am addled and incoherent is beside the point; I <em>feel</em> like I am, which naturally does nothing to lessen the feelings of frustration.<br />
<br /><br />
And the source of that frustration (aside from the boringness, and the repetitiveness, and the weird sameness of the characters, and the apparent futility of everything everybody's doing)?<br />
<br /><br />
I feel like I should love this. And <em>that</em> is a feeling that I'm tired of having.<br />
<br /><br />
I've spent a fair portion of my life being that one really smart kid. You know, the one who knows all the answers and does all the assignments and gets straight A's. The teacher's pet, if you will. This was inadvertent at first, but I confess that it wasn't long before I started taking pains to make sure I retained my status. I have been (and at times still am) a showoff, a braggart, and an egotist. When, in high school, I started encountering people unquestionably more intelligent and capable than I was, it dealt a blow to my self-esteem and my feelings of self-worth that I've scarcely begun to recover from.<br />
<br /><br />
This position of "gifted-child-totally-bursting-with-potential" brings with it a lot of expectations and assumptions. Oh, <em>you'll</em> do well on this assignment. <em>You'll</em> understand what the teacher's saying. <em>You'll</em> know the answer to this question. <em>You'll</em> like this book/movie/project. <em>You're</em> smart. <em>You're</em> intellectual. <em>You're</em> into this kind of thing. <br />
<br /><br />
At this point, I hardly know if these voices ever truly existed or if I imagined them. I'm reasonably sure that there must've been some, but probably nowhere near as many as I've been prone to think. Whatever the case, I've brought them into my own head now, and I hear them constantly, when I watch movies, or have conversations, or read books.<br />
<br /><br />
Why in the world are you still blathering on about how cute your favorite actors are? You're supposed to be smart. You're supposed to be above that shallow nonsense. Why can't you talk about something that matters for once? <br />
<br /><br />
Quit whining about how bad you think this movie is. It's a classic. Smart people like it, so complaining about it makes you sound stupid. And you're not supposed to be stupid. Everyone thinks you're smart. I guess they must be wrong.<br />
<br /><br />
Oh, come on, this is brilliant intellectual writing! He's studied history and is applying those studies to his writings about the future. Intelligent people love it for the commentary and criticism it provides. It comes recommended by people whose opinions matter to you, people whom you want to think well of you. You pass yourself off as some towering intellectual, and yet you don't like this masterwork about precedent and human nature <em>because the characters aren't developed enough</em>? How disgustingly shallow and pathetic. You should feel ashamed of yourself for accepting all those compliments of your intelligence over the years, because if you were really the person that the people giving them thought you were, <em>you would love this</em>.<br />
<br /><br />
As I think I've said before, my favorite books are all children's books, or fantasies, or nineteenth-century dramas. I like books with humor and adventure, with characters I feel like I've known personally for years, maybe even with just a touch of romance. But I find I'm often reluctant to admit to that. I get annoyed with myself for going on about how much I love Jane Austen, or for recommending the Charlie Bone series to people and telling them it's my favorite book series.<br />
<br /><br />
<em>Those are the kinds of books normal girls like. You're meant to be so much more than that.</em><br />
<br /><br />
By failing to properly appreciate the intellectual, symbolic, and cautionary significance of this book, I feel like I'm letting down the people who think highly of me. I feel like I'm failing to live up to my full potential by preferring Austen to Asimov. <br />
<br /><br />
All this, when deep down I know that if I actually asked any of the people whose disappointment and disapproval I'm so consistently afraid of, they would tell me that my failure to get into Science Fiction doesn't matter to them at all. They don't care. These are demons I've created for myself. <br />
<br /><br />
And more than the boredom, more than my inability to connect with the characters, more than the repetitiveness, more than the abiding sense of absolute futility, <em>that</em> is why I got so frustrated with this book. Because it made me feel frustrated with myself, and then frustrated with myself because I'm so continually frustrated with myself. <br />
<br /><br />
So here is my new resolve for the summer (reached sometime during the rather lengthy process of getting this post written): not only to better familiarize myself with Science Fiction and develop a taste for it if I can (and there's still time to do that; I've got four books left), but also to work on being more aware of how silly and damaging this fear of not living up to others' expectations of me is. And to work on getting the heck over it.<br />
<br /><br />
***<br />
<br /><br />
And with that massively cathartic and personal vent over and done with, I think I'm ready to face the rest of the Foundation Trilogy, not as a frustrated intellectual wanting desperately to like a book series in order to maintain peoples' confidence in her, but as a booklover reading books (or, y'know, essays disguised as books) and openly and honestly saying what she thinks of them. <br />
<br /><br />
After sleep. First - first there needs to be sleep.<br />
<br /><br />
Until tomorrow (er... later today) (or possibly tomorrow; we'll see). <br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-72997807892910114122015-07-12T03:40:00.001-07:002015-07-12T03:40:36.602-07:00The Foundation Trilogy, Day 1: SpaCe-SPANNow that I've covered very early Science Fiction with Wells, it's time to move into the twentieth century, and that's where choosing what to read gets hard. The list of famous and iconic Science Fiction authors is pretty long, for one thing. A lot of well-known, respected authors didn't make it onto my planned reading lineup; Jules Verne, Arthur C. Clarke, Ray Bradbury, Aldous Huxley, C. S. Lewis, etc. For another thing, have you ever noticed that Science Fiction authors seem to write a lot of books? Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like even when I'd finally decided which authors I wanted to make sure to get to, I still had a lot of books to choose from.<br />
<br /><br />
Authors first, though. And I decided that after <em>The War of the Worlds</em>, I wanted to read something by Isaac Asimov. He's one of the classics. I'm pretty sure he's also the only author referenced in a great quote from my favorite TV show which is meant to parody technobabble ("I've realigned the Penrose Tubes and jettisoned the stream of Einsteinium through the Hawking Converter, thereby reversing the Oppenheimer Effect and propelling us through the Asimov Space Curtain") (<em>Mystery Science Theater 3000</em>, Season 7, Episode 6, "Laserblast", in case anybody's interested). <br />
<br /><br />
But which book(s) to read? With Asimov, there are a <em>lot </em>to choose from. So I thought it'd be best to consult a widely-read mentor with very valuable opinions who would undoubtedly be reading these posts. She suggested that I read the Foundation Trilogy. So that's what I'm doing.<br />
<br /><br />
There are seven books in the Foundation Trilogy (a statement which makes no sense and is therefore really fun to make). This is because the first three books were published in the 1950s and known as the Foundation Trilogy for thirty years, until Asimov randomly wrote four more books in the 80s. However, this month I'll only be reading the original trilogy: <em>Foundation</em>, <em>Foundation and Empire</em>, and <em>Second Foundation</em>.<br />
<br /><br />
Which brings us at last to the first review. Having read the first half of <em>Foundation</em>, the first book, what are my initial thoughts?<br />
<br /><br />
Um... well... at least the characters have names.<br />
<br /><br />
You might've noticed that I didn't post yesterday. I meant to, but it didn't end up happening because I had trouble getting into this book.<br />
<br /><br />
Allow me to attempt to describe my difficulty by comparing this book to other things.<br />
<br /><br />
One of my very first thoughts upon starting the book, popping up around page 2, was, "Ooh, this is like <em>Star Wars</em>!". It takes place in a society consisting of millions of planets united under one centralized government, incidentally called the Empire. People move between planets by traveling through hyperspace. The planet where the seat of government is located consists of nothing but a single city. People with existing names like Lewis and Yohan hang out with people who have names like Salvor and Hari. There are definite similarities.<br />
<br /><br />
Especially to the prequels.<br />
<br /><br />
Now, I know that everybody hates the prequels (I've actually never had a problem with the prequels, but that's a different discussion). There are a lot of common, constantly repeated complaints against the prequels. One complaint against them which I've heard surprisingly infrequently is how talky they are.<br />
<br /><br />
See, the original Star Wars trilogy follows a pretty basic outline: there are some bad guys, there are some good guys, they all have interesting story arcs to follow, eventually the good guys win and we all go home happy. There's a lot of fighting and adventuring and flying around in spaceships, with occasional pauses for character drama. It's pretty straightforward storytelling.<br />
<br /><br />
The plotlines in the prequels are a lot more complicated. The distinctions between the good guys and the bad guys are less clear, and as many battles occur in state rooms and audience chambers as they do on battlefields and in space. The prequels feature shifting alliances, multiple different treaties, double agents, double-crosses, decoys, fronts, and situations which are not what they seem. And all this leads to a number of lengthy discussions of policy and strategy and elaborate schemes. So I have seen one (like I said, this seems to be a surprisingly rare complaint) person on the Internet say that watching the Star Wars prequels feels like watching C-SPAN. <br />
<br /><br />
And reading<em> Foundation</em> feels like <em>reading</em> C-SPAN. <br />
<br /><br />
Granted, I can't say that with any real certainty, having never actually watched C-SPAN (real quick, in case anybody doesn't know, C-SPAN is a specialty political TV and radio network which broadcasts things like Congressional and Parliamentary meetings; as one might imagine, it's infamously boring). But I'm saying it anyway, because it has a nice ring to it. <br />
<br /><br />
The whole book so far has basically been various different groups of people discussing politics, psychology, or both. When war looms, brilliant manipulators use political machination to prevent actual fighting. Political unrest is quieted through the behind-the-scenes maneuvering of the acting government. Men move calmly and confidently along a path marked out for them decades earlier by a group of psychologists so good at their jobs that they could flawlessly predict the future of human progress and considerately arranged everything precisely the way it needed to be arranged. How nice. <br />
<br /><br />
The trouble is that it doesn't make for very exciting reading.<br />
<br /><br />
Because every issue so far has been resolved through diplomacy and/or manipulation rather than open warfare, and because the reader enters every new plotline knowing the basic eventual outcome (the psychologists being kind enough to give us glimpses of said outcomes), the book basically amounts to various groups of scheming businessmen having long, roundabout conversations with inevitable conclusions. You go into every new situation knowing who's going to get what he wants and who's going to be proven wrong. Everybody talks things through behind closed doors, things that we already knew were going to happen happen, and we move on to the next bit of the story. There's no suspense and no action. And, like in <em>The War of the Worlds</em>, there is almost no character development. Like I said earlier, these characters at least have names, but in many cases all you know about a character is his name, maybe something very basic about his appearance, and, of course, his political affiliations and aspirations. So not only is the whole book so far made up of nothing but discussions of events and the sly countermeasures being taken to make sure events don't get out of hand, they're events I don't really have any reason to be interested in. <br />
<br /><br />
Having said all that, I <em>am</em> trying to be optimistic about the second half and the other two books. There have been a few throwaway comments by various people which could imply that policy alone isn't going to work forever. I feel like there might eventually be some more interesting content. I guess I'll see tomorrow (if I have enough willpower to read further).<br />
<br /><br />
Until then.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton <br />
Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-44521446207228574092015-07-10T11:40:00.002-07:002015-07-10T11:40:50.238-07:00The War of the Worlds, Day 2: I Wish He'd Named the Narrator Okay, so I am waaaay late in posting this. Well, maybe not <em>way</em> late. Two days late, anyway, which I like to think of as being pretty unheard-of for me. My plans are all thrown off and stuff.<br />
<br /><br />
Why?<br />
<br /><br />
Because, frankly, this book is boring.<br />
<br /><br />
Seriously. It's only 180 pages long, no more than a novella, really, and yet it took me a while to get through it because... well, like I said, it's boring. Martians are destroying the world (er... well... Martians are destroying England) (in actual fact, Martians are destroying London), and they're massacring the human race (that is, that part of the human race which lives in London). It's exciting and awful and horrifying. In theory. In reality, I kept getting bogged down in it.<br />
<br /><br />
Alright, I know I'm leaping out of the gate here with a great flurry of complaining. Let me backtrack slightly and attempt to compose a somewhat more intelligent and reasonable sort of review/response.<br />
<br /><br />
In my last post, I said that I have yet to find a Science Fiction book I like. There are a number of reasons for this. Here's one: I read books for the characters.<br />
<br /><br />
Naturally that isn't the only reason I read books, but if I don't care about the characters in a book, chances are good I won't like the book. I like unique characters. I like meaningful character development. I love watching the relationships and interactions between characters evolve and unfold. This is probably one of the reasons, perhaps even the main reason, why I like Jane Austen and other nineteenth-century authors so well; their books are primarily, sometimes even entirely, character-driven. Little to no plot, maybe some sort of moral or social commentary, but generally nothing too heavy-handed, mostly just interesting, varied, well-written characters going about their lives.<br />
<br /><br />
From what my limited reading experience and my wider observations have told me, this is basically the opposite of Science Fiction.<br />
<br /><br />
Now, before anybody gets all offended, I know there are character-driven Sci-Fi books, and I'm not saying that all Sci-Fi books are populated by one-dimensional or uninteresting characters. But it seems to me that Science Fiction tends to be focused on one or both of two main elements: scientific innovation and speculation or political and/or social commentary and satire. It's all technological imaginativeness and cautionary storytelling, often heavily plot-driven and loaded with debate and morally challenging concepts - and all this sometimes comes at the cost of character. I've had trouble getting into Science Fiction, because I've had trouble finding characters whose lives and fates I can be invested in.<br />
<br /><br />
So maybe I'm being a silly emotional girl, unreasonably demanding that stories be about people in whom I can be interested. I know there are tons of people who find that the science and the technology and the politics and the moral quandaries amount to more than enough reason to read a book, and just as many people who can't stand my beloved Austen and Bronte and Dickens books because not enough happens in them. To each their own. I am what I am, I know what I like, and I'll admit to getting a little pettish and whiny when a book doesn't have what I like.<br />
<br /><br />
And honestly, <em>The War of the Worlds</em> might very well be the least character-focused book I have ever read. <br />
<br /><br />
The fact that this book was adapted into a radio play which consisted of nothing but an announcer delivering news bulletins about the Martians' progress should tell you how much the characters in this book matter. There's a nameless narrator who spends the whole book wandering around having so many near-death experiences it starts to test the limits of suspension of disbelief and looking at Martians; he has a nameless wife who appears in the very beginning and the very end of the book; he has a nameless brother who disappears halfway through and is never mentioned again; there's a nameless artilleryman whose only purpose in the narrative seems to be to give the narrator someone to talk to, so that the book can have some dialogue; and there's a nameless curate whose purpose seems to be enabling H. G. Wells to make fun of religious people. And... that's basically it. The rest of the book is essentially just a straightforward description of the Martians' doings. Honestly, the Martians don't even show up that much. Most of the book is just the narrator wandering around various towns looking at ruined buildings and dead bodies. A high point was the absolutely thrilling (note: sarcasm) five-page-long action scene in which the narrator's brother attempts to cross a street.<br />
<br /><br />
According to some notes in the back of the book, the prolonged descriptions of ruined towns that the narrator aimlessly meanders through actually added to the eeriness for initial readers. See, unlike a lot of authors of his time, Wells used names and descriptions of actual places. All the action occurs in and around London. The references to geography are constant. Every time the narrator or his brother or a Martian moves an inch, he lets you know which direction he's facing and which town he's heading toward. So someone living the region in question at the time of the book's publication would, in reading it, have the unsettling ability to determine exactly where the Martians landed and every place that they went. They might encounter a description of the town they lived in in ruins, littered with corpses. It'd be creepy. It'd stick in your memory. I get that. <br />
<br /><br />
The problem is, to an American who's never been to England, sentences like, "The seven proceeded to distribute themselves at equal distances along a curved line between St. George's Hill, Weybridge, and the village of Send, south-west of Ripley" mean nothing. It's just a lot of words, and it's hard to get through. <br />
<br /><br />
So here's what Wells did well: he did a great job imagining (and describing) (in GREAT detail) the widespread panic and destruction that would result from an alien invasion. In the Martians, he created a reasonably believable and well-designed alien race, clearly putting a lot of thought into how Mars's makeup and atmosphere would affect the evolution of its inhabitants. The science he's basing his descriptions on is, of course, very outdated now, but he operated well with what he had. He also seems to have predicted the laser, which is kind of neat. <br />
<br /><br />
But again, the widespread panic and destruction and the Martians' terrifying technology and unfeeling slaughter of humanity is all fairly unaffecting, because I don't care about anybody. If every character in the book had died and the Martians had won, I would've been fine with it, because I would've had no reason to be saddened by the deaths of Nameless Narrator, Nameless Wife, Nameless Brother, or Nameless Artilleryman. (Spoilers - Nameless Curate actually does die. And I couldn't care less.)<br />
<br /><br />
And that, at long last (yeesh, this is getting to be a long post) brings me to my final problem with the book. Man wins. The Martians are defeated and we're left to dissect them and their machinery and thus achieve grand scientific advances and a vast influx of new knowledge. Humanity prevails. Yay us. <br />
<br /><br />
I won't spoil how this comes about. But basically, the alien race which is miles beyond us in intelligence and technological capability, the aliens which have invented space travel and got all the way from Mars to the Earth in a matter of weeks, maybe even days, are laid low by the world's most convenient deus ex machina. <br />
<br /><br />
And not only is this pretty implausible, even for a book about Martians invading the Earth (or, rather, invading London) (actually, that's another thing that bothered me; why, with the whole entire Earth just sitting there asking to be invaded, did all the Martian ships land around London? For that matter, how did they do that? The ships take off from Mars at twenty-four-hour intervals. The Earth would've been moving in between takeoffs and the Martians' transport ships don't seem to have steering, so the Martians' aim would've had to have been insanely good for them to get all the ships to approximately the same place. But I'm getting off-topic), it also confuses Wells's token social commentary.<br />
<br /><br />
Throughout the book, Wells regularly compares the Martian invasion to other colonial invasions throughout history. He talks about dodo birds and human populations of colonized islands being hunted to extinction, and says that to the Martians, this is the same scenario; a superior species dealing with a pesky inferior one. So how do <em>we</em> feel now that <em>we're</em> the dumb animals? There seems to be a fairly strong criticism of British colonialism being built - a criticism which is then completely overthrown by his ending conclusion that natural selection has declared that Man and only Man can rule the Earth, and by his assertion that the Martians' coming ultimately benefits humanity more than harms it, through the aforementioned scientific advances and influx of knowledge.<br />
<br /><br />
It's bizarre, and it's a mixed message, and it makes all his comments about previous colonizations seem as pointless as his characters.<br />
<br /><br />
So in conclusion, I still have yet to find a Science Fiction book that I like. But hey - there're still five more to go.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton <br />
<br /><br />
Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-32600908168381294972015-07-07T22:24:00.001-07:002015-07-07T22:24:05.607-07:00The Final Lineup and The War of the Worlds, Day 1If you'll recall my post from the beginning of June, you may remember that I had two goals for the summer.<br />
<br /><br />
The first was to write a story/book. I'd rather not talk about this goal at this time. Suffice to say the book and I aren't getting along at the moment, but the summer is not yet over, and I <em>have </em>been writing more, on this blog at the very least.<br />
<br /><br />
Instead, let's talk about my second goal - partaking in my fourth consecutive summer of reading books I wouldn't normally read and providing public commentary about them. <br />
<br /><br />
This year, things are going to be a little different than they have been in the past. The last three years, I've read popular contemporary YA fiction series (<em>Twilight</em>, <em>The Hunger Games</em>, and <em>Divergent</em>). This year, I have opted not for such a series, but rather for a broad overview of a genre that I have yet to develop a taste for: Science Fiction.<br />
<br /><br />
Yep, I decided to go with the Sci-Fi. <br />
<br /><br />
See, here's the thing; three years ago, when I first decided to read the Twilight series, my aim in doing so was to understand its popularity, if I could, and to form my own opinions of it separate from the constant stream of feedback, both positive and negative, that it constantly receives. This aim continued to be my primary motivation throughout the next two summers. And it still is. Going on a trek through some Science Fiction classics fits in nicely with that motivation.<br />
<br /><br />
I've read very little Science Fiction, because - well, because I have yet to find a Sci-Fi book that I like. There are a few Sci-Fi TV shows and movies that I like, but so far no books. And, being the proud-of-my-awesome-reading-abilities borderline literary snob that I am, it's always felt strange that I evidently have no taste for such a popular and diverse genre. I know people, people whose taste and opinions I admire and respect, who love Science Fiction. So why don't I?<br />
<br /><br />
The aim of the next few weeks is to look into that question. I feel I've picked out a pretty broad spectrum of books to read. As I have in previous summers, I'll read a little every day, and then jump on here and write about the day's reading. I might try to delve into why Science Fiction and I haven't really clicked in the past. If I get lucky and end up reading a book I like, you can be sure you'll read about it. And, because Science Fiction frequently deals with subjects like politics, philosophy, and sociology, I could very well end up rambling abstractly about things a lot more complicated than mere chances of literary taste.<br />
<br /><br />
So with all that being said, here is the final lineup of Science Fiction books I intend to read this month (I'll explain my reasons for picking each one as I get to it):<br />
<br /><br />
<em>The War of the Worlds </em>by H. G. Wells<br />
The Foundation trilogy by Isaac Asimov<br />
<em>The Moon is a Harsh Mistress</em> by Robert Heinlein<br />
<em>Snow Crash</em> by Neal Stephenson<br />
<br /><br />
***<br />
<br /><br />
As indicated by the title of this post, I started <em>The War of the Worlds </em>today. I didn't get as far in it as I had initially intended to, so probably I'll say most of whatever I'm going to say about it tomorrow (when I'm hoping to finish it, it being a pretty short book, but... we'll see). <br />
<br /><br />
I figure my reasons for choosing to start with this book are probably fairly obvious. Wells was one of the pioneers of modern Sci-Fi. The genre started with him and Jules Verne; thus, my small-scale exploration of the genre should start there as well. <br />
<br /><br />
As for why I chose <em>The War of the Worlds</em> specifically... well, it's probably his most famous work. It's the quintessential aliens-invading-the-planet story. I'm sure there are people out there in the world who would argue that your education is incomplete if you haven't read it. So I'm reading it.<br />
<br /><br />
Like I said, I'm not very far in it yet. The Martians have landed, the Martians have destroyed things, our nameless narrator has survived two shockingly close brushes with death (if it happens again I'm going to have to start keeping a tally), and that's basically it. At this point, I neither love it nor hate it. I don't even like it or dislike it. I haven't gotten back into my summer rhythm, where I can find all sorts of things to talk about every single day, just yet. I'm afraid I'm a bit dull today.<br />
<br /><br />
One thing I'll say about the particular edition I selected from the library: the endnotes are hilarious. I don't know if you've ever read an annotated classic by a publication group that specializes in them (the book I'm reading now is published by Penguin Classics, but Barnes & Noble Classics editions are like this too), but as long as you don't allow yourself to get frustrated by it, the almost aggressive over-explaining of things can really add to the enjoyment of your reading experience. My favorite so far -<br />
<br /><br />
The book says, "Denning*, our greatest authority on meteorites, stated that the height of its first appearance was about ninety or one hundred miles."<br />
<br /><br />
The corresponding endnote says, "<em>Denning</em>: William Frederick Denning (1848-1931), Britain's leading authority on meteorites."<br />
<br /><br />
<em>WOW</em>. Thank you, Penguin Classics! How would I <em>ever</em> have known who Denning was if I'd only read the non-annotated version of the book?<br />
<br /><br />
Anyway. One other thing today's reading has resulted in is my excitement about this project. Before I was feeling somewhat lukewarm about the whole thing, but actually getting properly underway has gotten me really thinking about it and looking forward to it. <br />
<br /><br />
So off I go, on my two-week mission to explore strange new genres, to seek out new interests and new forms of expression, and to boldly go where a lot of people have gone before. <br />
<br /><br />
Forward.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-593405039670629852015-06-27T23:44:00.000-07:002015-06-27T23:44:21.787-07:00Unexpected Happy Endings: My New Favorite KindAlright, I know I was a bit hard on <em>Frozen </em>in my last post, but really, generally speaking, I quite like Disney's animated movies. There are some that I love, and some that I enjoy, and some that I grew up with, and some I need to watch again, and some that I still need to watch for the first time. Most of them are beautifully animated and well-acted. They have great characters and great music. And they're safe. If you're having a bad day, it's probably a good idea to watch a Disney movie, because even if you've never seen it before, you know going in that everything's going to turn out fine in the end.<br />
<br />
<br />
I think it's sometimes easy to forget how many luxuries come with being little. People feed you, your summers are always full of fun activities, you're provided ample opportunities for making friends and having life experiences, no one expects you to have your life planned out beyond the next week, and the stories always end exactly as they should. Once you hit your teenage years, a lot of that goes away - especially the stories. You hit the grown-up section of the library, and suddenly characters are dying, dreams are going unfulfilled, the bad guys don't always lose, and the prince doesn't always end up with the girl he should've. Eventually, you learn to stop counting on a happy ending.<br />
<br />
<br />
The single upside of this newfound cynicism is that it makes the happy endings feel even better when they do show up. <br />
<br />
<br />
In the past week or so, I've encountered no less than three unexpected happy endings. The first was, oddly enough, found in a horror movie (which I was watching for - reasons). Up until the last five minutes or so of the movie, everything was dark lighting and cruel intent and gruesome imagery and heartbreak and abuse and insanity. And then, suddenly, we were in Italy. And it was sunny. And everybody was wearing white. And dancing. It was awesome.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then, on Thursday night, I got to see the musical <em>Wicked</em> live for the first time (I'd heard the soundtrack, but never seen it). That was fun for a lot of reasons. We had great seats, the singers were all wonderful, it was nice to finally hear the dialogue between the songs and thus have the gaps in plot left by the soundtrack filled in, the costumes and set pieces were fantastic, etc. 'Course, <em>Wicked</em> is kind of a dark musical, dealing with the consequences of prejudice and propaganda and, weirdly enough, political corruption; and it's the story of the Wicked Witch of the West, whose story arc in the original <em>Wizard of Oz</em> doesn't end well for her. So I went in expecting a great journey more than a heartwarming conclusion. And yet - spoilers, I guess - while it's a far cry from dancing in white in sunny Italy, the ending to <em>Wicked</em> is actually pretty hopeful and even fairytale-like.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then, today, I finished a book that conveyed the impression that its author's intended purpose in writing it was to caution people to think long and hard before making rash decisions, because the whole book is about people making rash decisions and thereby bringing ruin, grief, and worry down upon themselves and the people around them. Throughout the whole book, there was one ending I was hoping for, one absurdly, even incongruously happy ending that seemed less and less likely to come about the further I got into the book. And then, fifteen pages from the end - there it was. Some characters had unhappy conclusions to their stories. It wasn't universal joy. But the best characters, and the book itself, ended up right where I wanted them to. I'd become so convinced that the book was going to end unsatisfactorily that to have it end in precisely the way I'd been hoping for felt surreal. <br />
<br />
<br />
And it's an amazing feeling.<br />
<br />
<br />
That second in the movie that the fireshot night scene jump cuts to a perfect spring day - the moment at the end of <em>Wicked</em> when you realize just how much brighter everything is than you thought it was the moment before - the sentence in the book that tells you your often-rough road through the story has all been worth it - they're moments to be remembered. One feels like laughing from sheer, stunned delight. Because a happy ending you expect is merely satisfying; it's what you came for, and you never had to reason to doubt its coming. A happy ending you didn't expect, that you weren't sure you were going to get, that you positively despaired of during the lowest points of the story, is not only satisfying, but surprising. It doesn't just safely and comfortably bring the characters around to their natural conclusion - it seems to change their fate, and in the process, brings you up from a place of concern and sadness into one of joyous optimism.<br />
<br />
<br />
For me, these unexpected happy endings mesh with the very reason I watch movies and musicals and read books in the first place: they take stories plagued by the sorts of depressing calamities people encounter in their day-to-day lives, and by calamities far worse and more seemingly insurmountable than anything we inhabitants of the real world are ever likely to encounter, and dare to suggest that those stories can have happy endings. <br />
<br />
<br />
I think that's why they're my new favorite kind of ending.<br />
<br />
<br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-79181777816985055952015-06-16T21:37:00.000-07:002015-06-16T21:37:10.313-07:00I Demand More Silly MoviesA little over two months ago (on April 11th) I went out and saw the new <em>Cinderella </em>movie, the one directed by Kenneth Branagh and starring an assortment of famous veteran British actors and up-and-coming stars of popular British TV shows. I've been meaning to write about it ever since.<br />
<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
<br />
Because it is so incredibly <em>silly</em>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Everything about it is just ridiculous. There's a narrator who keeps coming back to unnecessarily narrate things every few minutes. The costumes are all elaborate and colorful and look like they're probably impossible to maneuver in. Cinderella is perfect and photogenic and delicate and feminine, without a dark side or a sarcastic streak or anything. When she's in distress, she exclaims, "oh my goodness!" The prince has a happy place, complete with tree swing. There's random slow motion sequences and singing and everybody's blond and the prince is adorable and he's a grown man who goes by the name Kit. And (and I hope I'm not spoiling it by saying this) the prince comes and gets the girl at the end and carries her away and she gets to live happily ever after, because she always remembered to have courage and be kind (incidentally, the phrase "have courage and be kind" is in the movie about eight hundred times; I think the writers are trying to tell us something).<br />
<br />
<br />
It is the silliest movie I've seen in a long time. <br />
<br />
<br />
I loved every minute of it. It is now my second favorite film adaptation of Cinderella, after the Drew Barrymore movie <em>Ever After </em>(random aside: if you've never seen <em>Ever After</em>, go watch it right now. Leonardo da Vinci is the fairy godmother. It's pretty amazing).<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm not sure I can explain why. But really, why should I have to? I think that deep down, most people enjoy a silly movie every now and then. They're certainly preferable to movies that are trying hard to convince you they're not silly.<br />
<br />
<br />
Take another of Disney's recent films: <em>Frozen</em>. Poor, poor <em>Frozen</em>. <em>Frozen </em>might very well be the most embarrassed movie I have ever seen. Watching <em>Frozen </em>feels like trying to have a conversation with a friend who keeps unnecessarily apologizing for things. I desperately want to provide comfort, and the poor dear <em>just won't listen</em>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: Oh... oh my goodness... oh dear.... oh, look what I've done. Oh.... oh... look at all these movies about love at first sight!<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: Hey, don't worry about it. We like those movies.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: No, no you don't, you're just saying that. Oh my word, I am SO EMBARRASSED. Um... um... here, I know! How about the guy she falls in love with at first sight is actually evil! That'll make it better! Can you forgive me now?<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: You don't have to do that. I wasn't mad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: No, you were, you WERE, I know you were. And oh... oh <em>no</em>, for seventy-five years we've been saying that romantic love is more important than familial love! Oh, I am SO SORRY.<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: Stop apologizing. Really. It's okay.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: No, no, it's not okay! It's so not okay! And... and... I'm so embarrassed... the prince always saves the princess in the end!<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: I promise I don't mind.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: YOU DO, YOU DO, YOU DO MIND. I HAVE TO FIX THIS.<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: You really don't.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: I do though. SEE, LOOK KIDS, TRUE LOVE CAN HAPPEN BETWEEN SISTERS.<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: <em>Frozen</em>, please calm down.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: NO I CAN'T I'VE RUINED EVERYTHING.<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: I mean it. I swear I'm not mad about this. Just take a deep breath and come down from the table...<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: Not until I'm done fixing everything!<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: Oh my word, <em>Frozen</em>, RELAX. <strong><em>You are going to hurt yourself</em></strong>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: LOOK LOOK LOOK THE GIRL SAVED HER SISTER ALL BY HERSELF. GIRL POWER! (Insane laughter which quickly devolves into hysterical sobbing)<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: (Soothingly, while gently stroking <em>Frozen</em>'s hair) Yeah. Okay. Yeah. You fixed it. We're okay now. Hush...<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Frozen</em>: (Strangled sob) Look at the cute snowman...<br />
<br />
<br />
Me: Yep. I see him. Hush now. Shhhhhhh...<br />
<br />
<br />
Compare this to <em>Cinderella</em>, which pretty much just says, "Yeah. I'm silly. What are you gonna do about it?"<br />
<br /><br />
So here's my question: why do things like movies and books exist in the first place?<br />
<br /><br />
Well, there are a lot of reasons. Some are made to call attention to problems or teach morals. Some exist to shock and disturb, or to reveal their creators' personalities. Some preach. Some exist to tell true stories and thus immortalize heroes. <em>Frozen</em> seemingly exists to atone for mistakes that Disney is convinced it's made.<br />
<br /><br />
But not all movies are like that, nor should they be. We experience enough moralizing and shocks, preaching and tale-telling and unnecessary apologies in our everyday lives to tolerate an endless barrage of them from our imaginary ones as well. <br />
<br /><br />
That's why we have fairy tales.<br />
<br /><br />
That's why we have movies like <em>Cinderella</em>, in which good triumphs over cruelty and patience and kindness alone are enough to bring about great reward. Maybe it's not terribly realistic. I don't care.<br />
<br /><br />
It's why we have movies like<em> Ever After</em>, which is massively historically inaccurate, but again, I don't care, because Leonardo da Vinci is the fairy godmother.<br />
<br /><br />
It's why we have books like <em>The Three Musketeers</em> (and movies like its film adaptations), which is about immoral people dashing about being drunk and swashbuckling and enabling other people's immoral behavior. There's no moral and no lessons to learn and again, I don't care. <br />
<br /><br />
And the thing is... I think stories like these are going out style. <br />
<br /><br />
Maybe I'm wrong. But I feel like more and more of the books and movies being made, and rewarded, and critically acclaimed are the preachy kind, or the "based on a true story" kind, or, worst of all, the overly apologetic kind. Heck, the kinds of stories I'm describing have been called "guilty pleasures" for years, like we should feel bad for enjoying them. There's a new trend of superhero movies stuffed with angst and thought-provoking dialogue and death, practically screaming, "Yes, I know none of this is realistic and that guy's wearing a cape, but I swear I am NOT SILLY". I've written recently about Georgette Heyer, who is well on her way to becoming my new favorite author. She wrote historical romance novels, and reportedly (according to Wikipedia, that is) wrote to a friend in 1944, "I think myself I ought to be shot for writing such nonsense... but it's unquestionably good escapist literature and I think I should rather like it if I were sitting in an air-raid shelter or recovering from flu". <br />
<br /><br />
Silly stories are looked down on, even by their own creators. But I think that quote also makes a good point. If I'm sick, or sad, or hurt, or lonely, I'm not going to watch <em>Schindler's List</em> or<em> The Hunger Games</em> or <em>The Dark Knight</em>. I'm going to watch <em>Ever After</em>. And I'm not going to read some Pulitzer-prize-winning book about pain and unfairness and the human condition. I'm going to read Georgette Heyer.<br />
<br /><br />
Sure... we need honesty in storytelling from time to time. But I believe we need silliness just as badly. And I think people need to stop apologizing for that. Embrace the ridiculousness. A little wishful thinking and imagination never hurt anyone. <br />
<br /><br />
So c'mon, Hollywood. Make me some more silly movies. <br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-10188635160926937722015-06-08T17:45:00.002-07:002015-06-08T17:45:37.016-07:00Le Bon Temps ViendraThis post is kind of sort of a continuation of the one from a week ago. Ish. Mostly it's just random thoughts. <br />
<br /><br />
Off we go then. <br />
<br /><br />
Currently, I am reading (in fact, am very nearly finished with) a book called <em>The Conqueror</em>. It's by Georgette Heyer, who wrote <em>These Old Shades</em>, which I read (and loved) back in April. I'm not loving <em>The Conqueror </em>quite as much, but that's not actually relevant to this post.<br />
<br /><br />
<em>The Conqueror </em>is, as you might imagine, a book about William the Conqueror. However, the main character is really a young knight named Raoul de Harcourt. At the beginning of the book, Raoul is given his first sword. The sword is inscribed with Danish runes. Being the only member of his family interested in learning, Raoul is the only one who can read the runes. When asked what they mean, Raoul replies, "In our tongue, it reads thus: <em>Le bon temps viendra</em>." <br />
<br /><br />
Georgette Heyer evidently had a strange habit of including random French phrases in her works without bothering to provide translations. She did it a lot in <em>These Old Shades </em>(which also took place in France) as well. So in order to figure out what was written on Raoul's sword, I had to do a little web browsing. <br />
<br /><br />
The first thing I learned is that the House of Harcourt is a real Norman noble house. There are still Harcourts living in France and England today. And one of their house mottoes is Le bon temps viendra. <br />
<br /><br />
The second thing I learned is that "le bon temps viendra" means "the good times will come". <br />
<br /><br />
Go ahead and let that sink in.<br />
<br /><br />
<em>The good times will come.</em><br />
<br /><br />
One thing's for sure; that's quite a house motto.<br />
<br /><br />
It'd make for quite a <em>life</em> motto, too.<br />
<br /><br />
Okay, sure, on the one hand it strikes one as vapidly optimistic. Everywhere, every day, we see people, making headlines and posting frustrated Facebook updates or just going through life, who are struggling. Sometimes we're the ones struggling.<br />
<br /><br />
Hold on a second - I just remembered that I hate first person plural pronoun usage.<br />
<br /><br />
Sometimes <em>I'm</em> the one struggling.<br />
<br /><br />
And I know that on some bad days, I don't necessarily want to hear someone tell me that the good times will come. For whatever reason, being caught in the throes of misery or irritation or stress can make me shut down and reject the kind intentions of others and believe that <em>no</em>, the good times will <em>not </em>come, you don't know anything. That's why, when I see someone else hurting, although my first instinct is usually to reach out and say, "Don't worry; the good times will come"... I don't always. <br />
<br /><br />
But the thing is... I think they will.<br />
<br /><br />
I might be starting to actually believe that. I'm not sure I can say why. I'm still just a directionless high school graduate who doesn't want to grow up because she's absolutely terrified of adulthood and passionately loathes change.<br />
<br /><br />
But the good times will come.<br />
<br /><br />
The world is still a fallen one, in which people let you down, and get older, and move away, and die, and are forgotten.<br />
<br /><br />
But the good times will come.<br />
<br /><br />
Everyone in the world has rough days and grief and uphill battles in their futures.<br />
<br /><br />
But that doesn't, and cannot, and never will change the fact that <em>le bon temps viendra</em>. <br />
<br /><br />
I can't explain it, this weird certainty. Maybe it's just springing from excitement that I learned a neat French phrase. Maybe it'll be gone tomorrow. Maybe I should quit filling my head with such bookish nonsense. <br />
<br /><br />
I don't care.<br />
<br /><br />
For today, at the very least, I'm taking a cue from Raoul de Harcourt and making le bon temps viendra my motto. <br />
<br /><br />
<em>The good times will come.</em><br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-31171016159708853972015-06-01T16:40:00.001-07:002015-06-01T16:40:24.541-07:00Summer PlansDon't you just love me?<br />
<br /><br />
I post a whole, long, happy, sunny post about how I've been off, but I'm getting better and finding great books and probably I'll be writing again soon!<br />
<br /><br />
And then two more months go by.<br />
<br /><br />
Whoops.<br />
<br /><br />
So, yeah. Still kinda lacking in the motivation department, and now it's not just my writing. I'm also reading slowly and sporadically. And now I don't even know what my problem is, because I've been reading great books, and I've got more great books to read, and I've been watching great movies, and I've actually spent a fair bit of the last few weeks in a pretty great mood. I should be bursting with things to say.<br />
<br /><br />
So I've decided that I'm going to be.<br />
<br /><br />
It's June. Summer vacation. I graduated from high school (or at least, I had a graduation party) (there's another thing I could've written about earlier and didn't). I have zero plans for this fall. I am free and frightened and crazy and excited and the world might just possibly be at my fingertips. So I think it's about time I stopped waiting around for motivation. I'm writing this summer, and I'm reading this summer, whether my lame uncooperative unmotivated brain likes it or not. <br />
<br /><br />
Right now, I have two major summer goals: first, I want to write, or at least get started on, a new book. The idea I'll be writing from is one I've had and loved for years. It's fun and fluffy and rompy, and I've learned from experience that I do my best work on those kinds of stories. It'll probably end up being harder to write that I'm anticipating (because it always is), but I have decided I'm going to do it. <br />
<br /><br />
Second, I'll once again be reading some popular book series or other and posting my daily impressions on this blog. Currently the plan is to do this over the first few weeks of July. The big hang-up here is that I don't actually know for sure what books I'm doing yet. For a while, I'd resolved to read the complete works of John Green, but now I'm not so sure, since I've heard they're a bit depressing and formulaic and overrated. But they're still on the table. I've also been considering maybe changing my approach up a bit, and reading classics instead of contemporary phenomena; if I did this, I would either read some iconic Science Fiction (because I realize that I have read <em>very </em>little science fiction in my life) or select some books that I think of as staples of public school curriculum that I never ended up reading (e.g. The Catcher in the Rye, Hemingway, Steinbeck, etc.). If anyone has any other suggestions, I am naturally open to them. And if anyone would like to weigh in with what they think I should do, that would be great too. <br />
<br /><br />
Two goals. Two goals, and a few hopes that I'll keep to myself for now, and one hope that I'm perfectly willing to share.<br />
<br /><br />
I hope that this is an absolutely amazing summer. <br />
<br /><br />
That's all for now... but you should be hearing from me again soon.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl ClaytonPearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-85703818311277126092015-04-09T09:42:00.000-07:002015-04-09T09:42:11.570-07:00I'm Still AliveHello. <br />
<br />
<br />
It's been rather a long time since I last posted, hasn't it? Almost two months, in fact. I hope no one's been overly worried about me. <br />
<br />
<br />
The fact is, I just haven't had anything to say.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've still been reading, of course. I've still been watching movies and having life experiences. There just hasn't been anything that jumped out at me, that got me thinking and demanded to be written about. <br />
<br />
<br />
Which makes no sense, because it's not as though nothing's happened. I read <em>Fahrenheit 451</em>, which is some kind of great American classic. I suddenly realized how few old, classic movies I've seen and resolved to work on remedying that fact. Terry Pratchett and Leonard Nimoy <em>died</em>. My perfectly planned out and ordered reading list has been crumbling in on itself and not mattering to me as much as it did just a few months ago. There's been plenty to write about; plenty that <em>should</em> have been written about.<br />
<br />
<br />
So why have I been so...... unaffectable?<br />
<br />
<br />
(Quick thing before I get carried away rambling about my life: my last post, y'know, the one way back in February, was my 50th post. So YAY ME and I'M SO AWESOME, etc., etc. To commemorate the occasion, my blog is blue now.<br />
<br />
<br />
I now return you to our regularly scheduled self-analysis.) <br />
<br />
<br />
Sitting here, looking back, I realize that the last few months have been...... odd. Honestly, I've been aware that I haven't been quite myself. I feel like I've been slogging through books, reading much more slowly than I usually do. I haven't really <em>loved </em>anything I've read. My passion for writing has been nonexistent, hence the lack of posts. It's almost like some part of me has been missing. Like I said, I haven't been oblivious to this fact, and I haven't been unbothered by this fact, but now that I'm actively thinking about it I'm finding the whole thing a lot more unsettling than it has been.<br />
<br />
<br />
This state of being hasn't exactly come out of nowhere. There are catalysts. I could list the ones I'm aware of (I'm not going to, but I could). <br />
<br />
<br />
And it's not like I've been perpetually wraithlike and unhappy. I've had moments of happiness. I just haven't been as happy, or as frequently happy, as I sometimes have been in the past.<br />
<br />
<br />
And then...... the last two weeks happened.<br />
<br />
<br />
First came the Wingfeather Saga. There are four books; I read the first three in a week and a half. I still don't even really know whether I like them, because they're playing havoc with my feelings and they're not quite like anything I've ever read before, but that's not the point. The point is that I <em>read</em> them. Quickly. Like how I used to read books. And once I get my hands on the fourth book, I'm going to read it just as quickly. And there's a chance that it'll make me cry or rage or gasp or jump up and applaud. There's a chance that it'll take my breath away, and I am <em>so excited</em>. <br />
<br />
<br />
The author of the Wingfeather Saga, Andrew Peterson, is also a musician, and during the week and a half that I was flying through his books I was also listening to a lot of his songs, some of them over and over and over again. Instead of spending long stretches of time online watching comedy videos that have all but lost their ability to make me laugh, I spent that time listening to music. Gentle music, some of it as soft as lullabies. Hopeful music. Music to soothe and calm and encourage and inspire heartache, the good kind of heartache, the kind that you keep going back to.<br />
<br />
<br />
In the midst of that week and a half, I finally finished and turned in some overdue homework assignments. <em>Writing </em>assignments. I wrote. And, perhaps more significantly, I was pleased with what I wrote. I also impulsively checked out a book from the library and even more impulsively put a hold on another. My reading list is in unspeakable agony and for some reason I'm hardly fazed. And I got my senior pictures taken (EEP! When did I get so old?) and, while I haven't seen them yet, the whole time they were being taken I felt pretty and confident and like maybe being almost seventeen and having to grow up isn't <em>quite</em> as horrible as it's seemed lately. Maybe.<br />
<br />
<br />
Next came <em>These Old Shades</em>. <em>These Old Shades</em> is a vapid, implausible, giddy historical romance novel full of snappy dialogue and ridiculous characters and powered wigs. I read it in three days and loved every second of it. I didn't want to give it back to the library. <br />
<br />
<br />
In the midst of this, I got books in my Easter basket. Books I love, one because I've read it before and therefore know I love it, one simply because it was a gift from my mother. Books I want to be reading <em>right now</em>. Books I might actually read sooner rather than later, regardless of the list.<br />
<br />
<br />
And I want to read more books by the author of <em>These Old Shades</em>. Sooner rather than later. My poor, poor list.<br />
<br />
<br />
Finally, there was <em>The Foreshadowing</em>. It was bleak and sparse and far from impressive. I don't recommend it, unless you're really into Greek tragedy. But I read it in <em>less than twelve hours</em>. That felt good. Really, <em>really</em> good.<br />
<br />
<br />
These last two weeks haven't been perfect. There were still low points, and days when I felt angry or upset for one reason or another. I'm still in an emotionally bizarre and unstable position. But there were moments that I felt great. Not functioning. Not fine. Not good. <em>Great</em>. Amazing. Sparkly. Capable of becoming okay again.<br />
<br />
<br />
Still alive.<br />
<br />
<br />
So I'm going to keep reading books. Perhaps my salvation has been in them all along, and I just didn't realize it because I wasn't reading the right ones. I don't know if lightning will keep striking and I'll keep finding books I blissfully inhale. But I'll keep reading, and maybe it will. And then maybe I'll start writing again.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now wouldn't that be glorious.<br />
<br />
<br />
~Pearl ClaytonPearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-57286086195856161512015-02-12T22:15:00.001-08:002015-02-12T22:15:59.159-08:00Something I Miss About Public School: A Confession I <em>hated </em>attending public high school. That's one thing I want absolutely clear. I hated waking up early and tolerating people I didn't like and having tons of homework and having to be in all sorts of classes I neither enjoyed nor cared about. It was a miserable couple of years and I'm glad to be out of it.<br />
<br /><br />
That being said, there are some things I miss about public school.<br />
<br /><br />
I miss several of my teachers. I miss a couple of my fellow students. I miss the warm, fuzzy feeling that washed over me whenever I got a good grade or an essay covered with positive comments. I miss discussions. I miss watching movies I never would've watched otherwise and liking them way more than I thought I would. <br />
<br /><br />
And......<br />
<br /><br />
I miss Valentine's Day.<br />
<br /><br />
Yeah, I know. You're probably stunned. Especially if you knew me when I was in school and heard me complaining about it and rhetorically asking if it would be alright to just stay home on the 14th. I acted grossed out and sardonic and irritated, like Valentine's Day was the most uncomfortable, ill-advised idea ever conceived of by man.<br />
<br /><br />
I'm nerdy, antisocial, introverted, and unromantic; such attitudes are expected of me.<br />
<br /><br />
In truth, though, I always liked Valentine's Day. Because it was high school, Valentine's Day was our biggest holiday. Around Christmas, a couple people might be seen carrying gift bags or little trinkets, maybe - but on Valentine's Day, more than half the girls and at least a few boys had bouquets and stuffed animals and balloons. There were even little trinkets available for purchase from the school - cards and bears and roses and, most famously, serenades, which involved a group of students going around the school, finding the students who'd had serenades purchased for them, bringing them to the front of the class, and bestowing tuneless, a capella renditions of popular love songs upon them. I think the school might've even been decorated. <br />
<br /><br />
And it was all just so inexplicably <em>nice</em>.<br />
<br /><br />
Who can say why? Why, looking around at that sea of plastic and glitter and construction paper, witnessing awkward serenades and an even-greater-than-usual amount of PDA, knowing that more likely than not most of these couples would've broken up by the end of the semester, did I feel so... so <em>light</em>?<br />
<br /><br />
Because I did. I never received anything on Valentine's Day, of course (please refer back to the paragraph where I mention my antisocial, introverted, unromantic nerdiness), but in spite of that, and in spite of the sheer ridiculousness of everything about that day, there was something about it that I really enjoyed. Something that I miss now.<br />
<br /><br />
Now, I'm homeschooled, and my only real social interaction comes on Wednesdays, when I go to a homeschool group... thing. And in case you didn't already know this about homeschoolers, we don't really <em>do</em> Valentine's Day. The only people in that group currently involved in romantic relationships are the married teachers. I didn't even remember it was the Wednesday before Valentine's Day until my teacher brought out chocolates. <br />
<br /><br />
It's not as though I'm not commemorating the day at all. I have plans for the weekend; an outing with my family and a hangout with my best friend. And I've scheduled romantic books to read, one that I'm reading now and one that I'd intended to be reading now but will probably end up reading near the end of the month instead (but that's okay, because as far as I'm concerned Valentine-related activities can happen any time in February). But... it's not the same, somehow.<br />
<br /><br />
Ugh. Look, the reason this post is titled "a confession" is that that's what this feels like... a confession of something incredibly shameful. Because I don't know why I feel this way and because it doesn't make sense and because I can't help but wonder if I would actually enjoy Valentine's Day if I was still at school or if this is just some warped, bizarre nostalgia talking. <br />
<br /><br />
'Cause the thing is - and this is something I haven't really told anyone, not in just these words - I've been kind of miserable lately. Which is also embarrassing, because nothing absolutely horrible or life-altering has happened in my life to justify my feeling wretched. There've just been a couple of little things, small, insignificant occurrences that made me feel let down or hurt or angry or all of the above, which have all blurred together into a little cloud of sad which has taken up residence over my mood. And the worse I feel, the more annoyed with myself I get, because I tell myself there's no reason for me to be feeling like this, that none of this is a big deal and my reaction is beyond disproportional, that I need to just grow up and deal with it, blah blah blah, etc., etc., same song, second verse, welcome to my life.<br />
<br /><br />
So now I've gotten to the stage where I start thinking that if some specific thing changed or happened it would magically make everything better, because as long as I'm melodramatically telling myself that I'd feel better if only my circumstances changed I don't have to actually take any steps to improve my existence (it's the American way). If only <em>this</em> would happen, I say, then none of this other stuff would matter. If only Valentine's Day were like <em>this</em>, then I would be happy, really, really happy, if only for a few days. I don't know if it's true; the nice thing about such thinking is that Valentine's Day <em>won't</em> be like that, so I'll never have to deal with being proven wrong. <br />
<br /><br />
*Sigh*<br />
<br /><br />
Pretty much what I'm getting at here is that I expect everyone who reads this post to wish me a happy Valentine's Day and tell me how much they love me. In <em>great detail</em>.<br />
<br /><br />
(Just kidding. Things got a bit mopey there and I thought it would be better to end on a humorous note.) <br />
<br /><br />
Happy Valentine's Day.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton<br />
<br /><br />
PS. Off topic, but I wanted to say a quick thing about comments. I know it usually takes me days and weeks to respond to comments, if I ever get around to responding to them at all. It's not that I'm not reading them; I read all the comments I get, often repeatedly, and I appreciate them more than I can say. In fact, that's why I have trouble responding - I can rarely think of any replies except "Thanks, I'm glad you liked it!" or "Thanks, that's nice of you to say" or something along those lines, and I feel like such replies are obvious and generic and quickly become repetitive and are insufficient to express my gratitude. So if you post a comment and I never reply to it, know that I've seen it and am enormously pleased to have gotten it, but maybe just can't think of anything that I feel is worth saying in response. <br />
<br /><br />
That's it. Bye now. Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-22835997728442290332015-01-12T20:26:00.001-08:002015-01-12T20:28:09.152-08:00Various Thoughts on Self-Esteem... Ish So I'm reading this book. <br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah, I'm sure you're all shocked. "What? She's reading a book? No way! She <em>never </em>does that!" <br />
<br />
<br />
But that's enough sarcasm for now.<br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway, this book was published in 1938, but in some small ways it's a bit similar to modern young adult fiction. Not in the significant ways, mind; it's well written and engaging, and the plot, despite being minimal at the point where I am, shows signs of becoming gripping before the end. No, the ways in which it's reminding me of series like <em>The Hunger Games</em>, <em>Divergent</em>, and especially <em>Twilight </em>(unfortunately)<em> </em>are all character-related.<br />
<br />
<br />
The basic setup of the book is this: a young, plain-looking female first-person narrator not overburdened with personality, self-possession, or critical thinking skills falls in love with a brooding, lonely man twice her age. The man is brooding and lonely because his beautiful, clever, resourceful, popular wife tragically died some time before. Luckily for our boring narrator, the brooding lonely man returns her love (I guess; he has yet to actually confirm that) and marries her. Alas, because she is plain and unconfident and a bit slow and consequently positively overrun with self-esteem issues, she can't help constantly comparing herself to her husband's first wife and thinking that her husband can't possibly really love her and must've married her just because he needed companionship in his depressing widowhood. <br />
<br />
<br />
One day, she shares these concerns with a reserved and polite gentleman she's become friends with. Apparently very upset, he attempts to encourage her by saying, "I should say that kindliness, and sincerity, and if I may say so - modesty - are worth far more to a man, to a husband, than all the wit and beauty in the world." (She of course thinks he's just being nice and completely dismisses this, because, as we all know, neuroses are more fun than contentment and self-confidence.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Alright: I'm beginning to suspect that there Mr. Sadface's perfect first wife wasn't all that perfect and that maybe her tragic and unexpected death wasn't quite as tragic and unexpected as it seemed, and that this line is meant to be one of the first hints at some sort of shocking big reveal. As far as I know, it's not meant to reassure self-critical female readers that you don't need beauty and wit to be loved or anything of that sort, it's meant to build suspense. There's no reason to overthink it or write a lengthy blogpost inspired by it. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>But</em>...<br />
<br />
<br />
It got me thinking and now I need to vent.<br />
<br />
<br />
So... yeah. The rest of the post will be me totally overthinking this single line of dialogue. <br />
<br />
<br />
Ahem. <br />
<br />
<br />
As I said, this particular theme of unremarkable-girl-with-low-opinion-of-herself-gets-inexplicably-fallen-in-love-with-by-glorious-male-and-feels-unworthy feels familiar. It's becoming increasingly popular in modern YA fiction, I think. I even mentioned it in one of my <em>Divergent </em>commentary posts last summer. And, as this book and others I've read from roughly same time period show, it's not a new thing. It seems like female authors think that in order to appeal to the demographic they're writing for, providing them with relatable heroines, they have to write these characters who are dull and not traditionally attractive who wish they were more beautiful and interesting. And <em>then</em>, in order to please the demographic, these characters are given love interests who are far more attractive, mature, and intelligent, and who are apparently attracted to their heroines' sweet, innocent, clueless naïveté and simply adorable "modesty" (read: self-loathing). <br />
<br />
<br />
Does anybody else find that creepy? Look, I can handle romances like those between Emma and Mr. Knightley or Jo March and Professor Bhaer, where despite their age difference the characters are intellectual equals with similar emotional maturity. But in the book I'm reading now, the narrator's husband has repeatedly called her a <em>child</em> or talked about how silly she is. That bothers me. It's weird and I don't like it. Like - do men actually fall in love with girls who are not their equals in any way? I'm not talking about marrying or dating someone for the purpose of gaining an admirer who will do and believe anything you tell them. I'm talking about <em>love</em>. Real, true, romantic love of someone who is less intelligent, less mature, less wise, less <em>everything</em> than you. Is that realistic?<br />
<br />
<br />
But that's not the only problem I have with this theme. The other is, of course, that not everybody experiences self-doubt because of the same perceived flaws.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've talked before about how unsure and self-conscious I get about my writing. And that's not the only thing I fret about. Sometimes I feel like I talk too loud and say too much and try too hard and show off and essentially drive everyone around me crazy. On bad days, I tell myself that, yeah, I have really good friends who truly enjoy hanging out with me, and family members who really do love me - but surely the people who sit next to me and talk to me at school are only being nice and would much rather be somewhere else, and surely even my friends and family get tired of me sometimes, and surely... well, you get the idea. <br />
<br />
<br />
But see, for all my self-confidence issues, there are things I like about myself. My hair, for one thing, which, as just about anyone will tell you, is simply <em>glorious</em>. It's long and thick and wavy and dark, auburn-y red and it brings in all kinds of compliments. And my fast, sarcastic, quippy humor. Maybe my voice occasionally gets louder than I like it, and maybe sometimes I take a joke too far, but I make people laugh. <br />
<br />
<br />
*Glances back at the quote from the book* Ummm...<br />
<br />
<br />
Let's take a slight detour to examine a hypothetical. Imagine a youngish female. She's not stunningly beautiful, but she's pretty enough and generally quite content with her looks. She's also stylish, clever, witty, etc. She knows she's not particularly kind, and she very rarely takes things seriously, and she's not always modest, but... she's happy.<br />
<br />
<br />
In time, she meets a youngish non-female. His mind operates rather similarly to hers, and so she finds him very easy to talk to. They have long discussions about all sorts of things, laughing at each other's jokes and finishing each other's sentences and altogether getting along swimmingly, and before long the girl's developed quite the crush.<br />
<br />
<br />
The only problem? It turns out that the affections of the object of her affections already <em>have</em> an object, in the form of a fairly plain-looking, unremarkably dressed, not exactly clever girl who is nonetheless universally kind and caring, unerringly sincere, and endlessly modest. <br />
<br />
<br />
If the first female were to read this book and stumble across this line, only imagine how it might exacerbate her insecurities, especially if my growing suspicions are correct and it turns out the book's incomparable first wife wasn't all she seemed. 'Tis a fine message to be sending, I suppose... it's better to be affectionate than amusing... it's better to be shy than stunning... better an excess of self-hatred than a surplus of self-love. <br />
<br />
<br />
*Sigh* I hardly know what I'm saying anymore. I guess... I guess I wish this wasn't what was popular. I so desperately want to like this book, because it's creepy, and well-written, and it comes highly recommended. But... I'm just having trouble relating to the heroine, and I think I'm tired of encountering heroines I can't relate to. Don't get me wrong, I've read books with heroines who are so relatable they may as well have been based on me. They're just not the runaway bestsellers.<br />
<br />
<br />
And, as I sort of indicated in a vaguish way, I'm not entirely sure this kind of thing is healthy. I'm not saying that things like kindness, sincerity, and modesty aren't good traits that should be encouraged. I'd never say that. But I'm tired of books and movies in which clever, confident female characters are also self-absorbed or manipulative or unfeeling or oblivious or simply overlooked. I've even read a book by George freakin' Eliot of all people in which the intelligent, worldly, well-developed main character has her pride broken in the most painful way possible and is then unceremoniously rejected by the loser she's falling in love with in favor of some sugar-sweet nonentity of a girl whose whole personality is summed up in a shy smile and a sob story.<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe this is why I like Jane Austen so much. <em>All</em> of her characters get admiration and happy endings, accommodating Fanny Price and prideful Lizzy Bennet, impressionable Catherine Morland and entitled Emma Woodhouse, reserved Elinor, unguarded Marianne, and Anne Eliot, who's a lovely blend of sweet and smart, soft and strong. <br />
<br />
<br />
Well... that's it. I've said what I needed to and now I'm not entirely sure how to conclude. <br />
<br />
<br />
*Shrugs* Until next time. <br />
<br />
<br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-45087957960209698342015-01-01T22:51:00.002-08:002015-01-01T22:58:02.879-08:00And Thus, 2015: A Dialogue <em>Oh, mercy. Help me, help me, it's another year. 2014 is over and we'll never get it back. No, no, no, no, no, no, now January 1st is nearly done! There's only 364 days left and I haven't done anything yet! Oh, no, no, where is the time going? I'll never get anything done. There's no time. I'll never accomplish anything. I'll never amount to anything. I am nothing. I am nothing.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
Now, come, what's this? You've had a good day. A wonderful breakfast, a better dinner. Time spent with an old friend and some new friends, with family and Stan Lee. And let me just say, my girl, you looked perfect today. I can't think of a better opening to the new twelvemonth. And oh, think of how many brilliant plans you've got for the year ahead! C'mon, you, it's going to be a great year!<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>But no, no, there were so many things I was planning on doing today that I didn't get done! And I'll still do them, but they won't be the same because it won't be January 1st anymore! Such an important day, and all I did was watch movies and eat! </em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
All? All? Your plans aren't as important as your family and your friends and your joy. Don't sacrifice special moments like the ones you had today in the name of your ultimately arbitrary lists.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>What if I die?</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I beg your pardon?<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Car wrecks. Mass shootings. Cancer. Appendicitis. Aneurysms. The Second Coming that everyone except me seems to be looking forward to so blithely. I could be dead tomorrow.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
You're not going anywhere tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Anyone I care about could be dead tomorrow, then! I could lose everything and then some this year.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
Or you might have spectacular gains.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>There's no room in this world for optimism! I hardly see it anywhere.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I do.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I want this to stop.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I know.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I want everything to stop.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I know.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>But not really. What I want is for everything to keep going like it has been practically my whole life. No goodbyes, no deaths, no ends, no losses. Just continuity occasionally interrupted by some welcome hellos and some closer bonds.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I think most everyone wants that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>...</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>*Whispers*</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>I'm afraid.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I know. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I just want to feel happy. Happy like I was this afternoon. All the time.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I know.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I just want to feel safe. And secure. And loved.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I know. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Oh, oh, I so desperately want God to be real.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
He is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I wish I could be that sure. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I know.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I feel so lonely sometimes, and I just want company. I want to be near my friends. I want to meet the faraway, imaginative people I admire so much. I want the characters in the books and the movies to appear beside me and tell me things are going to be alright. I want someone I can share my soul with. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
You have people like that. You've shared your soul.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Not all of it.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
True.<br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Then, other times, I want to leave everyone behind forever. I want a crushing solitude. I crave that aching loneliness. I half-want to be forgotten. I want to dwell somewhere far away, in the silence and distance and isolation that alone among all mortal things can protect a fragile heart.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Better a broken heart than no heart at all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I wish you wouldn't quote Doctor Who at me when I'm trying to be depressing.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
My apologies. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>*Sigh*</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>I can't stop it. Any of it. It's all so sickeningly far beyond my control. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
And that's the worst of it, isn't it? <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Yes.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
Mature of you to admit it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Oh, do shut up.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
In your dreams.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Hmph. </em><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>...</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>So what now?</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
Reading.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Obviously. And then?</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
Writing, perhaps. You said you'd get back into it after New Year's.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Ah, yes. Another thing I was going to do today and didn't.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
Which is fine. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Whatever. Then what? </em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I don't know, a movie maybe?<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I doubt I'll feel awake enough. I'm so tired these days.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Bed, then.<br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Is that it?</em><br />
<br />
<br />
For now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>But what if there's nothing beyond now?</em><br />
<br />
<br />
I thought you were happy with now. I thought you didn't want anything to change. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>The fact that I don't want it won't prevent it from coming.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Then it will come when it's time. For now, I think you're doing fine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I wish I had your confidence.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Could you settle for my contentment?<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>If I knew a good way of finding it.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Your new calendar sure is glorious.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Wow, I feel so much better.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
It is! <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I never said it wasn't. I love the new calendar. I like it better than last year's.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
There, see? A silver lining.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Huh. Well, yeah, I suppose it's something. </em><br />
<br />
<br />
... <br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I don't know what else to say to you. Except...<br />
<br />
<br />
It's okay.<br />
<br />
<br />
We're okay.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>We're okay?</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Yes. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Oh, please...</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Let this one be a good one. </em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
~Pearl Clayton <br />
<br />
<br />
Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-20203813931924101182014-12-01T19:50:00.000-08:002014-12-01T19:50:56.622-08:00Experiencing Crushing Failure and Remembering the Future The first year I tried to do NaNoWriMo, I failed miserably for a number of reasons. It was before I had an account on the official NaNo website, for one thing. The site provides pep talks from famous authors and lets users see their friends' word counts, so there's always a spirit of friendly competition. In addition to not being on the site, I'd never written anything more than a few pages long before, so I was attempting something foreign and new. That November, November of 2011, I wrote scarcely anything, and I didn't finish the novel I'd started until April. That manuscript is barely 22,000 words. Maybe I ought to be proud of it. After all, it was my first finished story and I worked hard on it. And I <em>was</em> proud of it for a while. But then I got some negative feedback on it from someone whose opinion I put a lot of stock in, and now I can hardly stand to think about it. <br />
<br /><br />
But I'm not here to talk about NaNo 2011.<br />
<br /><br />
I'm here to talk about NaNo 2014, which would've been my greatest NaNo failure had it not been for NaNo 2011. One could even argue that it was my greatest NaNo failure, since in 2011 I wasn't really participating in an official, dedicated capacity. <br />
<br /><br />
I seriously can scarcely believe how badly this NaNo went. I've had the idea I was writing from for several months, but I started developing it in earnest back in August. For a while, I was incredibly excited. Then... I don't know, something went wrong.<br />
<br /><br />
Maybe it was that I had to write a short story for school, and it didn't go well, and I ended up struggling and getting frustrated. Maybe it was that my reading list was ever-lengthening and that wretched, ambition-killing thought crept back in: "So many other people have already written books. And you know what they say - there's nothing new under the sun. Your stories have all been told. Forget writing. Just <em>read</em>." Maybe it was something else. For whatever reason, by the time November rolled around, my passion had cooled and I no longer cared much about NaNo.<br />
<br /><br />
But I was still determined enough. My word count goal was 30,000. On November 1st, I wrote more than 2,000 words. I was ahead of schedule and ready enough.<br />
<br /><br />
But then, I just didn't write.<br />
<br /><br />
Whole days went by in which I didn't write a word. I kept telling myself that tomorrow, or next week, or November 15th would be the day I started writing in earnest and that I'd still be able to reach my goal. Halfway through the month, a good friend who also did NaNo (and, like, actually <em>did</em> NaNo, hit her word count goal and everything) came over and we each read what the other had written thus far, and she loved what I had and told me I had to finish it, and it should have been a huge confidence boost that got me just dumping words on the page... and it wasn't.<br />
<br /><br />
On November 20th, I changed my word count goal from 30,000 to 20,000. By yesterday, as I was sitting down to my 10,000-word-long manuscript in utter despair, I told myself I'd be content if I could just pass 15,000. <br />
<br /><br />
The end-of-November word count of my manuscript is approximately 18,050 words. It's always hard to gauge how much longer the first draft will get, but I'd guess I'm around halfway through.<br />
<br /><br />
I feel bad.<br />
<br /><br />
Now, let me just say this right out: I'm not seeking laudation or encouragement. Don't bother telling me that 18,000 is still super impressive or that we all have bad months or that there are all kinds of people who couldn't write a novel of any length or anything like that. As a perfectionist, as someone who knows she can do better at NaNo because she <em>has</em> done better in the past, and as someone who has been thinking about and tentatively planning for and looking forward to NaNo 2014 since <em>last</em> December, I am disappointed in myself and nothing anyone says will change that. <br />
<br /><br />
Here's what <em>is</em> going to happen.<br />
<br /><br />
I have a couple other school writing assignments that I have to do. I'm going to write them. They're going to be good. I'm going to (try to) relax and have a fantastic month, stuffed to brimming with Christmas-related activities and wonderful presents and the presence of family members and friends and all sorts of things like that. When I've had a breather and a glorious holiday season and I don't hate my book as much as I'm inclined to at the moment, I'll get back to it and finish it. Maybe next year I'll start work on some other idea, one I can work on without a one-month timeframe. And then, next November, I'll do NaNoWriMo again. And this time, I'll do better.<br />
<br /><br />
I read a book recently that I loved. There were a lot of things I loved about it, but only three passages from it ended up in my Quote Notebook. One of those came when the main characters encountered an unknowably ancient character that spoke in riddles, like the mentors which are the subject of my last post, except that this character wasn't anyone's mentor and was only there for one scene. Anyway, one of the cryptic things this character said was, "Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, but those who remember the future can plan ahead for the weather". <br />
<br /><br />
Ponder that for a bit, why don't you.<br />
<br /><br />
So here's to remembering the future. Here's to remembering there are other Novembers. Here's to not repeating the past, and here's to planning ahead for the weather.<br />
<br /><br />
To conclude this post, I'm going to post a brief excerpt from my NaNo book; the one that's already on the NaNo site, in fact, so some of you have already read it (although I've made a couple of minor changes to it since posting it on the site). And believe me, I came within about a centimeter of talking myself out of doing this, because even having already put this online I find it scary. To be sure, I've felt worse about my writing before. This manuscript and I are at least on speaking terms - but they're strained. <br />
<br /><br />
I guess my thinking is... well, I don't really know what my thinking is. To give you an idea of what I've been spending my time on and struggling with, maybe. It adds meaning to the rest of the post. Or something. <br />
<br /><br />
Well... here goes.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton <br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Adjective.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lame.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes, when Huck and I hang out,
we put on brilliant disguises and go out on the town, maybe see a movie or eat
lunch somewhere or spend an hour or two in a bookstore. Sometimes we leave the
brilliant disguises at home, go someplace where we know there won’t be many
people, and just sit and talk. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lame?”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, lame. You know,
incapable of walking.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes we do silly things. Like,
for example, sit in my living room and play Mad Libs. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I get the strange feeling you’re
trying to tell me something.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Move on to the next word, Huck.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aunt Ella used to love playing Mad
Libs. On the rare occasions I got to spend a week or a weekend or a day at
Dad’s house, Aunt Ella would always try to catch me and make me fill a couple
in with her. She seemed to like my word choices, which never made any sense to
me, as they were usually words specially selected to express my frustration:
boredom, end, nonsensical, pointless, lame – they made for rather depressing
resulting paragraphs.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Noun.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is this the word being modified by
‘lame’?”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know I’m not going to tell
you.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Deep sigh. Yes, I know. “Um… idea.” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alright, so maybe I’m a big
spoilsport, but I’ve never found Mad Libs even the slightest bit amusing. They’re
only funny because they’re random, and in my opinion randomness on its own isn’t
really very funny. And yet I am apparently doomed to meet people who find them
(and my negative reactions to them) endlessly hilarious.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Person in room.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ugh. I hate the ones featuring a
Person in room. “Huck.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes?” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just write it down,” I say,
fighting back a smile. I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>going
to make him think I’m enjoying this.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which is not to say that Mad Libs
are never entertaining. I remember once I was doing one with Aunt Ella and the
paragraph was about books. It was only the first or second one we’d done, so I
was still trying to think of creative and interesting words, and one of the
book titles ended up being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Machinist
in the Fragrant Dress</i>. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fully </i>intend
to write a book with that title one day. I mean, man, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">possibilities </i>with a title like that! They’re endless! </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Disease.” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis,”
I say. There’s a moment of complete silence. Then:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um, how do you spell that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just like it sounds.” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another time, Aunt Ella asked for a
plural noun, and I said “hours” (one of my passive-aggressively irritated
answers; because, see, it felt like we’d been playing for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hours</i>). The paragraph was about winemaking, and contained a phrase
about the juice of ripe grapes. That is, it would have contained a phrase about
the juice of ripe grapes. Instead, it said something about the juice of ripe
hours. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That phrase has been stuck in my
head ever since. I feel like it belongs on some motivational poster: “The juice
of ripe hours of work is sweet, sweet SUCCESS!” Or maybe lost somewhere in the
vague speechifying of the mentor character in a kung-fu movie – “Inner peace
will come to you as the juice of ripe hours of meditation.” Ooh, or how about a
cheesy, shoddily written romance novel? “And so, as Mirabella and Clem
continued to spend ripe hours in each other’s company, love began oozing into
their empty hearts like the sour, sun-warmed juice of those hours.” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Sylfaen","serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ll keep mulling it over. I’m bound
to come up with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i> good.</span></span></div>
<br />Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-19301276860467218242014-11-26T16:02:00.002-08:002014-11-26T16:02:35.832-08:00My Love-Hate Relationship With Wise Old MentorsSo, since I've established that books are my one passion (see previous post) I might as well post a post being passionate about book-related stuff. <br />
<br /><br />
We all know about wise old mentors, right? You know, that character who shows up in a lot of fantasy stories who's impossibly old and wise and who gets way too much enjoyment out of speaking in irritating riddles and who supposedly loves and trusts the hero he or she is mentoring and yet constantly scolds, condescends to, and gets angry with said hero? Yeah, you know. Merlin. Yoda. Dumbledore. Merriman Lyon.<br />
<br /><br />
I have mixed feelings about these characters.<br />
<br /><br />
More specifically, my feelings vary from version to version. For example, I love Gandalf. But then again, Gandalf never really looks down on Bilbo or Frodo. Instead of feeling he needs to teach them deep lessons by speaking cryptically or telling them stories with unclear morals he wants them to figure out, he believes in them from the beginning and leaves it to them to learn lessons through experience. Gandalf genuinely feels that these little, non-adventuresome Hobbits lacking in self-confidence are capable of amazing things; consequently, they accomplish amazing things. He guides them to find their own worth through his leadership rather than giving them their worth through his teachings. <br />
<br /><br />
I like Aslan, too. Aslan, who will believe in his heroes as long as they believe in him, and who, like Gandalf, learn through experience (and I'm not talking about seemingly arbitrary, "wax on, wax off" experience - <em>actual</em> experience).<br />
<br /><br />
But so few mentor characters are like Gandalf and Aslan! <br />
<br /><br />
More often, I encounter mentor characters who take their belligerent, impatient heroes and assign them tasks or tell them stories or spout pseudo-profound speeches that seem to have no meaning. When the impatient and belligerent hero impatiently and belligerently demands to know why the mentor is making them do this or telling them this or saying this, the mentor says nothing because apparently the hero needs to figure out the kind of profound-ish point of the task or the story or the speech himself (or herself, I guess, but in my experience very few fantasy books have female heroines).<br />
<br /><br />
Take Dumbledore. There are things about Dumbledore I like. There are scenes where I find him amusing. But then there's the way he, just like half the rest of the wizard world, acts like Harry's the best thing since Christmas simply because he had a good mother, an evident opinion that clashes horribly with the way he's almost never forthright about anything with Harry! Like, seriously, does he trust Harry implicitly and inexplicably or not? <br />
<br /><br />
And Kilgarrah from <em>Merlin </em>the TV show... no, I can't talk about Kilgarrah. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him. I'm pretty sure that every tragic and upsetting thing that happened on that show can be blamed on Kilgarrah, in exchange for actually helping Merlin, I don't know, once? Maybe twice? <br />
<br /><br />
I feel like I could go on about this for a long time, dissecting my individual feelings for as many of these characters as I can think of, trying to figure out why some of them frustrate me so much, but it would take a while and isn't actually the reason I'm writing this post.<br />
<br /><br />
Despite my love of some mentor characters, I'm getting pretty tired of them. After a while, it just stops being plausible that every useless incompetent supposed hero is going to run across a really old, really enigmatic, really confusing sage whose pretentious ramblings somehow turn the loser into our great and noble protagonist. And honestly, I prefer heroes who are heroes in their own right, who don't need to hear stories with morals to become good men and who don't need to be forcibly faced with horrors to become brave men and who don't need to hear nonsensical maxims full of paradoxes and vagueness to become wise men. <br />
<br /><br />
And thus we come to Robin Hood.<br />
<br /><br />
Robin Hood doesn't have a wise old mentor. He isn't chosen to be a hero because of some prophecy and then assigned a befuddling (and all-too-often befuddled) Merlin-esque teacher to make him into the hero he's destined to be. He chooses to be a hero. He chooses to rob from the rich because he's got a temper and a grudge, but he chooses to give to the poor because he's innately noble and he loves his people. In some versions of the story, "his people" aren't even necessarily the Saxons. "His people" are any people oppressed and saddened and heaped with undeserved injustices. Such is the way I've always understood the story, anyway.<br />
<br /><br />
And I realize that I <em>love</em> Robin for that. I <em>love</em> that he's just doing what he does because he honestly wants to, from the beginning. I love that no matter how roguish or overconfident or prideful he is, he's always fighting his battles at least partly because he feels in his heart that they're battles that need to be fought, and since no one else is volunteering to fight them, he'll have to. <br />
<br /><br />
And what has led me to realize this?<br />
<br /><br />
I'm reading a book in which Robin Hood has a wise old mentor. And MAN is it making me angry.<br />
<br /><br />
Admittedly, I wasn't angry at first. When she (yes, the wise old mentor is a she) first showed up, Robin was dying and only she, an expert healer, could save him. That's fine. I even rather liked her, as I assumed she'd be in the book for a few chapters before Robin, having recovered, left to go out and resolve to do battle with the Normans. <br />
<br /><br />
100 pages later, Robin was still languishing in her cave and I was getting frustrated.<br />
<br /><br />
But I didn't get angry until she told him the story.<br />
<br /><br />
So she told him this story. It didn't make any sense and had no lesson or moral that I could discern, except for maybe "don't trust pretty redheads" (on further reflection, that moral might be contributing to my anger just a little). However, Robin evidently found it very meaningful and, where I am now in the book, is struggling with the inner conflict which will undoubtedly lead to his becoming Robin Hood.<br />
<br /><br />
I'm thinking I'm probably going to get angrier when it's revealed what the moral he and the wise old mentor are seeing in the dumb story is. I'm guessing it's going to be some folderol about keeping your promises or taking responsibility or something, even though the story was about an idiot who impulsively promised something to a pretty but ultimately dishonest redhead. Naturally, when her dishonesty and manipulation was revealed he refused to keep his promise because it was made under false pretenses. Then his punishment for this covenant breakage isn't really all that terrible, so... yeah, I really don't see the moral here. Beyond, again, "don't trust pretty redheads". <br />
<br /><br />
To complicate matters further, I'm about 99% the wise old mentor is the pretty redhead from the story. But she's good, because she's turning Robin Hood from a knave into a hero with her story which apparently has a point. But of course Robin's too dense to realize she's the pretty redhead, despite the fact that she's rather heavily hinted that she is (which reminds me of something else I don't like about non-Gandalf wise old mentors: in order for them to be needed and for their philosophical observations to be warranted, the heroes in stories with them have to be <em>complete idiots</em>).<br />
<br /><br />
So, to reiterate: Robin Hood in this story won't be fighting for a cause he's led to believe in by his own affronted sense of justice. He'll be fighting for a cause he's led to believe in by the bizarre legends told to him by an irritating old woman. <br />
<br /><br />
Oh, incidentally, she foresaw his arrival on her doorstep and his eventual heroism, so this story's also leaving out the whole "choosing his own destiny" thing.<br />
<br /><br />
It's like the author missed the whole point of Robin Hood. <br />
<br /><br />
Not cool, man.<br />
<br /><br />
Thing is, I finish what I start. Moreover, I'm trying to be optimistic. Maybe it'll get better. Maybe Robin will prove to be noble in his own right. Elsewhere in the book, before the wise old mentor rather rudely inserted herself into the narrative, he <em>did</em> stand up for some defenseless people all on his own. I'm going to finish the trilogy, or at the very least this first book, to see if it gets better. Which it very well might.<br />
<br /><br />
But... seriously. <em>Enough</em> with the wise old mentors. Or, if you insist, make them more like Gandalf.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-68276019712934704012014-11-19T04:08:00.001-08:002014-11-19T04:08:53.786-08:00The Hunt for My HeartI haven't really done much planning for this post. It doesn't really have a point; not at the moment, anyway. Perhaps during composition a point will creep into it. It wouldn't be the first time.<br />
<br /><br />
I should've written it yesterday afternoon, when I felt strangely, peacefully empty, when I was full to brimming with the thoughts I'll be writing in this post, and when I felt like I was tottering on the brink of some vast emotional abyss that the vaguest breath of sadness could send me plummeting into. I'll bet that yesterday afternoon I could've written something incredible. Instead I waited, and now these thoughts aren't commanding my headspace anymore. I waited, and the peace is gone and I can't get it back, and this post is no longer something that I <em>need </em>to write, and I hate that. But I don't like to leave things unfinished, so I'm going to attempt to get this written. <br />
<br /><br />
Yesterday morning was a bad morning. A <em>really</em> bad morning. I won't go into details. Suffice to say there was an external storm resulting in heated words which in turn resulted in tears (a rare occurrence for me), and that when that had blown over I had my own internal storm which blew my mind to some of the darkest places it's ever been. And when that, too, had blown over, leaving behind the deathly, glorious calm of yesterday afternoon, I sat and talked with my mom, who has had to endure many storms and many post-storm talks with her moody and melancholy daughter, and has done so with an admirable patience for which I fear I don't express as much gratitude as I should.<br />
<br /><br />
I told her that I feel like my heart's not really <em>in</em> anything these days.<br />
<br /><br />
My heart's not in my writing. We're almost two-thirds of the way through November and my NaNo book is stuck under 10,000 words, its icon sitting dormant on my computer screen and not even having the courtesy to mock me. I feel almost no shame. I feel no sense of urgency or burning desire to get it written. I don't hate the book or love it. I dislike it passively. It's not its fault that it's not being written; it's mine. It's my writer's block and my low self-esteem and I don't hate either of those things either. My writing is still a part of me, but there's no longer any passion behind it. <br />
<br /><br />
My heart's not in my schoolwork, but then again it almost never has been. I go to my homeschool group and get my assignments, and take weeks to complete them because without deadlines I have no reason to hurry. I'm not doing any independent studying because there's nothing I care to learn about. I don't care if I never learn anything ever again. During the external storm, at the horrid crescendo when the climaxing external storm clashed with the rising internal one, when my thoughts were muddy with anger and depression and self-hatred and a great rush of antisocial feeling, I said I never wanted to go to school again (more specifically, I said I never wanted to go <em>anywhere</em> ever again; bad days tend to have the effect of dragging my emotional age down to about five years old). As the final project in one of my classes, I have to do a research paper (one that'll actually have a deadline) and I'm dreading it. I <em>hate</em> research papers. A few days ago when I was complaining about it to my mother (who is, once again, wonderfully patient) she theorized that I only hate writing about things that don't interest me and that I should pick a topic that does interest me. But there's the problem. I can't think of anything that interests me enough to make it worth researching. <br />
<br /><br />
I told my mother all of this. Like any good mother would, she asked, "So where <em>is</em> your heart?" <br />
<br /><br />
After some deliberation, I replied, "In my chest," partly because I didn't particularly want to say something like "I don't know" or, worse yet, "It isn't anywhere", and partly because I like to cope with things that upset me by turning them into lame jokes.<br />
<br /><br />
In that moment's deliberation, I briefly considered saying something like "In my future", as that's where I spend an embarrassingly large percentage of my time: off wandering through a childlike daydream where I have legions of fans who hail the books and movies I make as masterpieces, where the petty grievances and conflicts and miseries currently plaguing my mind have become laughable memories which I dismissively share with my many admirers (still earning their commiseration in spite of my nonchalance, of course). I waste hours meandering through this shadowy land, where I'm multitalented and stylish and pretty and all sorts of people wish they could be as amazing as I am. I think I could safely say my heart's in it. <br />
<br /><br />
But while my various friends whose hearts are in their futures plan, getting jobs and driver's licenses, thinking about colleges and degrees, fixing up the old cars bequeathed to them and writing brilliant, publishable stories, all I do is idly dream. The dreams never have mention of how I <em>got</em> to that place before my adoring public; I'm simply miraculously there. The thing is, lurking behind every dream is a dark gray pessimism that likes to creep in and tell me that they're all far-fetched and silly and selfish and vain, one that says I'm not good enough to get published and I'd be incapable of making movies and that even if I succeeded nobody would like them. I felt it would be wrong to say my heart's in my future, because I fear that if I <em>actually</em> put my heart into my future, if I sent things I'd written to publishers and started looking for a college with a really great liberal arts program and forced myself to turn some more of my many ideas into manuscripts thousands of words long, I would only succeed in getting my heart broken. <br />
<br /><br />
Moreover, my heart <em>wasn't</em> in my future yesterday afternoon. In the calm after the morning's double storm, when I could feel the tearstains on my face and the fragility of my emotions, I thought nothing of my own merit. For a few hours, those futuristic dreams were utterly forsaken. I didn't compose dialogues or envision movie scenes. I never once paused in what I was doing to share my supposedly brilliant thoughts on a subject with a nonexistent audience. For a few hours, I had no self-confidence and no ambition.<br />
<br /><br />
And it felt <em>wonderful</em>.<br />
<br /><br />
But as good as it felt to be temporarily free of the deafening sound of my own voice in my ears, there was still the looming and dreadful possibility of having to admit that I lead a passionless life. I didn't want that. So after Mom had left to pick up my sister from school, I wandered around the house in an almost unreal silence and hunted for my heart.<br />
<br /><br />
And in that eerie, peaceful hush, the only place I could manage to find it was in books. <br />
<br /><br />
I found it in the book I'm currently reading, a homey, familial tale that's reminding me a lot of <em>To Kill a Mockingbird</em> (one of my favorite books). <br />
<br /><br />
I found it in the eager anticipation of some of the books I got from the library on Sunday, like the first two books of a trilogy that's a retelling of the Robin Hood legends, set in Wales and incorporating elements of Celtic mythology (you can understand why I'm excited to read these, I'm sure); and like the second book in a series in a started recently, a series designed for booklovers whose first book surprised me and delighted me, made me laugh and quickened my pulse by turns. <br />
<br /><br />
It felt good, finding my heart. <br />
<br /><br />
That's all changed a bit now, though. The hush has ended and my voice has reentered my head. When a new idea for a TV show sidled its way into my head a few hours ago, I tried to shove it away, and when I caught myself composing some gushing message board discussion of me I felt completely awful. But it's all slipping back into the way it was, like yesterday never happened. Back come the empty, obsessive daydreams; away goes the raw, quiet excitement about all I'm going to read next.<br />
<br /><br />
Don't get me wrong, I'm still enjoying the book I'm reading, and I'm still expecting to enjoy the books I'll read next. But I can tell there's been a change, and it's not a change I'm pleased with.<br />
<br /><br />
And even in the contented, vulnerable, muted afternoon, I couldn't shake the feeling that my heart was poorly bestowed. If my only real passion in life is reading books, not in analyzing them or reviewing them or writing them, just reading them, what on earth will I do with my life? <br />
<br /><br />
Sometimes, even when I'm not recovering from a bad day (it just happens to be much worse on bad days, like yesterday) I half-envision a future quite different from the one that generally appears. In it, the years pass by and I grow older. My sole talent is writing, but any publisher I apply to rejects me because the story's too predictable or because it feels incomplete, because my characters are inconsistent and underdeveloped, because the story won't appeal to enough people, because of any number of reasons related to the seemingly numerous faults I find in my stories. So I underperform in a job that my heart isn't in, as my perfectionism objects feebly to my bare-minimum effort but I can't find it in myself to care enough to do more, meaning that I never rise in the ranks to bigger and better things. Meanwhile, my friends start going off and getting married and having kids, so I start seeing them less and less (if at all), as first my grandparents and then my aunts and uncles and parents and teachers grow older and less like themselves, changing and sickening, until...... Until my human interaction is practically nonexistent, and I watch the world continue to modernize and change and shift alarmingly from the cold comfort of my empty apartment and the discomfort of my horrible job. And I try to stop the memories of my old daydreams from crowding in and telling me how different my life is from what I wanted it to be, but I fail, and I stoop under their weight as my life rapidly drains away. Things get worse as all my favorite actors, the ones I'd hoped to work with or at the very least meet, start dying. And time marches on until I'm alone, until I'm drowning in my own selfish misery, until not even books interest me, until I have nothing left. And thus I finally reach my pathetically attended funeral and afterwards am quickly forgotten by the world at large.<br />
<br /><br />
(And in case anyone is now massively concerned about my mental health and overall happiness, I promise I'm okay; this is<em> not</em> an everyday thing or a constant preoccupation, and as I'm sure many of you have seen I'm in general plenty happy and easily amused and prone to laughter and all that good stuff. I just occasionally have days of what my mother and I call shlumpiness. We all do.)<br />
<br /><br />
So now we come to the point (see, I told you I might find one): I want a passion, or at the very least a more clearly defined passion. I want a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I want a reason to want to leave my room. Some days I have them. On November 27th, there'll be family and friends and really good food. On December 17th (or somewhere thereabouts) there'll be <em>The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies</em> and a day spent fangirling and gasping for breath and maybe crying with my best friend. On December 25th, there'll be Christmas breakfast casserole and a stocking and a tree skirt full of surprises because I don't have a wish list. <br />
<br /><br />
I have bad days, but I also have good days. But sometimes I feel like, more than anything, I have days that are neither, empty days of going through the motions of life without much investment in it. I don't want to just live and persevere in an effort to get to the next good day or the next good book. I want my heart to be in something other than my chest or my list of favorite books. I want there to be something, something that I'm good at, something that I love doing, something that can bring me a sense of purpose and, later, accomplishment. I want there to be something I can <em>live</em> for.<br />
<br /><br />
And so the hunt for my heart must continue.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton <br />
<em><br /></em>Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-90834580185479494982014-11-01T19:35:00.001-07:002014-11-01T19:35:42.691-07:00The Crippling Fear of Inadequacy It's time once again for National Novel Writing Month, and I can't seem to decide whether I'm excited or terrified.<br />
<br />
<br />
On the one hand, I feel plenty ready. The book I'm writing this year is a sequel to something else I've already written, so I already know and love my characters. I know what new characters and plotlines I want to introduce. I know from writing the first story that this story comes easily to me, and that the narrator is both easy and fun to write as. I'm feeling competitive, ready to outdo (or at the very least attempt to outdo) my previous writing accomplishments and the friends of mine who are doing their own novels alike. BRING IT ON, NOVEMBER!<br />
<br />
<br />
On the other hand, November's only thirty days. And I still have school and lots of books I want to read. And a lot of things are supposed to happen in this book, so who knows whether I can get them all written in such a short amount of time? And I've been having a <em>lot</em> of trouble with writing lately.<br />
<br />
<br />
That last one might be obvious. If you scroll down, you'll see my latest post, a short story I finished writing yesterday after working on it for several days. If you scroll down a little farther, you'll see that my last post before that was on September 3rd.<br />
<br />
<br />
The extent of my writing over the past few months is as follows: I wrote that last post on September 3rd. I wrote the short story over the last ten days or so of October. I wrote another short story, this one a school assignment that ended up being about 16 pages long and not quite 7,000 words, over the course of October. Over the course of last Sunday and Monday, I finally finished last year's NaNo book, writing about 8,700 words in two days (and yes, I was <em>extremely </em>proud of myself).<br />
<br />
<br />
That probably seems like a lot. But it doesn't feel like a lot to me, because it took me an entire month to write a short story that was shorter than the amount I added in my book in just two days. And I went almost two months without blogging. And I know how much I struggled to write both the school short story and the one I posted yesterday. And I know why I'm having all this trouble.<br />
<br />
<br />
The reason I haven't blogged in two months, despite the fact that more than once I came across something in fiction I felt like ranting about, is that I didn't want to post any regular posts until I'd finished the posts from the short story challenge I started over the summer. And the reason that it's been taking me so long to finish that can be found in the subject line of this post: the crippling fear of inadequacy.<br />
<br />
<br />
The thing is, I'm afraid of disappointing people. I worry that my stories won't live up to the expectations of the people giving me prompts. It's the same reason it took me so long to write that story for school. I'd been given an assignment to write something by my favorite teacher ever, and I couldn't shake the completely unfounded feeling that if the story I wrote wasn't amazing she'd feel let down. (My working excuse for the delay while I was writing it was that I hated all my characters, but then I realized that characters very similar to the ones I supposedly hated had made appearances in my other non-assigned writings without really slowing me down at all.)<br />
<br />
<br />
And then Sunday came, and I had to finish last year's book, and the only person I could conceivably disappoint was myself, and suddenly I was done and my book had magically become 23 pages longer than it had been before. <br />
<br />
<br />
Thus last year is behind me and I can boldly go into a new November. <br />
<br />
<br />
There's just one small problem.<br />
<br />
<br />
The story I finished on Monday is a fantasy story. It features a completely made-up land with its own people and language and mythology and history, its own social stigmas and prejudices. The characters face danger and death, betrayal and fear. There're moments of poetic writing and character growth. It's not actually as good as I'm making it sound...... but I think it's pretty dang good. <br />
<br /><br />
The story I started writing at midnight is about a modern teenage girl with few social graces who is attempting to adjust to the idea of having a best friend, a massively foreign concept to her. She bumbles around, sassing people and trying to cope and accidentally making more friends along the way. It's a fun story, she's a fun character and, as previously stated, a blast to write; but compared to last year's endeavor, it feels a bit...... insubstantial.<br />
<br /><br />
My concern now is that all my friends and maybe even some family members or teachers will read last year's book and think it's good and ask to see my other stuff, and then be confused and bored by my newer manuscript and its lack of meat. <br />
<br /><br />
Once again, I'm being crippled by a fear of inadequacy.<br />
<br /><br />
*Sigh* <br />
<br /><br />
There's a stereotype out there that teenage girls have no self-esteem. I've heard teenage girls described as having "enough insecurities to fill a house". And some days, I feel like I'm upholding the stereotype. But where most girls presumably fret about their appearance, or their social status, or their lack of a boyfriend, I fret about my writing. No matter how many times or how many ways I'm told it's good, there's almost always a voice in the back of my head silently arguing. "But the ending was stupid." "But I didn't flesh that one plot point out enough." "But I'm <em>so</em> rambly." "But what about that one incredibly lame line of dialogue I insisted on putting in and then immediately regretted?" "You're just saying that because you don't want to hurt my feelings."<br />
<br /><br />
The voice with the fear-of-inadequacy problem is even worse. "You realize you use the exact same dialogue device in, like, <em>everything</em> you write, right? Someday someone's going to notice that." "This isn't up to your usual standard. Are you even trying?" "Why is this taking so long? Normally you don't have this much trouble." "Ugh, this is awful. You can't let anyone read this. For some reason they all think you're good at writing. They would be so disappointed by this."<br />
<br /><br />
Those who have read my non-blog writing are often besieged with demands of feedback. This is why. I get very frustrated by my own self-confidence issues, and sometimes positive comments will lodge in my brain and fight them back for days, even weeks. On Monday, as soon as I'd finished, I sent last year's NaNo to a couple good friends, and ever since I've been anxiously waiting for comments that I know aren't going to be arriving until at least mid-November. Because if they love it, and like the characters that I intended for them to like, and get excited by the things that are supposed to be exciting, it'll make my whole week. And if they don't....... well, I don't exactly know how I'll feel, but at least I'll have the opinion of someone besides myself to refer to.<br />
<br /><br />
I get that I'm not alone in this. Many great artists had it much worse than I do, believing their masterpieces were worthless. I actually find that comforting. <br />
<br /><br />
There's a Sherlock Holmes movie called <em>They Might Be Giants</em> that was made in the 1970s. It's about an ardent Sherlock Holmes fan who copes with an emotional trauma by forgetting his real life and believing he's Sherlock. His brother forces him to see a young psychologist, conveniently named Dr. Watson. Shenanigans ensue.<br />
<br /><br />
There's one bit in it that I was much amused by, when "Sherlock" is trying to convince Watson to come solve crimes with him. He says something like, "I understand that you probably feel unworthy to be my companion because of my massive intellect. But you're not! You're perfectly adequate! Just repeat this to yourself: 'I am adequate!'" <br />
<br /><br />
It's meant to be funny (and it is). But I'm finding it's not as easy as it sounds to say even those words and believe them.<br />
<br /><br />
I am adequate.<br />
<br /><br />
<em>I am adequate.</em> <br />
<br /><br />
*Takes deep breath*<br />
<br /><br />
C'mon, November.<br />
<br /><br />
Let's do this.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-36347353664720283012014-10-31T04:04:00.000-07:002014-10-31T04:04:02.453-07:00Short Story #3: The Mandolinist Saves the Tea PartyImagine you're attending a tournament. Pennants are flying, the air smells like caramel apples and roasted chestnuts, everyone around you is talking at once. The color and the scent and the sound all blend together to make your blood run high and your breath come short. Soon...... soon......<br />
<br />
<br />
A man climbs onto the stage in the center of the field you're all clustered around. He clears his throat and, slowly, the crowd goes silent. The food-sellers stop calling their wares. The mothers and maiden aunts cease their gossip. The merchants pause in their heated discussions of business. All eyes move centrally and focus on the crier. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Ladies and gentleman, wizards, jesters, bandoliers, and- um- others," the crier begins. "The first participant of our grand tournament today is-"<br />
<br />
<br />
There's an expectant silence as the crier pauses for effect. The food-sellers shift their trays from hand to hand. The mothers and maiden aunts lean forward, their lips parting slightly. The merchants feign disinterest. You wait.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Pearl Clayton!" he cries out at last. <br />
<br />
<br />
A gasp races through the crowd. Pearl Clayton? Impossible! She's not been seen nor heard from in over a month. You all thought she'd gone. Flown the coop. Given up tournaments forever. All eyes turn to the gate in amazement. <br />
<br />
<br />
A girl sheepishly comes through the gate and walks toward the stage. Her red hair is flying loose, part of it covering her face. As well it should. She ought to be ashamed of herself, disappearing like that for so long.<br />
<br />
<br />
She reaches the stage and climbs onto it as the crier leaps off. She turns, slowly, to face the crowd. She smiles awkwardly.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Hello," she says. The crowd doesn't respond. Pearl shuffles her feet uncomfortably before going on. "I was challenged by Sir Hannah more than two months ago," she continues quietly. There are cries of outrage. <em>Two months!</em> Has she no honor?<br />
<br />
<br />
Looking panicked, Pearl raises her hands, her eyes silently pleading for calm. "Please, please," she calls out. "I know I'm terribly delinquent, but I'm here now, and I'm fully ready to answer Hannah's challenge!"<br />
<br />
<br />
The crowd reluctantly grumbles into silence. The food-sellers seat themselves among the rest. The mothers and maiden aunts glance at each other significantly. The merchants shake their heads disapprovingly. You think to yourself, <em>Well, this'd better be worth it</em>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Pearl takes a deep breath. "Hannah's challenge was to compose a tale about a tea party gone awry, a bored princess, a deceiving knight, and a mysterious musician," she says.<br />
<br />
<br />
There are murmurs of expectation throughout the crowd. It's a promising premise.<br />
<br />
<br />
One more deep breath. And then, at last, Pearl begins her story.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>The Mandolinist Saves the Tea Party </em><br />
<br />
<br />
It was the sunniest of days, but it wasn't overly hot. The grass was looking delightfully thick and green, the sky was shockingly blue, and the hundreds of pastel roses surrounding the wicker tea table in the garden were all perky and fresh. Queen Gertrude sighed contentedly as she ran her eyes over the scene. The queen's tea parties were known for their utter perfectness, and this one was shaping up to be no exception.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Come, Penelope, come and sit down, there's a dear," Gertrude chirped at her daughter. Then, as Penelope was approaching her place to the right of the head of the table (which was, of course, the queen's place) Gertrude reached out and caught her arm.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Oh, Penelope," she said in ecstasy. "You look simply ravishing today. Oh, it's going to be just wonderful. We're all going to have so much fun!"<br />
<br />
<br />
Penelope shrugged her mother's hand away and sat in her incredibly uncomfortable white wicker chair. Oh, yes, just <em>wonderful</em>. It wasn't like they did the same exact thing three or four times every blasted summer. Oh, wait- they did.<br />
<br />
<br />
And it really was the same <em>exact</em> thing. Always a new pink dress covered in ruffles for the princess who hated pink and ruffles. Always the same finger sandwiches and miniature scones and other pathetic excuses for food for the princess who was constantly hungry. Always the same three hours of repetitive small talk and gossip on the same inane subjects that the princess who was bored by small talk and gossip was forced to participate in. Always the same guests sitting in the same places drinking the same over-sweetened mint tea.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Wonderful</em>.<br />
<br />
<br />
But this time it was worse. This time the queen had, through nefarious scheming or (more likely) complete accident, scheduled her pointless tea party on the same day as one of King Claude's state meetings, meetings much rarer than the ridiculous tea parties, when his various advisors gathered at the palace to discuss the country's politics and current events, solve any problems, debate new laws, eat real food, and more. Penelope had started attending the state meetings when she was twelve years old and hadn't missed a single one in the five years since. She loved the meetings. She loved taking part in the decision-making and contributing her ideas. She loved the way the councilors actively sought her opinion more often each meeting. She loved the way they addressed her as Nell, not Princess, not Penelope, not Princess Penelope, just Nell, the name her father had always used for her when her mother wasn't around. <br />
<br />
<br />
She had begged and pleaded and reasoned and explained, but her mother had only looked at her blankly. "But dearest, I don't understand," she'd said, reaching for Penelope's hand and taking hold of it despite Penelope's frantic attempt to pull it out of the way. "Why would you want to go to one of those horribly dull meetings when you could be spending quality time with me and the other ladies of the court?" Then had come the pursed lips and the, "Oh, dear, Claude's put you up to this, hasn't he? Don't worry, love, I'll tell him you'd rather be with me."<br />
<br />
<br />
"But I <em>wouldn't </em>rather, Mother," Penelope had finally said in desperation. "I want to go to the meeting with Father. Please. It'd only be one time."<br />
<br />
<br />
But the queen had shaken her head and sighed. "Poor Claude. It's clear he wanted a son; but someday he's going to realize he can't turn you into one by sheer willpower." Then she'd gone and Penelope had been left to lower her head onto her desk, biting her lip to hold back her scream of frustration.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, Nellie," the king had whispered in her ear later. "I'll fill you in afterwards." <br />
<br />
<br />
"It's not the same as <em>being</em> there," she'd said dejectedly. "But thanks." <br />
<br />
<br />
So here she was, in an uncomfortable dress in an uncomfortable chair as plump, overdressed courtiers and giggly girls Penelope's age began trickling into the garden and eagerly reading the name cards, apparently looking for their places even though everyone always sat in the same place every time. Ugh.<br />
<br />
<br />
Next came the compliments and greetings, the <em>"Oh, you look so beautiful, milady!"</em>s, and the <em>"Why, that dress really suits you, Princess Penelope!"</em>s and the <em>"Looks like your mother's done it again, huh, dear?"</em>s. And Penelope tried to sit up straight and tried to force a smile and said "thank you" until the two words no longer sounded like words.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then everyone had to sit down, which, thanks to the ridiculous nature of both the chairs and the skirts, took an exceptionally long amount of time. And when everyone was finally seated, the slow process of serving the first course of tea and sandwiches was begun. Penelope would've sighed in exasperation, but she knew that if she did her mother would ask her what was wrong.<br />
<br />
<br />
About halfway through this initial serving process, the first soft strains of a folk song drifted across the table, almost immediately drowned out by a reflexive smattering of applause from the guests. Penelope brightened a little. Not much. But a little.<br />
<br />
<br />
Into the clearing came the Mandolinist, the court musician, strumming his mandolin at just the right volume: quiet enough that it wouldn't interfere with the meaningless conversations, but loud enough that it could be fully heard and appreciated. The Mandolinist was a professional.<br />
<br />
<br />
Accordingly, he was incredibly full of himself. He had worked hard to become mysterious and intriguing, growing his dark hair out so that it was constantly slipping into his eyes, refusing to tell anyone at court his real name so that they all had to call him "Mandolinist", lurking in corridors and niches unseen so that he always knew just about everything going on at court...... the works. Penelope thought he was marvelous.<br />
<br />
<br />
Penelope spent the next half hour attempting to tune out all the talking happening and focus on the increasingly complex and masterful mandolin music instead. More than once she succeeded for a few precious minutes, only to be jarred out of a blissful reverie by some woman's shockingly loud laughter or by her mother "helpfully" prodding her awake. "I suppose you must be tired, dearest," the queen said compassionately. "You were staring off into space. I hate to think of you missing out on all the fun!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I </em>am <em>missing out on all the fun</em>, Penelope thought, her mind drifting to her father's state meeting. Lord Demetrius had probably learned all sorts of new jokes. Earl Grayson was probably sharing anecdotes from his farm out in the country. And when they were done chatting and catching up and started the, Duke Orson would be asking for advice on how to deal with the unrest in his duchy, and Penelope had thought up<em> such</em> a brilliant solution, which Earl Grayson would undoubtedly have disagreed with, which would've led to a truly magnificent debate...... <br />
<br />
<br />
Penelope sighed and glanced up at the Mandolinist. At the same moment, he turned to look at her. He nodded and smiled sympathetically, almost like he knew what she was thinking. And, come to think of it, what with all his eavesdropping he very well might.<br />
<br />
<br />
The tea party continued perfectly; tea, gossip, tiny stacks of papery bread and cucumbers that were misguidedly presumptuous enough to call themselves sandwiches...... Everything as planned. <br />
<br />
<br />
And then...<br />
<br />
<br />
...it happened<br />
<br />
<br />
Queen Gertrude's famous "flush of pleasure", a not-exactly-delicate reddening of her cheeks which made an appearance about the midway point of every tea party, was just starting to spread across her cheeks when Sir Damien arrived.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sir Damien had only recently been knighted. He was a loud, impulsive, talkative sort of fellow, with dark hair, a roguish smile, and the most glorious beard anyone had ever seen. He was admired and sighed after by almost every female at court between the ages of sixteen and sixty. He loved to regale his admirers with stories of hunting and participating in tournaments of every kind on his father's grand estate (although nobody quite seemed to know who his father was or where this grand estate was located, as Sir Damien had never actually shared those details). <br />
<br />
<br />
Queen Gertrude thought he was charming. Penelope disagreed. <br />
<br /><br />
"Hello, ladies!" Sir Damien called, just as he always did. <br />
<br /><br />
Interestingly, he didn't get the same reaction he always did.<br />
<br /><br />
Queen Gertrude's tea parties had a <em>system</em>. A pattern. A formula. They were predictable and dependable. That was what Penelope loathed about them, and what Queen Gertrude and all the others loved about them. Perfection. Precision. Rules, even, albeit unspoken rules.<br />
<br /><br />
One such rule concerned the fact that Queen Gertrude's tea parties were decidedly man-free (with the natural exception of the Mandolinist, who was inarguably necessary because there had to be music; plus, he was purposefully silent and conspicuously inconspicuous enough that if the tea partiers found his presence discomfiting they could simply ignore him). And so the giggles, blushes, and gasps that followed Sir Damien's entrance were far more reserved and confused than usual. All the women glanced at one another nervously, silently asking, <em>Now what do we do?</em> <br />
<br /><br />
Then it got worse.<br />
<br /><br />
"Look at you, sitting around here when you're surrounded by such beautiful gardens!" the incredibly oblivious Sir Damien boomed. His obliviousness had become a bit of a running joke among the few girls like Penelope who thought he was a complete idiot, and the many previously attached or homely girls who knew they didn't have a chance with him and had thus bitterly decided to turn their noses up at him. Really, if one was looking for it, the fact that he seemed completely unable to pick up on social cues became as plain as his glorious beard. It was evident now, as he'd clearly stumbled into the queen's famous tea party having no idea what it was and now appeared to have impressively failed to notice the discomfort of the guests.<br />
<br /><br />
<em>Where did he even come from? </em>Penelope wondered. She had zoned out again, jerked out of her thoughtfulness by Sir Damien's arrival, so she couldn't tell what direction he'd come bumbling in from.<br />
<br /><br />
"Let's liven this party up!" Sir Damien suggested. "Why don't we all take a turn about the gardens? Your majesty?" he asked, turning to Queen Gertrude.<br />
<br /><br />
The flush of pleasure had vanished completely, replaced by an ashen look of shock, both at Sir Damien's presence and his unpalatable notion. They couldn't take a turn about the gardens! For the love of all things good, this was a <em>tea</em> party, not a <em>walking</em> party!<br />
<br /><br />
But then again, how could the queen reject the offered arm of a knight? And not just any knight: <em>Sir Damien</em>! <br />
<br /><br />
"Why- why yes. A- a lovely idea," the queen said uncertainly, taking Sir Damien's arm. <br />
<br /><br />
A few minutes later, the entire tea party had abandoned their plates and were wandering about the gardens, vacant-eyed and inwardly panicking with no idea what they were supposed to be doing. Penelope was standing in front of a yellow rosebush, plagued by inner turmoil.<br />
<br /><br />
On the one hand, it was wonderful to be able to move and to finally encounter some variety in these ridiculous parties. On the other, Penelope could only imagine how miserable her mother must be. The poor woman. If this nightmarish unscheduled walking was allowed to continue much longer, one of the queen's tea parties would be absolutely <em>ruined</em> for the first time ever.<br />
<br /><br />
"I don't get why they all like that Sir Damien so much," said a voice near Penelope's shoulder. She turned to look at the Mandolinist. <br />
<br /><br />
It wasn't the first time she'd ever spoken to him. He had an interesting habit of unexpectedly joining the conversations he'd been listening in on, or striking ones up with people he knew from his spying who had scarcely even seen him before. Queen Gertrude hated it and had often emptily threatened to have him dismissed for it, but King Claude, Penelope, and many others had grown accustomed to it. Some, Penelope included, had even come to rather like it.<br />
<br /><br />
Now, Penelope shrugged. "The charisma, maybe. Or the stories he tells. It might just be the beard."<br />
<br /><br />
"I bet I could grow a beard," the Mandolinist said a little defensively.<br />
<br /><br />
"I'm sure you could," Penelope agreed. "But I don't think it'd look quite right. Maybe wait a few years."<br />
<br /><br />
The Mandolinist nodded thoughtfully. A minute passed. Penelope and the Mandolinist pretended to look at the yellow rosebush. Penelope was actually thinking about how miserable her mother must be and how pretending to look at a rosebush, while certainly preferable to having a tea party, got boring very quickly. The Mandolinist was actually looking at Penelope.<br />
<br /><br />
"So, Princess," he said at last. "Tell me: do you want to help your mother?"<br />
<br /><br />
Penelope shrugged again. "Not really. But I'm beginning to feel like I should. Got any ideas?"<br />
<br /><br />
"If you exposed him as a liar, I'll bet none of them would feel guilty going back to their seats."<br />
<br /><br />
"<em>Is</em> he a liar?"<br />
<br /><br />
The Mandolinist looked shocked. "Yes, of course he's a liar! He wasn't raised on some grand estate. He's from a small country farm."<br />
<br /><br />
"I can't prove that, though."<br />
<br /><br />
"He's never actually jousted before."<br />
<br /><br />
"Abominable, but again, I doubt they'll believe it." <br />
<br /><br />
"And he's only gone hunting once." <em> </em> <br />
<br /><br />
Penelope shook her head sadly.<br />
<br /><br />
"And that beard is <em>completely</em> fake."<br />
<br /><br />
Ah, now, see, <em>there </em>was some information Penelope could make good use of. <br />
<br /><br />
It didn't take long to find the queen and Sir Damien, as Sir Damien was relating one of his so-called childhood memories to the queen in his booming voice. Penelope came up close to them. <br />
<br /><br />
"Hello, Mother," Penelope said.<br />
<br /><br />
"Oh, hello, Penelope," the queen replied dully, just as Penelope was tripping over a rock that didn't exist. Shrieking in exaggerated panic, Penelope reached out desperately and grabbed hold of the first object her hand touched. This object was, by design, Sir Damien's beard.<br />
<br /><br />
It came off in her hand. <br />
<br /><br />
Queen Gertrude gasped. Penelope slapped her hand across her mouth in an attempt to stop herself from giggling. The attempt failed, but none of the partygoers hurriedly gathering around noticed. Everybody was too busy fighting to get closer for a better look at Sir Damien's beardless face. He looked stunned. He also looked like a twelve-year-old. <br />
<br /><br />
"Oh, Sir Damien, you've got such a baby's face!" one of the courtiers Penelope's age cried out before her mother could stop her.<br />
<br /><br />
Recovering himself, Sir Damien made a desperate lunge for his beard, but Penelope sidestepped him. It was too late, anyway.<br />
<br /><br />
"Well," Queen Gertrude said regally, "I must say, Sir Damien, I am <em>shocked</em> by this turn of events. I really don't know <em>what</em> to make of it all. If you'll excuse me, I believe I've had enough of walking in the garden. I'll think I'll return to my party." All the others hurried to follow her, relieved that the departure from tradition had come to a speedy end. <br />
<br /><br />
The flush of pleasure returned full-force as Gertrude and her guests reseated themselves. Not only was the tea party being resumed, those in attendance now had a deliciously juicy new scandal to discuss for the duration. The tea party had been saved, and then some. <br />
<br /><br />
Penelope, still holding Sir Damien's beard and desperately attempting to keep back her laughter, sat down with them. She couldn't wait to tell her father about this. <br />
<br /><br />
As the Mandolinist returned to his place and recommenced his strumming, he glanced over at Penelope. She smiled and nodded. He winked, then turned his attention to his mandolin. <br />
<br /><br />
Still smiling, Penelope slumped down in her chair. Oh, well. Back to the monotony. <br />
<br /><br />
If only tea parties could always be this much fun. <br />
<br /><br />
THE END. Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-3854660946243417722014-09-03T01:26:00.000-07:002014-09-03T01:59:11.615-07:00Am I Not Smart Enough to Read Books? Okay, fear not, I'm going to continue writing short stories (Hannah's challenged me to quite the duel and I'm looking forward to accepting the challenge) as soon as I get a chance, but at the moment, as has happened on before, I need to take a sec to rant about a book I'm currently reading and struggling with, and my blog seems like a reasonably good place for it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Today's problem? <br />
<br />
<br />
Authors have <em>got</em> to tell me why their characters do things. <br />
<br />
<br />
I am getting so tired of being confused by characters' actions when a single paragraph could make everything crystal clear. <br />
<br />
<br />
To properly express my frustration today, I think I need to explain what's just happened in the book, but I'll change the names and things so as to avoid giving spoilers. <br />
<br />
<br />
Gladiola and Evinrude are best friends who live on the planet Ugh. They were both born and raised on Ugh, and are members of a society called "People Who Are Really Super Duper Nice (To Other Native Ughs)". Gladiola runs the local chapter of PWARSDN(TONU). Ugh is also inhabited by the Aches, immigrants from the planet Ouch. Gladiola looks down on the Aches and thinks they should be kept separate from the Ughs, but Evinrude has always had her doubts about both anti-Ache discrimination and PWARSDN(TONU). <br />
<br />
<br />
As the book progresses, Evinrude and Gladiola's friendship begins to disintegrate as Evinrude befriends some Aches. A minor plot point is Gladiola's continued effort to get a small article utterly condemning the Aches as dirty undesirables based on made-up statistics published in the PWARSDN(TONU) newsletter... of which Evinrude is the editor. Evinrude continues to passive-aggressively refrain from putting the article in, without ever directly telling Gladiola that she's doing it or why she's doing it.<br />
<br />
<br />
One day, Evinrude finds a book outlining all the anti-Ache legislation currently in effect (Ugh nurses cannot be required to treat Ache patients, Ugh schools and Ache schools shall not share textbooks, an Ache may under no circumstances marry an Ugh, etc.). Because the subject interests her, she takes the book and puts it in her purse. Later, she accidentally leaves her purse at Gladiola's house and Gladiola, being a sneaky, unpleasant sort of character, looks through it, finding the book, stealing it, and then shunning Evinrude. Later, when Evinrude confronts Gladiola about the shunning, Gladiola demands that Evirude tell her the truth about the "paraphernalia" in her purse, saying that she "just doesn't know anymore", and that the government put those laws in place, and that she can't believe Evinrude thinks she knows better than the government.<br />
<br />
<br />
The last thing I read was another confrontation between Gladiola and Evinrude. Gladiola demands to know why her article hasn't been published in the newsletter yet. Evinrude, who's been going through a rough patch, finally loses her temper and says she'll never publish it. Gladiola threatens to throw Evinrude out of PWARSDN(TONU). Evinrude gets more upset. Eventually, the anti-Ache legislation book comes up again, and Evinrude says that Gladiola can't dictate what she reads. Gladiola retaliates by saying that she can see why Evinrude's boyfriend left her (leading to the aforementioned rough patch). Despite the fact that the breakup had nothing to do with Evinrude's feelings about Aches and everything to do with the male in question being a worthless loser, this comment makes Evinrude more upset than ever and she demands that Gladiola give her the book back. Gladiola says she will if Evinrude puts the article in the newsletter. <br />
<br />
<br />
So Evinrude does.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here are my questions:<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Why did finding the anti-Ache legislation book make Gladiola think that Evinrude was an Ache sympathizer who thought she knew better than the government? Wouldn't studying anti-Ache legislation seem to suggest a dislike of Aches and a desire to know exactly what steps had been made toward keeping them in their proper place? And in what way can a straightforward listing of the laws, a simple factual booklet outlining <em>laws that Gladiola supports</em>, be pro-Ache paraphernalia?<br />
<br />
<br />
How to fix it: I'm still not actually sure. This seriously makes no sense to me. But I assume it made sense to the author, so she should've been able to explain the path Gladiola's mind took to her weird conclusion. <br />
<br />
<br />
2. Why was Evinrude upset by Gladiola threatening to kick her out of PWARSDN(TONU)? Evinrude is the narrator, and in the few scenes in which Evinrude is attending PWARSDN(TONU) meetings, she seems bored, out-of-place, and dispassionate. If she has some big reason for wanting to be in the group or some profound emotional connection to it, I should've known before this scene to make the threat meaningful. <br />
<br />
<br />
How to fix it: "I've never much liked the PWARSDN(TONU). The meetings are too long and I feel like we never really get anything done. But the thing is... this group's a part of who I am. It has been ever since Gladiola started running it. This is practically where Gladiola and I grew up. Not being a member anymore... it'd just feel all wrong." (So that's a <em>really </em>rough draft, but you get the idea.) <br />
<br />
<br />
3. Why was Evinrude upset by Gladiola's comment about her boyfriend? As I said, Evinrude knows good and well that Aches had absolutely nothing to do with the separation. In fact, nothing Evinrude did was; not her temper, not her passions, not her ideas, nothing. It was <em>all </em>the guy. <br />
<br />
<br />
Admittedly, this one makes slightly more sense. The book has talked incredibly briefly about how heartbroken Evinrude is, so Gladiola rubbing salt in the wound riling Evinrude up is understandable. But... still. Evinrude is brilliant and reasonable, and I feel like she has more reason to be angry at the guy and therefore unaffected by Gladiola's comment than to be so distraught she's tottering on the edge of collectedness. <br />
<br />
<br />
How to fix it: "I know, I <em>know</em>, that that dang book had nothing to do with Fyodor calling it quits. I <em>know</em>. But Gladiola's comment hits too close to home, right in the center of the wound that's nowhere near being healed. Suddenly I can see his face, as clearly as if he's still standing right in front of me, the anger, the hurt, the slouched shoulders, the lowered brows. 'I think we should call it off for now, Rudy.' And even though I <em>know </em>it's impossible, I can't stop myself from thinking, <em>What if she's right? What if he looked at me and saw all the things I've been trying to hide, and he decided I just wasn't suitable? What if he read all my secrets on my face as easily as I read his?</em>"<br />
<br />
<br />
4. Why is Evinrude so flippin' desperate to get this book back, desperate enough to compromise her morals and give cruel, thoughtless, manipulative Gladiola exactly what she wants? Evinrude doesn't need the book to learn the laws. She can look them up. She can find another copy of the book. For Pete's sake, <em>she can ask her Ache friends what the laws are</em>. She already knows more about the way Aches live than that book could ever tell her just from being friends with some. Never once in all the time Gladiola's had the book has Evinrude thought that she wished she had it back. Even when Evinrude was taking the book and putting it in her purse, she made no explanation in her narration for wanting it. So, in short, Evinrude doesn't need the book and I have no reason to believe Evinrude wants the book, and yet I'm supposed to believe she's willing to publish an article she is horrified and repulsed by just to get the dumb thing back. Is it to show Gladiola she's not the boss of Evinrude? Because if <em>that's </em>the case, Evinrude has <em>completely </em>failed in her objective by doing exactly what Gladiola's wanted her to do since the beginning!<br />
<br />
<br />
How to fix it: Scattered narration of Evinrude thinking about the book. Give her a good reason for wanting it and then have her think about that reason. Don't just <em>suddenly </em>have her want this book more than anything!<br />
<br />
<br />
But what really bothers me most about this is that nobody else seems to have noticed. Of course, I'm sure it all made sense in the author's head, and I certainly am no stranger to the feeling of writing in a rush of inspiration and then going back and remembering things that won't make sense to anyone but me. But that's just the thing; surely she went back! Surely she reread and redrafted over and over, and in all that time she never thought, "My, that's a bit of a non sequitur!" Then her family members and friends read it, and in that process no one ever asked her, "Wait, why is so-and-so doing this?" Editors both personal and professional, publishers, reviewers, critics. Dozens of people read it and everyone "got" it. <br />
<br />
<br />
This brings me to my subject line question: Am I not smart enough to read books? Because this is not the first time I've encountered this problem. It even exists in other places in the book I'm reading. Over and over, narrators, the people whose heads I am supposed to be inside, the people I should know inside and out, do things that utterly baffle me and fail to tell me why. The admonishment to "show, don't tell" is being taken to great extremes, because apparently meditating on your actions and explaining them to the audience is just too boring. Or maybe they're boring to everyone but me, because no one else needs them. <br />
<br />
<br />
I'm writing a book right now, narrated in first-person present-tense, just like the book that's the subject of this post. The difference is that my narrator thinks more than she talks, from long paragraphs in which she analyzes situations and her own feelings to sarcastic asides while she's having conversations. Yes, there are some scenes where she does things and doesn't explain why... the scenes in which not even she knows why she's doing what she's doing. <br />
<br />
<br />
Look, I found an easy fix for question 4: "Gourd, why am I so desperate to get this worthless book back from Gladiola? It's like I'm on a freight train and the brakes are out; doing this, insisting on this, is going to destroy me, but I can't stop myself."<br />
<br />
<br />
So... am I stupid? Is my book boring? Because that's how I feel whenever I stumble across something like this. I feel like every other reader, all the people who loved and recommended whatever book I'm reading, made those logical leaps easily, understanding perfectly why characters did what they did and felt how they felt, while I sit around helplessly confused and incredibly frustrated. I feel like if I ever let them read my book, if anyone anywhere ever reads my book, they'll sit there rolling their eyes and skimming the long, introspective paragraphs, saying, "Gosh, Pearl, you are <em>so</em> wordy. We know why she feels this way, we know why she acts this way. You don't have to tell us. It's ruining the story." <br />
<br />
<br />
*Sigh* Okay, I think my rant's finally over. I think I'll be able to go back to this book and read a little more before bed. But... please... if anyone else has ever had this happen, has ever been annoyed like this, could you please let me know? I'd really appreciate feeling less alone. <br />
<br />
<br />
Bye for now.<br />
<br />
<br />
~Pearl Clayton<br />
<br />Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-68747718784053353572014-08-20T22:16:00.001-07:002014-08-20T22:18:08.540-07:00Short Story #2: How Melvyn Martin Came to Develop an Unfortunate Rash on His Forearms So, guess what? I'M STILL ALIVE! <br />
<br />
<br />
No, really, I am. I haven't posted in a month and a half, and trust me, I feel quite sheepish about the whole thing. I do have a lame explanation, though.<br />
<br />
<br />
See, remember how I was doing that thing where I asked people to give me suggestions for short stories with every intention of taking their brilliant ideas and making them into full-on narratives? Well...... I received two wonderful suggestions from some very good friends of mine. Suggestions so wonderful, in fact, that, frankly, they scared me a bit. I looked at them and I said to myself, "Pearl, how are you ever going to do justice to those suggestions?"<br />
<br />
<br />
But it's been too long now, and I've finally decided that, regardless of my ability, I need to buckle down and get these stories written. So here goes. <br />
<br />
<br />
This story is written from the prompt, "write about two people carrying a sofa running through the middle of a big city chasing a van", courtesy of my very dear friend Aloisa. <br />
<br />
<br />
Keep the ideas coming! I'll write them all eventually, I promise! :) <br />
<br />
<br />
Ahem. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>How Melvyn Martin Came to Develop an Unfortunate Rash on His Forearms</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
It was at exactly twelve minutes past noon on the third day of a swelteringly hot July that the whole debacle began. Melvyn Martin, a short, bookish sort of a fellow with wispy hair and cumbersome eyeglasses, would remember that fact for the rest of his days, as he'd just been amusedly noting the delightfully symmetrical time when he heard Jason come out of the house.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>12:12</em>, Melvyn thought as the door slammed.<em> There's just something about that number that's so... nice. </em><br />
<br />
<br />
It<em> </em>would be the last time Melvyn ever thought something so naïve. <br />
<br />
<br />
Jason walked up and stood next to Melvyn, shading his eyes with his hand and squinting down at the driveway. Jason Lunt was Melvyn's roommate. This arrangement had originally been set up because Melvyn lacked the funds to get through college <em>and</em> rent a house. At the time, sharing a house with the six-something, boorish, outdoorsy Jason had seemed to Melvyn rather like penance for some unspeakable sin, but as time passed, they'd grown quite used to each other's company. They were so accustomed to each other, in fact, that when they had an intense discussion of their finances in which Melvyn did most of the talking and realized that, now that Melvyn was out of college and had gotten himself a job of reasonable respectability, they were collectively bringing in a great deal more money than they had at first, instead of joyfully deciding to move out and finally get his own place, Melvyn suggested that he and Jason get a bigger house. <br />
<br />
<br />
Today was moving day. Melvyn, Jason, and Jason's two older brothers had finally finished loading the last of the furniture into Jason's oldest brother's van, and the two elder Lunts were getting ready to set off for Melvyn and Jason's snazzy new downtown apartment. Melvyn and Jason would follow later. It was 12:12 and all was right with the world.<br />
<br />
<br />
Except that the way Jason was squinting down at the driveway was making Melvyn nervous. Melvyn was constantly telling Jason that he needed glasses, but six years of closely observing the damper that Melvyn's truly daunting spectacles seemed to put on his social interactions (particularly those involving the participation of the opposite gender) had permanently turned Jason off of the idea. When Jason raised these objections, Melvyn would reply that wearing glasses couldn't possibly be more damaging to one's social career than the inability to see, <em>especially </em>considering the way that Jason was constantly having to squint at things in that <em>highly disturbing</em> way...<br />
<br />
<br />
"Say, Mel, d'you think they're gonna load up that sofa?" <br />
<br />
<br />
Melvyn blinked in surprise as Jason's interjection interrupted his musings. Slowly, he turned his attention to the driveway. There was the van, the front seat occupied by Jason's brothers (whose intelligence, or, rather, lack thereof had taught Melvyn to be far more appreciative of Jason's high-school-educated approach to life). Positioned directly behind the van was the maroon-and-cerulean-paisley-on-taupe sofa, a housewarming gift from Jason's mother. Melvyn hated that sofa. For one thing, it didn't match <em>any</em> of their other furniture, and then there was the fact that it was made of some <em>horrid</em> fabric like polyester or rayon only more evil that gave Melvyn a rash if it touched his skin, so he couldn't wear shorts if he was going to sit on it, not that he <em>ever</em> wore shorts, he couldn't understand why <em>any</em> men ever wore shorts, they looked <em>so</em> silly, but anyway it's not like Melvyn could say anything negative about the sofa because Jason was <em>so</em> childishly attached to his mother that Sigmund Freud would've wept for joy if they'd been introduced...<br />
<br />
<br />
"Well, I assume so."<br />
<br />
<br />
"Okay. It's just... doesn't it look like they're gettin' ready to go?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"Well, yeah, but I'm sure they'll jump out and shove it in before they go. Relax, Jason." <br />
<br />
<br />
No sooner had Melvyn said this than the van's engine was revved and the van began to pull out of the driveway.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Mel, look, they're leavin' the sofa!"<br />
<br />
<br />
Melvyn shrugged. "I guess they ran out of room. They'll probably come back for it-"<br />
<br />
<br />
"No, they won't!" Jason interrupted, in a voice far more tinted by panic than Melvyn considered to be necessary. "Mel, this was 'sposed to be the last trip! Oh, you don't know my bros, Mel. When they say somethin's gonna be the last trip, it's gonna be the last trip! There's no way they'll come back for that sofa!"<br />
<br />
<br />
"Oookaaaay..." Melvyn replied slowly. "Um- I see the problem, but what exactly do you intend-"<br />
<br />
<br />
"We've gotta grab it and catch up with 'em!" Jason yelled enthusiastically as he ran toward the dreaded piece of décor.<br />
<br />
<br />
"<em>Whaaat</em>?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"C'mon, Mel!" Jason had already lifted one end of the sofa and was looking at Melvyn with a desperate urgency that was massively disproportionate to the scale of the problem at hand. <br />
<br />
<br />
Ranked only slightly behind "Stubborn Refusal to Get Glasses" on Melvyn's list of Jason's more regrettable tendencies was "Unchangeable Belief in Action Hero Status". Jason seemed to be of the opinion that taking things far too seriously would make him cooler and would, ultimately, turn him into the type of man that violent shoot-'em-up movies with twist endings tended to center on. Melvyn, meanwhile, firmly believed that Jason wasn't remotely the sort of person who ends up running from the government with a beautiful girl in tow and more the sort who... well, who ends up chasing vans while carrying paisley sofas. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Jason," Melvyn said remonstratively as he ran up to the other end of the sofa, mentally preparing his hugely logical rebuttal to Jason's hugely illogical plan. "You-"<br />
<br />
<br />
"WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO TALK! PICK UP THE SOFA, MEL!"<br />
<br />
<br />
Considering the circumstances, Melvyn can certainly be forgiven for reflexively lifting his end of the sofa. And really, once Jason had inexplicably squeezed his eyes shut and then began running backwards after the van, Melvyn didn't have much of a choice but to come along.<br />
<br />
<br />
Right off the bat, the two ran into some problems.<br />
<br />
<br />
The difference in their heights, for one, which made the sofa's balance awkwardly lopsided. It also made it difficult for Melvyn to see over Jason's head, which caused a few steering complications. But after running into (and upsetting) three trash cans, Jason finally opened his eyes and turned his head so as to watch where he was going, which made the whole process go much more smoothly. <br />
<br />
<br />
But even after that, there was still the problem of Jason's bad eyesight, which resulted in the pair (or rather the trio, if you count the sofa) ramming into a few walls and also a cat which Jason afterwards <em>swore</em> looked just <em>exactly</em> like a blanket until it yowled in anger and attacked his legs. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then there is the generally known fact that carrying a full-size overstuffed sofa while running is slightly exhausting, especially, and note that this is not meant to insult anybody, when one is a short, bookish sort of a fellow, i.e. someone not much accustomed to exercise. This special dilemma of Melvyn's was somewhat exacerbated by his continuing attempts to talk Jason out of the whole "catch-up-with-the-van" idea.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Jason, couldn't we just bring the sofa in our car when we go up later?" <br />
<br />
<br />
"THERE'S NOT ENOUGH ROOM! THIS IS THE ONLY WAY!"<br />
<br />
<br />
"Well, we could ask to borrow your brother's van-"<br />
<br />
<br />
"HE'LL NEVER AGREE! YOU DON'T KNOW HIM, MEL, HE KNOWS NO REASON!"<br />
<br />
<br />
"Jason, I am <em>right here</em>. You don't have to keep shouting at me."<br />
<br />
<br />
"GO FASTER, MEL! WE'RE LOSING THEM!"<br />
<br />
<br />
They had, in fact, already lost them, due to the fact that vans, in general, move more quickly than people on foot, especially when those people are carrying sofas. But Jason Lunt was nothing if not persistent. <br />
<br />
<br />
Luckily for all persons and sofas involved in the debacle, Jason and Melvyn's original home was not very far away from their new one, and was even nearer to the first streets that could theoretically be considered "downtown". And, as everyone knows, no matter the day of the week or the time of day, downtown streets will invariably, inexplicably, and inevitably be more difficult to traverse than suburban ones.<br />
<br />
<br />
And so it occurred that, within a few more minutes, Jason and Melvyn caught sight of Jason's oldest brother's van, now moving much more slowly than it had been when it left the house. <br />
<br />
<br />
They then immediately lost it again, because it turned a corner. <br />
<br />
<br />
"C'MON, MEL! WE'VE ALMOST GOT IT!"<br />
<br />
<br />
"<em>Oh, my back</em>," Melvyn moaned in response.<br />
<br />
<br />
That was about when they met Janie.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, actually, they met Ms. Anderson first.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, <em>actually</em>, <em>first</em> Jason said, speaking in a normal (if rather breathless) voice for the first time since the commencement of their grand adventure, "Yikes, I wouldn't want to be on her bad side."<br />
<br />
<br />
Melvyn was rather surprised, equally by the quietness and the randomness of Jason's comment. <br />
<br />
<br />
His surprised was greatly increased by the abrupt and rather painful collision between his head and a large jonquil-and-magenta-plaid handbag. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Dirty thieves!" came a screeching voice from far too close to Melvyn's ear. He turned to see the heavily-made-up face of a female of uncertain age who was wearing a mauve dress with teal polka dots and wielding the aforementioned mercenary handbag. She proceeded to hit Melvyn again as she demanded, "Who do you think you are, running off with a helpless old lady's couch? That couch cost me good money, you young rapscallions!" <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>That</em> was when Janie showed up, bouncing along beside the two men, the sofa, and the gaudily dressed lady. Janie was a small, bookish sort of a girl with large horn-rimmed spectacles and messy, wispy black braids. Perhaps Melvyn would've detected a sort of kindred spirit in her, if he hadn't at that moment been so distracted by the cacophonous explosion of breathlessly simultaneous talking that had broken out right around that time.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, this isn't your couch, it's ours," Melvyn said.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Mel, what's a rapscallion?" Jason asked.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Why would two young whippersnappers have a couch like this?" Ms. Anderson demanded.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Some people have uncommon tastes, Ms. Anderson." Janie explained sagely.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Is it a kind of vegetable?" Jason asked.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Where did you two come from?" Melvyn asked Janie and Ms. Anderson. (At the time, Melvyn was wondering how this plump lady and skinny girl were keeping up with him and Jason so easily, having apparently forgotten that he and Jason had been running while carrying a sofa for several blocks and were thus moving at a rather easily kept pace.) <br />
<br />
<br />
"There's an apartment complex a few blocks behind us. Ms. Anderson saw you guys running by as she was coming home from her jazzercise class and she thought you must've stolen her couch," Janie explained (she was quite an adept explainer).<br />
<br />
<br />
"Who are you?" Melvyn asked.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Are whippersnappers food, too?" Jason asked.<br />
<br />
<br />
"I'm Janie," Janie explained.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Okay," Melvyn said.<br />
<br />
<br />
"By the way, it's a sofa, not a couch," Jason said, having given up on getting the definitions of rapscallions and whippersnappers.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Oh," Ms. Anderson said, pulling up in surprise. "Well, if it's a sofa, it can't be mine. I have a couch."<br />
<br />
<br />
Janie stayed behind with Ms. Anderson while Melvyn, Jason, and the sofa (which was not a couch) ran on. "Maybe we'll see you around," Janie called after them.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Yeah, maybe," Melvyn called back, realizing how close he and Jason were to their new home.<br />
<br />
<br />
This episode had rudely shattered Jason's glorious action hero ideal, as action heroes generally aren't attacked by colorfully attired ladies and their helpful explanatory companions. And so it was that the latter leg of the roommates' trip featured a lot less yelling and running into things than the former. Of course, there was still some yelling and running into things, most of it occurring when Jason briefly stopped looking over his shoulder and they consequently bowled over an old man who, as it turned out, was a sailor, and who, incidentally, spoke and acted in the way that the most depressingly stereotypical sailors do. <br />
<br />
<br />
But, at last, Jason and Melvyn stumbled into the parking lot of their new apartment complex. Jason's two brothers were there, awaiting Jason and Melvyn's eventual arrival in their car. They expressed the appropriate amount of shock and confusion, gave Jason the proper amount of meaner-than-necessary brotherly teasing, and went on with their mundane lives.<br />
<br />
<br />
While Jason's brothers fulfilled these responsibilities, Melvyn and Jason sat sprawled on the sofa, panting. When the brothers had finished and wandered away, Melvyn panted out, gasping after each word, "I. Hate. You."<br />
<br />
<br />
"Well," Jason replied, gasping in turn, "We. Couldn't. Just. Leave it. There. Now could we?"<br />
<br />
<br />
Melvyn sat up, stared deep into Jason's eyes, and said, "YES. We could've."<br />
<br />
<br />
Alas, Melvyn had donned a short-sleeved shirt on that fateful morning, and the prolonged exposure to whatever absolutely wretched fabric covered the sofa had resulted in the worst rash Melvyn had ever had. To make matters more humiliating, the following day the local newspaper's front page sported a photograph of Melvyn, Jason, and the sofa running through the crowded city streets underneath the headline "TWO MEN AND PAISLEY SOFA RACE THROUGH DOWNTOWN". Melvyn wanted to find as many copies as possible and burn them; Jason had the front page framed and hung in the living room over the sofa. Melvyn vowed he would never forgive Jason for the episode. But the simple fact of the matter is that no two people who had such a symbiotic mutual dislike as Melvyn and Jason could possibly stay mad at each other for long, and Melvyn ended up forgiving Jason long before his rash had faded. <br />
<br />
<br />
THE END. <br />
<br />
<br />
Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3105923381903133142.post-45287489077435305512014-07-05T21:02:00.000-07:002014-07-05T21:02:01.769-07:00Short Story #1: The Readin' LassIntroduction - Following is the first short story of my new writing project (refer to previous post for details), based on a suggestion from my mentor: "a story from the perspective of a Nac Mac Feegle who is spying on a young woman who is reading <em>The Wee Free Men</em> for the first time". I hope that it is appreciated, and please give me some more suggestions because writing this has been great fun.<br />
<br /><br />
Disclaimer - Because I am not Terry Pratchett, I cannot vouch for the accuracy or inoffensiveness of the Wee Free Man-speak (in fact, my Wee Free Man-speak might even be shamefully intermingled with some Southern American inflection because I happen to be reading <em>To Kill a Mockingbird</em>), but I tried writing it without using the affected Scottish brogue and it just looked wrong. Also, this will probably make very little sense to anyone who hasn't read Terry Pratchett's Tiffany Aching books.<br />
<br /><br />
And now, without further ado......<br />
<br /><br />
<em>The Readin' Lass</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
I peek oot from behind the curtains at the big wee lass, tryin' to figure out what she's doin'. She's not movin' much. Looks a bit lazy, really. Maybe she's just starin' doon at her hands. I've seen bigjobs doin' stranger things. But I've got no pressin' engaygements at the mooment, so I might as well go en for a closer look.<br />
<br /><br />
I zip aroond to the other side of the room and lean in. I can jest aboot see what she's holdin' noo. I lean in, jest a little closer, and...<br />
<br /><br />
Och, <em>crivens</em>! She's <em>readin'</em>!<br />
<br /><br />
I make a beeline for the nearest exit. Nayver trust a lass who reads, noo that's jest common knowledge. Written words is dangerous things.<br />
<br /><br />
I've nearly made it safely oot when I hear somethin' odd and turn back aroond without stoppin' to think it through. I hafta squint to see her better, cause ye can bet yeer boots I won't be gettin' too close agin. <br />
<br /><br />
She's laughin.<br />
<br /><br />
Noo, I've heerd o' writin' causin' the wailin', and the pullin' o' the hair, and the gnashin' o' the teeth; I've heerd o' writin' leadin' to the likes o' curses and murder most foul; but I've nayver heerd o' any writin' makin' a body laugh.<br />
<br /><br />
Laughin' is somethin' ye do when fightin', or boozin', or when the Big Man tells a joke whether it's amusin' or not. <br />
<br /><br />
I take a wee step closer. <br />
<br /><br />
I turn my heid a bit to see what the book's front looks like and I nearly leap outta my skin.<br />
<br /><br />
<em>Feegles.</em><br />
<br /><br />
There're Feegles on her book, painted up nice and pretty! I'd swear it on my heid!<br />
<br /><br />
Ooh, so she's a-laughin' at Feegles, is she? Weil, she'll wish she hadn't, oh, she'll wish...<br />
<br /><br />
"Hello." <br />
<br /><br />
CRIVENS! <br />
<br /><br />
I leap right outta sight and git back to hidin' behind her curtains, but it's too late. She saw me alreidy, and now she's laughin' agin. <br />
<br /><br />
I'll no' stand fer this.<br />
<br /><br />
I spring back oot, holdin' my sword high and lookin' <em>quite</em> terrifyin'. "Now see here, ye big wee lassie!" I say in my moost commandin' voice. "I dunno what filthy slanders yu've been readin', but they're none o' them true, ye hear? Who wrote 'em? I'll find 'im and he'll wish he'd never so much as <em>thought</em> about Feegles!" <br />
<br /><br />
She's not smilin' anymore. Clever lass. The corners of her mooth is jest twitchin', that's all (from fear, undootedly).<br />
<br /><br />
"Forgive me, master Feegle," she says very po-lightly. "But I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."<br />
<br /><br />
"Oh yeah?" I say. "Then how'd ye ken I'm called a <em>Feegle</em>?" (Noo I've caught her in her deception.)<br />
<br /><br />
"Why, I've just been reading about you," she says. "Well, not <em>you</em> specifically, but Feegles in general. The Wee Free Men." <br />
<br /><br />
"Tell me what it says!" I insist. She reaches for the book and starts to open it. I shriek (in a verra manly way). "No, don't<em> read</em> it, that's no' safe! Jest tell me what it says about Feegles."<br />
<br /><br />
"Well... It says you're very brave," she esplains. <br />
<br /><br />
"That's... oh," I say. That's <em>no'</em> a slanderous falsehood. "Go on."<br />
<br /><br />
"And very ferocious."<br />
<br /><br />
"Yeah?"<br />
<br /><br />
"And that you're the greatest drinkers and fighters the world has ever known."<br />
<br /><br />
Maybe this book isn't soo bad after all. <br />
<br /><br />
Then I remember somethin'.<br />
<br /><br />
"Weil, if it says all that about Feegles, <em>what were ye laughin' at</em>?" I inquaar. We'll jest see hoo she dodges <em>that</em>.<br />
<br /><br />
She smiles. "I was laughing at everybody else in the book. They're all a bit ridiculous, especially when compared to all you Feegles."<br />
<br /><br />
I think this over a mooment. "That makes sense," I say.<br />
<br /><br />
"Well, of course it does," she says back.<br />
<br /><br />
I think it over another mooment. "I'm still no' entirely shure I believe ye," I say at last.<br />
<br /><br />
"Oh?" <br />
<br /><br />
"Per'aps... per'aps, big wee lassie, ye could read me a little?" I ask.<br />
<br /><br />
She lifts her eyebrows. "Are you sure? I thought it wasn't safe."<br />
<br /><br />
I puff my chist out. "Are yu' suggesting that a Nac Mac Feegle is afeerd of a few written words?" <br />
<br /><br />
"Of course not," she says. "I wouldn't <em>dream</em> of saying anything <em>half</em> so silly. Come over here."<br />
<br /><br />
I go over and sit doon next to her. <br />
<br /><br />
Truth be told, it <em>is</em> a big risk lettin' somebody read alood to yu'. But surely somethin' that says so many good things aboot Feegles canna be <em>too</em> dangerous. <br />
<br /><br />
Besides, I'm a Nac Mac Feegle. I can handle a wee bit o' danger jest fine.<br />
<br /><br />
THE END.<br />
<br /><br />
~Pearl Clayton Pearl Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07364560956720313974noreply@blogger.com2