If you'll recall my post from the beginning of June, you may remember that I had two goals for the summer.
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 have been writing more, on this blog at the very least.
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.
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 (Twilight, The Hunger Games, and Divergent). 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.
Yep, I decided to go with the Sci-Fi.
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.
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?
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.
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):
The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells
The Foundation trilogy by Isaac Asimov
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert Heinlein
Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson
***
As indicated by the title of this post, I started The War of the Worlds 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).
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.
As for why I chose The War of the Worlds 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.
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.
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 -
The book says, "Denning*, our greatest authority on meteorites, stated that the height of its first appearance was about ninety or one hundred miles."
The corresponding endnote says, "Denning: William Frederick Denning (1848-1931), Britain's leading authority on meteorites."
WOW. Thank you, Penguin Classics! How would I ever have known who Denning was if I'd only read the non-annotated version of the book?
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.
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.
Forward.
~Pearl Clayton
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Unexpected Happy Endings: My New Favorite Kind
Alright, I know I was a bit hard on Frozen 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.
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.
The single upside of this newfound cynicism is that it makes the happy endings feel even better when they do show up.
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.
Then, on Thursday night, I got to see the musical Wicked 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, Wicked 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 Wizard of Oz 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 Wicked is actually pretty hopeful and even fairytale-like.
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.
And it's an amazing feeling.
That second in the movie that the fireshot night scene jump cuts to a perfect spring day - the moment at the end of Wicked 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.
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.
I think that's why they're my new favorite kind of ending.
~Pearl Clayton
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.
The single upside of this newfound cynicism is that it makes the happy endings feel even better when they do show up.
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.
Then, on Thursday night, I got to see the musical Wicked 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, Wicked 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 Wizard of Oz 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 Wicked is actually pretty hopeful and even fairytale-like.
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.
And it's an amazing feeling.
That second in the movie that the fireshot night scene jump cuts to a perfect spring day - the moment at the end of Wicked 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.
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.
I think that's why they're my new favorite kind of ending.
~Pearl Clayton
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
I Demand More Silly Movies
A little over two months ago (on April 11th) I went out and saw the new Cinderella 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.
Why?
Because it is so incredibly silly.
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).
It is the silliest movie I've seen in a long time.
I loved every minute of it. It is now my second favorite film adaptation of Cinderella, after the Drew Barrymore movie Ever After (random aside: if you've never seen Ever After, go watch it right now. Leonardo da Vinci is the fairy godmother. It's pretty amazing).
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.
Take another of Disney's recent films: Frozen. Poor, poor Frozen. Frozen might very well be the most embarrassed movie I have ever seen. Watching Frozen 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 just won't listen.
Frozen: Oh... oh my goodness... oh dear.... oh, look what I've done. Oh.... oh... look at all these movies about love at first sight!
Me: Hey, don't worry about it. We like those movies.
Frozen: 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?
Me: You don't have to do that. I wasn't mad.
Frozen: No, you were, you WERE, I know you were. And oh... oh no, for seventy-five years we've been saying that romantic love is more important than familial love! Oh, I am SO SORRY.
Me: Stop apologizing. Really. It's okay.
Frozen: 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!
Me: I promise I don't mind.
Frozen: YOU DO, YOU DO, YOU DO MIND. I HAVE TO FIX THIS.
Me: You really don't.
Frozen: I do though. SEE, LOOK KIDS, TRUE LOVE CAN HAPPEN BETWEEN SISTERS.
Me: Frozen, please calm down.
Frozen: NO I CAN'T I'VE RUINED EVERYTHING.
Me: I mean it. I swear I'm not mad about this. Just take a deep breath and come down from the table...
Frozen: Not until I'm done fixing everything!
Me: Oh my word, Frozen, RELAX. You are going to hurt yourself.
Frozen: LOOK LOOK LOOK THE GIRL SAVED HER SISTER ALL BY HERSELF. GIRL POWER! (Insane laughter which quickly devolves into hysterical sobbing)
Me: (Soothingly, while gently stroking Frozen's hair) Yeah. Okay. Yeah. You fixed it. We're okay now. Hush...
Frozen: (Strangled sob) Look at the cute snowman...
Me: Yep. I see him. Hush now. Shhhhhhh...
Compare this to Cinderella, which pretty much just says, "Yeah. I'm silly. What are you gonna do about it?"
So here's my question: why do things like movies and books exist in the first place?
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. Frozen seemingly exists to atone for mistakes that Disney is convinced it's made.
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.
That's why we have fairy tales.
That's why we have movies like Cinderella, 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.
It's why we have movies like Ever After, which is massively historically inaccurate, but again, I don't care, because Leonardo da Vinci is the fairy godmother.
It's why we have books like The Three Musketeers (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.
And the thing is... I think stories like these are going out style.
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".
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 Schindler's List or The Hunger Games or The Dark Knight. I'm going to watch Ever After. 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.
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.
So c'mon, Hollywood. Make me some more silly movies.
~Pearl Clayton
Why?
Because it is so incredibly silly.
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).
It is the silliest movie I've seen in a long time.
I loved every minute of it. It is now my second favorite film adaptation of Cinderella, after the Drew Barrymore movie Ever After (random aside: if you've never seen Ever After, go watch it right now. Leonardo da Vinci is the fairy godmother. It's pretty amazing).
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.
Take another of Disney's recent films: Frozen. Poor, poor Frozen. Frozen might very well be the most embarrassed movie I have ever seen. Watching Frozen 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 just won't listen.
Frozen: Oh... oh my goodness... oh dear.... oh, look what I've done. Oh.... oh... look at all these movies about love at first sight!
Me: Hey, don't worry about it. We like those movies.
Frozen: 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?
Me: You don't have to do that. I wasn't mad.
Frozen: No, you were, you WERE, I know you were. And oh... oh no, for seventy-five years we've been saying that romantic love is more important than familial love! Oh, I am SO SORRY.
Me: Stop apologizing. Really. It's okay.
Frozen: 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!
Me: I promise I don't mind.
Frozen: YOU DO, YOU DO, YOU DO MIND. I HAVE TO FIX THIS.
Me: You really don't.
Frozen: I do though. SEE, LOOK KIDS, TRUE LOVE CAN HAPPEN BETWEEN SISTERS.
Me: Frozen, please calm down.
Frozen: NO I CAN'T I'VE RUINED EVERYTHING.
Me: I mean it. I swear I'm not mad about this. Just take a deep breath and come down from the table...
Frozen: Not until I'm done fixing everything!
Me: Oh my word, Frozen, RELAX. You are going to hurt yourself.
Frozen: LOOK LOOK LOOK THE GIRL SAVED HER SISTER ALL BY HERSELF. GIRL POWER! (Insane laughter which quickly devolves into hysterical sobbing)
Me: (Soothingly, while gently stroking Frozen's hair) Yeah. Okay. Yeah. You fixed it. We're okay now. Hush...
Frozen: (Strangled sob) Look at the cute snowman...
Me: Yep. I see him. Hush now. Shhhhhhh...
Compare this to Cinderella, which pretty much just says, "Yeah. I'm silly. What are you gonna do about it?"
So here's my question: why do things like movies and books exist in the first place?
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. Frozen seemingly exists to atone for mistakes that Disney is convinced it's made.
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.
That's why we have fairy tales.
That's why we have movies like Cinderella, 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.
It's why we have movies like Ever After, which is massively historically inaccurate, but again, I don't care, because Leonardo da Vinci is the fairy godmother.
It's why we have books like The Three Musketeers (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.
And the thing is... I think stories like these are going out style.
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".
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 Schindler's List or The Hunger Games or The Dark Knight. I'm going to watch Ever After. 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.
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.
So c'mon, Hollywood. Make me some more silly movies.
~Pearl Clayton
Monday, June 8, 2015
Le Bon Temps Viendra
This post is kind of sort of a continuation of the one from a week ago. Ish. Mostly it's just random thoughts.
Off we go then.
Currently, I am reading (in fact, am very nearly finished with) a book called The Conqueror. It's by Georgette Heyer, who wrote These Old Shades, which I read (and loved) back in April. I'm not loving The Conqueror quite as much, but that's not actually relevant to this post.
The Conqueror 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: Le bon temps viendra."
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 These Old Shades (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.
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.
The second thing I learned is that "le bon temps viendra" means "the good times will come".
Go ahead and let that sink in.
The good times will come.
One thing's for sure; that's quite a house motto.
It'd make for quite a life motto, too.
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.
Hold on a second - I just remembered that I hate first person plural pronoun usage.
Sometimes I'm the one struggling.
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 no, the good times will not 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.
But the thing is... I think they will.
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.
But the good times will come.
The world is still a fallen one, in which people let you down, and get older, and move away, and die, and are forgotten.
But the good times will come.
Everyone in the world has rough days and grief and uphill battles in their futures.
But that doesn't, and cannot, and never will change the fact that le bon temps viendra.
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.
I don't care.
For today, at the very least, I'm taking a cue from Raoul de Harcourt and making le bon temps viendra my motto.
The good times will come.
~Pearl Clayton
Off we go then.
Currently, I am reading (in fact, am very nearly finished with) a book called The Conqueror. It's by Georgette Heyer, who wrote These Old Shades, which I read (and loved) back in April. I'm not loving The Conqueror quite as much, but that's not actually relevant to this post.
The Conqueror 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: Le bon temps viendra."
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 These Old Shades (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.
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.
The second thing I learned is that "le bon temps viendra" means "the good times will come".
Go ahead and let that sink in.
The good times will come.
One thing's for sure; that's quite a house motto.
It'd make for quite a life motto, too.
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.
Hold on a second - I just remembered that I hate first person plural pronoun usage.
Sometimes I'm the one struggling.
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 no, the good times will not 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.
But the thing is... I think they will.
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.
But the good times will come.
The world is still a fallen one, in which people let you down, and get older, and move away, and die, and are forgotten.
But the good times will come.
Everyone in the world has rough days and grief and uphill battles in their futures.
But that doesn't, and cannot, and never will change the fact that le bon temps viendra.
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.
I don't care.
For today, at the very least, I'm taking a cue from Raoul de Harcourt and making le bon temps viendra my motto.
The good times will come.
~Pearl Clayton
Monday, June 1, 2015
Summer Plans
Don't you just love me?
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!
And then two more months go by.
Whoops.
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.
So I've decided that I'm going to be.
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.
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.
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 very 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.
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.
I hope that this is an absolutely amazing summer.
That's all for now... but you should be hearing from me again soon.
~Pearl Clayton
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!
And then two more months go by.
Whoops.
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.
So I've decided that I'm going to be.
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.
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.
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 very 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.
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.
I hope that this is an absolutely amazing summer.
That's all for now... but you should be hearing from me again soon.
~Pearl Clayton
Thursday, April 9, 2015
I'm Still Alive
Hello.
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.
The fact is, I just haven't had anything to say.
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.
Which makes no sense, because it's not as though nothing's happened. I read Fahrenheit 451, 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 died. 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 should have been written about.
So why have I been so...... unaffectable?
(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.
I now return you to our regularly scheduled self-analysis.)
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 loved 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.
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).
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.
And then...... the last two weeks happened.
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 read 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 so excited.
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.
In the midst of that week and a half, I finally finished and turned in some overdue homework assignments. Writing 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 quite as horrible as it's seemed lately. Maybe.
Next came These Old Shades. These Old Shades 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.
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 right now. Books I might actually read sooner rather than later, regardless of the list.
And I want to read more books by the author of These Old Shades. Sooner rather than later. My poor, poor list.
Finally, there was The Foreshadowing. 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 less than twelve hours. That felt good. Really, really good.
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. Great. Amazing. Sparkly. Capable of becoming okay again.
Still alive.
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.
Now wouldn't that be glorious.
~Pearl Clayton
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.
The fact is, I just haven't had anything to say.
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.
Which makes no sense, because it's not as though nothing's happened. I read Fahrenheit 451, 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 died. 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 should have been written about.
So why have I been so...... unaffectable?
(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.
I now return you to our regularly scheduled self-analysis.)
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 loved 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.
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).
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.
And then...... the last two weeks happened.
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 read 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 so excited.
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.
In the midst of that week and a half, I finally finished and turned in some overdue homework assignments. Writing 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 quite as horrible as it's seemed lately. Maybe.
Next came These Old Shades. These Old Shades 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.
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 right now. Books I might actually read sooner rather than later, regardless of the list.
And I want to read more books by the author of These Old Shades. Sooner rather than later. My poor, poor list.
Finally, there was The Foreshadowing. 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 less than twelve hours. That felt good. Really, really good.
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. Great. Amazing. Sparkly. Capable of becoming okay again.
Still alive.
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.
Now wouldn't that be glorious.
~Pearl Clayton
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Something I Miss About Public School: A Confession
I hated 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.
That being said, there are some things I miss about public school.
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.
And......
I miss Valentine's Day.
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.
I'm nerdy, antisocial, introverted, and unromantic; such attitudes are expected of me.
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.
And it was all just so inexplicably nice.
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 light?
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.
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 do 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.
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.
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.
'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.
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 this would happen, I say, then none of this other stuff would matter. If only Valentine's Day were like this, 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 won't be like that, so I'll never have to deal with being proven wrong.
*Sigh*
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 great detail.
(Just kidding. Things got a bit mopey there and I thought it would be better to end on a humorous note.)
Happy Valentine's Day.
~Pearl Clayton
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.
That's it. Bye now.
That being said, there are some things I miss about public school.
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.
And......
I miss Valentine's Day.
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.
I'm nerdy, antisocial, introverted, and unromantic; such attitudes are expected of me.
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.
And it was all just so inexplicably nice.
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 light?
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.
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 do 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.
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.
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.
'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.
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 this would happen, I say, then none of this other stuff would matter. If only Valentine's Day were like this, 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 won't be like that, so I'll never have to deal with being proven wrong.
*Sigh*
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 great detail.
(Just kidding. Things got a bit mopey there and I thought it would be better to end on a humorous note.)
Happy Valentine's Day.
~Pearl Clayton
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.
That's it. Bye now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)