I’m thinking about expanding my writing skills by penning a 10 page, handwritten love letter to my new KitchenAid mixer.
Have you heard? There’s a New York City bookswap next week!
If you like, RSVP at the tumblr meetup page. Or just show up. We’re ok with that, too.
via 
#4: Let the Great World Spin by Colum Mccan
I have a really bad habit of not knowing anything about books before buying and reading them. You’d think at some point this practice would show me who’s boss and give me something awful, but so far it has treated me fairly well. This particular book had me puzzled because I had heard it mentioned, read a couple of recommendations, seen it on shelves and yet I didn’t have a bit of interest in finding out the plot.
BUT THE TITLE! I thought about the title long before I read the book. It encapsulates the feeling I sometimes don’t have words to describe. There’s a cyclical movement that not only makes the world go round, but also brings people together again and again. Spinning is something we do in frilly dresses, on top of plastic children’s toys, and unfortunately, in group gym classes. People spinning is totally different though. It builds and builds. It keeps the world in check. At first it may be mistaken for redundancy, but the word spinning, when put in the context of the entire world, offers something a bit more whimsical.
Now eventually, after I started reading, the world really did begin to spin! It took something that already happened and then built a story on top. Many years ago a man danced on a wire between the The World Trade Centers. It’s a true story - one I watched on DVD while on vacation this summer. This novel revolves around a particular day, specifically this incident. Each character offers their version of the story, interjecting perspective into what could have been a very confusing set of events. History is told backwards and forwards. With the ending of every memoir, I was sad to move on to the next. It was a good sign though. Attachment to each character, their history, their relationships, was what the book was all about.
Ten minutes after I finished reading at lunch today, I loaned the book out to a co-worker. Usually I get nervous loaning out books and wonder if I’ll get them back. This time, I handed it over and said “Here, you’ll love it.” Just like the world, I guess the books have to spin, too.
Library Voices - Kundera on the Dance Floor
This has now become the 52books theme song.
Is it weird to talk about about your blog on your blog? I think I’m going to have to. The internet has a strange way of conversing, but really, there’s no better way to let the world see your obsessions. So please, bear with me as I talk about myself.
There is an unseen distance between what I type into the computer and what I believe people see here. When getting to know new people in real life, I often mention “I read a bit”. The phrase has a nonchalance to it that I hope will convey indifference towards the books I usually have stuffed inside my purse. To tell people I have a blog about books seems even more frightening. What if they ask me about authors I don’t know? What if they want an opinion I don’t have? What if I’m forced to talk about an internet life in public? But it’s so much more than that. It’s a selfish hope that I’ll be able to keep everything I love about reading all to myself without anyone telling me to think differently. When I look around my apartment and see stacks of books, I envision a reflection of my own personality. I’ve built a kind of shelter by stacking the words of others - one of saftey and one of support.
But it’s time move on.
Sharing a quote or posting someone else’s photograph has become the easy way out for me. It doesn’t allow for an explanation. Instead, it offers a way for me to be a part of what I believe to be universal truths. The idea that my writing, in regards to books or anything else, could ever account for such truths continues to betray my own wonder. And wonder is something I hope to never lose. If taking the chance of writing actually means losing a certain amount of underlying vanity, so be it. In the past, I’ve explained this blog as a way for me to share my life without posting loads of self-portraits, a saying that I fear might make me sound like a pompous asshole or someone who is overly afraid of modern technology. Cross my heart, I try hard not to be either one. A change in my way of thinking and admitting to myself that bravery often comes written will be my own form of portrait. The small posts can mean a lot, and of course they’ll continue. It’s the process of managing to include my work that will really test the patience.
To actually begin, to say I will write more, feels a lot like the preface of a novel that is so often skipped. I’ll try with all the strength I can muster or as they say “exercise an unused muscle.” I am simply telling you what I want in the hope I’ll get the courage to make it happen. My imagination can’t quite comprehend the idea of writing fiction as an extension of myself, but an essay here, maybe a something-or-other there, will surely be a trip. And the best way to write: start here.
Flavorwire has come out with a pretty decent mixtape for bookworms, reminding me that it’s about time I make a follow-up to books are the new boyfriend. Weekend plans = Volume II.
Thanks goes to Tug at about-today for the heads-up to the link. Be sure to check him out for new music!
#3: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
Preface:
This book made me cry. A lot. In the following places: the work commute, the lunch break, the B63 bus, McDonald’s (leave me alone), and my apartment. If you’re looking for a solid session of weeping, this is the story for you.
Thoughts:
Over the last few months, I had heard over and over again that if you are looking to read more female writers, you start with Joan Didion. It’s here that I’ll wholeheartly agree. Finally buying The Year of Magical Thinking a couple of weeks ago, I nonchalantly walked out of the store with what I thought was a book about a fantastic, whimsical love. The world “magical” has a certain connotation in my mind, one that leads to a sense of elation. Clearly, I had not done my homework. In Didion’s world, The Year of Magical Thinking happened after the sudden death of her husband (whom she did fantastically and whimsically love)during an ordinary dinner at their home, while her daughter was being treated in Intensive Care. A life can change in an instant, but it appears that one’s writing doesn’t have to. Didion’s, in what is my only experience with her thus far, hit a nerve with me. It made feel as though I had loved the people she loved, travelled where she travelled, and wrote what she wrote.
I’ve worked in the medical field for a few years now and still find myself thinking that I really don’t know anything. One can research medical issues and feel better, but as Didion so eloquently expresses, there is only so much information can cure. Experiences such as hers, death and illness of loved ones, are more telling of what happens in one’s life and the amount of strength (how ever changing and how ever meaningful that is) they can show.
Finally, I’ll just mention that I can see so much of what I want in Didion’s writing. Not often do I read sentances and think “That’s it! That’s what I want to read all the time!” Her prose is both smart and welcoming; it did not make me as a lowly little reader with nothing to offer. Instead, I was able to merge my own experiences with hers. Every couple of chapters I would look to the back cover in order to see (again) the portrait of her family. It only brought about more curiosity. So in the months to come, I’ll continue with my wikipedia searches about her and hope to read a little more.
