In many ways, 2019 kicked my fanny. It began with the recognition that I needed to leave a career I had loved for fifteen years, and it ended with a week during which I had a hospitalized child, Sweet Divinity launched, and my grandmother who had helped raise me and who had been the biggest supporter of my writing suddenly passed away. So many tears were shed through the emotions by which I was overwhelmed that week. As I think about last year, I am struck by the emotional upheaval of it all.
On Christmas Eve we were gifted a clear ornament with our family's name written on it along with "2019". The four of us gathered at the kitchen table and began to write our memories of the year on slips of red and green paper. We wrote about all of our struggles, but we also wrote about our great memories: my trip to Europe, my daughter's first roles on the stage, my son's last year of preschool, my husband's first tattoo. There was so many that we ran out of paper strips. We curled the papers and placed them in the ornament as reminders of what 2019 meant for our family.
It was the most challenging year of my life, but I believe that out of these challenges I have grown a stronger, more inspired woman.
Books of 2019
I read 54 books in 2019. Here are my top-rated books, in the order in which I read them. You can see all of the books I read on Goodreads:
Gmorning, Gnight!: Little Pep Talks for Me and You by Lin-Manuel Miranda
Possessing the Secret of Joy by Alice Walker
A Bound Woman is a Dangerous Thing: The Incarceration of African American Women from Harriet Tubman to Sandra Bland by DaMaris B. Hill
Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis by J.D. Vance
The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead
Becoming by Michelle Obama
Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church by Rachel Held Evans
Questions I Am Asked About the Holocaust by Hedi Fried
Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert
Almost Everything: Notes on Hope by Anne Lamott
By far, the best book I read this year was The Nickel Boys. It was a difficult read, but I haven't been that moved at the core of my being by a novel in some time. Required reading for all.
What I'm Watching
I haven't gotten to see as many movies as I like this year (thought I did manage to see all of the Best Picture Academy Award nominees), or to spend as much time watching quality television (and it isn't worth the pneumonia I had last year to get in some binge hours!). That said, here are some movies and television shows I've been enjoying this year:
Black Panther: Smart, relevant script, beautifully shot and perfected cast. I've watched it a couple of times this year, and it keeps getting better!
Roma: This was my pick for Best Picture, and I stand by it. A subtle, heartbreaking, beautiful film shot in the classic style we've lost in a lot of film. Bring the tissues.
Aladdin: Perhaps this is a controversial choice. I absolutely adore the original animated film, and this movie is not listed in competition with that one. To me, they're completely different. This film had all the charm of the original but with some changes that I appreciated and found smart and sharp.
Frozen II: Let me be straightforward, I thought this was better than the original. I know, I know. It's okay to disagree. Perhaps it's because I've been on my own journey of discovering where I'm meant to be, but this movie really spoke to me this year, not to mention that "Into the Unknown" is incredible and Olaf's recap of the first film had me laughing so hard I cried.
Knives Out: Man, I love a murder mystery, especially when it's brilliantly cast and perfectly twisty-turny.
Downton Abbey (the series): I rewatched the entire series with my daughter. It was like going home. I felt the same about the movie, though it wasn't one of my favorites of the year.
Victoria: I love PBS. They just get it right. But that cliffhanger. I mean, we all know what happens, but it doesn't make it any less shocking.
Outlander: I'm totally on this train. I can't explain why I care so deeply about Jamie and Claire, but maybe it's the fantastic acting and beautiful film work.
The Crown: I'm late to the game on this one, and, looking at this list, I don't know how I haven't watched this show yet, considering my obvious love for British aristocracy, but I'm here now and I'm all in.
Jane the Virgin: I'm so sad this show is over. It was such a smart exploration of family, and I loved following Jane on her publishing adventure--it kept me going on mine.
The Masked Singer: This should, by all accounts, be the dumbest show on television. When I describe it to people, it sounds ridiculous. And yet, it's FANTASTIC. It's the only show my family gathers together to watch live every week.
Music
In 2019, I was able to check two concerts off of my bucket list: Fleetwood Mac and Elton John. I love live music, and I love discovering new artists. While one of the highlights of my musical year was the release of Taylor Swift's new album (my favorite songs are "False God", "Cruel Summer" and "Afterglow"), I also discovered Todrick Hall and Meg Myers, and celebrated the release of new music by Lana Del Rey. My daughter and I announced that "our song" is "Down to the Honkytonk" by Jake Owen, and I rediscovered my love for "Halo" by Beyonce and "American Girl" by Tom Petty. I made a playlist titled "You Are a Queen" that I listened to in my challenging times. Here's the list:
"Don't Take the Money" by The Bleachers"
"Fire Escape" by Andrew McMahon and the Wilderness
"Inside Out" by Britney Spears"
"You Need to Calm Down" by Taylor Swift
"Style" by Taylor Swift
"Work B*tch" by Britney Spears
"Halo" by Beyonce
"Bootylicious" by Destiny's Child
"Glitter" by Todrick Hall
"Let's Have a Kiki" by Scissor Sisters
"American Girl" by Tom Petty
Writing
The publication of Sweet Divinity has kept me busy this year, but I've been working on both the sequel and on Reliance. I'm excited to see what 2020 brings for these works. The sequel for Sweet Divinity is beginning to take shape. I've established the theme, and I've already found the characters in some hilarious shenanigans. As for Reliance, I've recently made some discoveries about a couple of the characters that certainly change the game, and I'm excited to follow them down the road and into the forest.
Looking Ahead
I often look to the new year with trepidation, a byproduct of the anxiety struggles I've written about on the blog. It's a big unknown, the new year, and that makes me nervous. But this year, I'm excited. Maybe it's because 2019 ended so horribly, or maybe it's because next year simply has to be better. The only plans I have for 2020 are to take my daughter to go see Hamilton (tickets are purchased!), and I'm super good with that.
I wish you a fantastic 2020. Embrace your creative self, believe in your gifts and talents, and use this year to embrace the amazing person you are!
Thursday, January 2, 2020
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
My Literary Family
Note: Don't worry, my friends, I'll be posting about my upcoming book release and book signing schedule soon. For now, I hope you enjoy this little nugget that's been napping in my "drafts" for a while. :-)
I began to realize I had a literary family when I was in graduate school. I knew that I had a passion for Victorian novels, and so I signed up for an independent study with two girlfriends, and we sat in the professor's office drinking tea, petting his dog, and discussing Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, and, among others, Thomas Hardy. We read Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and I was enraptured. I loved the language and the way that Hardy made the place of the novel so essential to the emotional lives of the characters. The setting was in fact a character all its own. The very next semester I undertook an independent study with the same professor, this time focusing singularly on the novels of Thomas Hardy. The first book we read was Far From the Madding Crowd, and that was it--I announced that Thomas Hardy was my literary husband. I wanted to spend my life with him, and I vowed that I would.
But life is complicated, y'all. Because no sooner had I announced my marriage to Thomas Hardy than I was introduced to my literary boyfriend, William Faulkner. In a Southern Literature class, a class I had signed up for begrudgingly (because my snooty self couldn't imagine that any American could write as beautifully as the Brits), we read Absalom, Absalom!, and I was hooked from page one. I began devouring Faulkner, purchasing As I Lay Dying straight away and soon returned to a book I had discarded years before after reading only one page--The Sound and the Fury. I don't know what was different this time around, but I could not get enough of Faulkner and his run on sentences, disregard for standard punctuation, and unashamed baring of the complexity of the human heart. I realized that I was a woman with two lovers, and I refused to choose.
From there, my literary family grew: my uncle, Mark Twain (because everyone knows that uncle who teaches the little kids dirty jokes and cuss words at family gatherings); my grandfather, Walt Whitman (because he's watching me all the time anyway, and I'm pretty sure he gives me $5 randomly); my aunt, Flannery O'Connor (an aunt with pet peacocks and a dark sense of humor? Yes, please!); my best friend, Virginia Woolf (we go to marches together); my other literary uncle, Ernest Hemingway (the one who brings a new lady friend to every family event); my Southern grandmother, Katherine Anne Porter (so damn sassy!); my cousins, ee cummings and Tennessee Williams; not to mention my goddess of a grandmother, Toni Morrison or that aunt who tells me all her best stories, Sandra Cisneros...I'll stop there. I think you get the idea.
I speak about these writers are part of my "literary family" because they have become such an essential part of what's made me, me. When I read, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry", it affects me in a deep and lasting way. I can't rid of it (not that I want to). Their words have become part of me; I live with them every day.
Whitman wrote that as we go through life, every action connects us with every person who has ever done the same. For example, if I go out and look at the moon tonight (and it is a rather fetching crescent this evening), I am connected beyond the man-made bonds of time with every person who has ever looked at the moon, and every person who ever will.
When I read the words of these writers, I'm connected with everyone who has every read them, but I'm also connected with the writers themselves. And that's magical, my friends. Oscar Wilde (another wild uncle-oh, the puns!) wrote "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"--like, he actually composed those lyrics--so as I read them, I'm experiencing them as he did when he read the poem through the first time, or the second, or the third.
Reading is such a connective experience--it forms bonds we can't even imagine. I love mentioning a book in passing and someone's ecstatic reply that they read that book as well. Connected.
We should talk about reading more often. What are you reading? What work has most affected you? What book can you never understand? What writers are in your literary family?
And you know what? Now that you've read these words, you're in mine. Welcome.
I began to realize I had a literary family when I was in graduate school. I knew that I had a passion for Victorian novels, and so I signed up for an independent study with two girlfriends, and we sat in the professor's office drinking tea, petting his dog, and discussing Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, and, among others, Thomas Hardy. We read Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and I was enraptured. I loved the language and the way that Hardy made the place of the novel so essential to the emotional lives of the characters. The setting was in fact a character all its own. The very next semester I undertook an independent study with the same professor, this time focusing singularly on the novels of Thomas Hardy. The first book we read was Far From the Madding Crowd, and that was it--I announced that Thomas Hardy was my literary husband. I wanted to spend my life with him, and I vowed that I would.
But life is complicated, y'all. Because no sooner had I announced my marriage to Thomas Hardy than I was introduced to my literary boyfriend, William Faulkner. In a Southern Literature class, a class I had signed up for begrudgingly (because my snooty self couldn't imagine that any American could write as beautifully as the Brits), we read Absalom, Absalom!, and I was hooked from page one. I began devouring Faulkner, purchasing As I Lay Dying straight away and soon returned to a book I had discarded years before after reading only one page--The Sound and the Fury. I don't know what was different this time around, but I could not get enough of Faulkner and his run on sentences, disregard for standard punctuation, and unashamed baring of the complexity of the human heart. I realized that I was a woman with two lovers, and I refused to choose.
From there, my literary family grew: my uncle, Mark Twain (because everyone knows that uncle who teaches the little kids dirty jokes and cuss words at family gatherings); my grandfather, Walt Whitman (because he's watching me all the time anyway, and I'm pretty sure he gives me $5 randomly); my aunt, Flannery O'Connor (an aunt with pet peacocks and a dark sense of humor? Yes, please!); my best friend, Virginia Woolf (we go to marches together); my other literary uncle, Ernest Hemingway (the one who brings a new lady friend to every family event); my Southern grandmother, Katherine Anne Porter (so damn sassy!); my cousins, ee cummings and Tennessee Williams; not to mention my goddess of a grandmother, Toni Morrison or that aunt who tells me all her best stories, Sandra Cisneros...I'll stop there. I think you get the idea.
I speak about these writers are part of my "literary family" because they have become such an essential part of what's made me, me. When I read, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry", it affects me in a deep and lasting way. I can't rid of it (not that I want to). Their words have become part of me; I live with them every day.
Whitman wrote that as we go through life, every action connects us with every person who has ever done the same. For example, if I go out and look at the moon tonight (and it is a rather fetching crescent this evening), I am connected beyond the man-made bonds of time with every person who has ever looked at the moon, and every person who ever will.
When I read the words of these writers, I'm connected with everyone who has every read them, but I'm also connected with the writers themselves. And that's magical, my friends. Oscar Wilde (another wild uncle-oh, the puns!) wrote "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"--like, he actually composed those lyrics--so as I read them, I'm experiencing them as he did when he read the poem through the first time, or the second, or the third.
Reading is such a connective experience--it forms bonds we can't even imagine. I love mentioning a book in passing and someone's ecstatic reply that they read that book as well. Connected.
We should talk about reading more often. What are you reading? What work has most affected you? What book can you never understand? What writers are in your literary family?
And you know what? Now that you've read these words, you're in mine. Welcome.
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Cozy Spaces
Where I write is essential.
If you've followed me on Instagram for some time, then you've been introduced to several of my favorite writing spaces.
There's a coffee shop in my town that is a writer's haven. It's independent, charity-centered, and downright cozy--even when filled with strangers. The handcrafted tables and chairs fill the space with artistry, and the tables are topped with glass panes, beneath which lie mounds of raw coffee beans. Yum. The smells of coffee and crepes fill the atmosphere, and when you breathe it in, it's like eating the air. Ahhhhh....
There are several spot in my home that I find cozy writing spaces. I've written about my writing chair often, but honestly I can't give it enough love. That armchair has been with me since college, and allowing myself to sink into it is one way of escaping from my world and entering that of someone else. I'm enveloped in the fabric, and lost to this day and this time. It's seen its share of life; there are small tears on the edges and marker-drawn lines along the arms (so I have a little reminder of my kids with me when I write), but the chair has also worn into my shape. It's simply meant for me.
On a beautiful day, no matter the temperature, I'll write on my back porch. I joke that my house has three porches: the reading porch (screened in), the sunbathing porch (the deck), and the writing porch (under the pergola). If it's chilly, I wrap myself in a blanket and head on out. There's something about nature that gets the words flowing for me. If I'm frustrated with the writing, a walk or a hike re-centers me.
I've written at the kitchen table, the library, my work desk, and at a hotel, and sometimes that's just fine. However, given the choice, I like to write someplace cozy. I can see that I like to be in places where I'm fully enveloped-whether by an aroma, by cloth, or by nature. I think it's a security thing--I feel safe there, safe to explore and get outside myself. Safe to become someone else and to listen to the voices in my mind. Safe to allow myself to become the vessel, the means. I am most alive in these cozy spaces.
If you've followed me on Instagram for some time, then you've been introduced to several of my favorite writing spaces.
There's a coffee shop in my town that is a writer's haven. It's independent, charity-centered, and downright cozy--even when filled with strangers. The handcrafted tables and chairs fill the space with artistry, and the tables are topped with glass panes, beneath which lie mounds of raw coffee beans. Yum. The smells of coffee and crepes fill the atmosphere, and when you breathe it in, it's like eating the air. Ahhhhh....
There are several spot in my home that I find cozy writing spaces. I've written about my writing chair often, but honestly I can't give it enough love. That armchair has been with me since college, and allowing myself to sink into it is one way of escaping from my world and entering that of someone else. I'm enveloped in the fabric, and lost to this day and this time. It's seen its share of life; there are small tears on the edges and marker-drawn lines along the arms (so I have a little reminder of my kids with me when I write), but the chair has also worn into my shape. It's simply meant for me.
On a beautiful day, no matter the temperature, I'll write on my back porch. I joke that my house has three porches: the reading porch (screened in), the sunbathing porch (the deck), and the writing porch (under the pergola). If it's chilly, I wrap myself in a blanket and head on out. There's something about nature that gets the words flowing for me. If I'm frustrated with the writing, a walk or a hike re-centers me.
I've written at the kitchen table, the library, my work desk, and at a hotel, and sometimes that's just fine. However, given the choice, I like to write someplace cozy. I can see that I like to be in places where I'm fully enveloped-whether by an aroma, by cloth, or by nature. I think it's a security thing--I feel safe there, safe to explore and get outside myself. Safe to become someone else and to listen to the voices in my mind. Safe to allow myself to become the vessel, the means. I am most alive in these cozy spaces.
Friday, November 1, 2019
It's National Novel Writing Month!
Every year I take on NaNoWriMo and its 50,000 word challenge, and every year I don't even make a dent in that goal.
Maybe it's the fact that I have a preschooler and a preteen.
Maybe it's that I work a full time job and tutor on the side.
Maybe it's that you can't "force" creativity.
Maybe it's that I don't get enough sleep at night.
Maybe it's that I am my own writer's block.
I think that last statement might be the correct option. We are often our own creative blockers. We let all of the "stuff" of life get into our heads and take up space. I've written about my anxiety struggles on this blog, and, let me tell you, they are absolutely a creativity blocker! Lately I've been so preoccupied with the uncertainty around me that I haven't had the space my characters need to breathe, much less to live out their extraordinary lives. My mind has been filled with unexpected changes at work, with my children's struggles, with the illness of a family member, with to-do lists for my community commitments. How in the world do I expect to hear my characters if I can't even hear myself for all the jumbled noise?
What I've come to realize is that NaNoWriMo isn't actually a goal. It's a space. A space that focuses me for the month of November, at least as best it can when combating my raging anxiety. This one month of the year is focused on creativity. So what if I don't get 50,000 words of a novel written? If I get 1000 words, I've probably written more than I would have without this focus. Indeed, November is the month when "busyness" really starts ramping up. What a perfect month to try to focus, to be quiet, to let others speak.
So this November, I encourage you to take part in NaNoWriMo, even in an unofficial capacity. If you write one haiku every other day during the month of November, you've brought that much creativity into the world. Good for you. If you write your 50,000 words, remarkable--you've created new life. If you write 100 words and get swept up in the swirling world around us--great job! You found time. Maybe not the time you wanted, but time nonetheless.
I'll be keeping myself honest here and on www.nanowrimo.org. My goal? Write more. And I have a sneaking suspicion that if I do that, I'll quiet my mind and my life a bit too.
Maybe it's the fact that I have a preschooler and a preteen.
Maybe it's that I work a full time job and tutor on the side.
Maybe it's that you can't "force" creativity.
Maybe it's that I don't get enough sleep at night.
Maybe it's that I am my own writer's block.
I think that last statement might be the correct option. We are often our own creative blockers. We let all of the "stuff" of life get into our heads and take up space. I've written about my anxiety struggles on this blog, and, let me tell you, they are absolutely a creativity blocker! Lately I've been so preoccupied with the uncertainty around me that I haven't had the space my characters need to breathe, much less to live out their extraordinary lives. My mind has been filled with unexpected changes at work, with my children's struggles, with the illness of a family member, with to-do lists for my community commitments. How in the world do I expect to hear my characters if I can't even hear myself for all the jumbled noise?
What I've come to realize is that NaNoWriMo isn't actually a goal. It's a space. A space that focuses me for the month of November, at least as best it can when combating my raging anxiety. This one month of the year is focused on creativity. So what if I don't get 50,000 words of a novel written? If I get 1000 words, I've probably written more than I would have without this focus. Indeed, November is the month when "busyness" really starts ramping up. What a perfect month to try to focus, to be quiet, to let others speak.
So this November, I encourage you to take part in NaNoWriMo, even in an unofficial capacity. If you write one haiku every other day during the month of November, you've brought that much creativity into the world. Good for you. If you write your 50,000 words, remarkable--you've created new life. If you write 100 words and get swept up in the swirling world around us--great job! You found time. Maybe not the time you wanted, but time nonetheless.
I'll be keeping myself honest here and on www.nanowrimo.org. My goal? Write more. And I have a sneaking suspicion that if I do that, I'll quiet my mind and my life a bit too.
Monday, October 14, 2019
Little Love Poem
little love poem
like a song
blowing through the trees that surround my heart
seeking the sky of my mind
longing to fill my everywhere soul
little love poem
sing in my bones
dance on my fingers
loafe in my heart
little love poem
brighten my eyes
fly on my breath
live within me
always
like a song
blowing through the trees that surround my heart
seeking the sky of my mind
longing to fill my everywhere soul
little love poem
sing in my bones
dance on my fingers
loafe in my heart
little love poem
brighten my eyes
fly on my breath
live within me
always
Sunday, September 29, 2019
Those Who Give Us Life
I've been doing a lot of thinking in recent weeks. I've made some big life changes, and I've been working to reconnect with people who have influenced and inspired me. I've learned a lot in 2019, but the most important lesson I've taken to heart is that we must surround ourselves with people who give us life.
I was a teacher for many years, and that work fueled my heart and fed my soul. I created so many lasting relationships, both with colleagues and students, and I absolutely loved being at school each day, sharing my love of books, fawning over Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, and striving to make each student feel loved, honored, and appreciated as they are. That's good work.
And man, was I surrounded by people who gave me life. My teacher friends affirmed me, supported me, made me feel needed, laughed with me, emotionally ate with me, and cried with me. Teaching is tough stuff, but if you have the right people around you, you really are part of a community. I had the most fun I've had in my life with those friends in those years--the most fun.
But life has a way of signalling us, if we're open to receiving the signals, and that's just what happened to me. Because just as we should surround ourselves with people who give us life, we must also erect boundaries between ourselves and those who do not. It's a painful process, and it sometimes means we must move on from people and places we love. Yet faith assures us that our inner genius, as Emerson always referred to our intuition, knows the way.
I am now in an environment where I can be authentically myself, where I am surrounded by people who affirm me, who know my character, who believe in my integrity and my dedication to goodness, who support me as I strive to do my part as a writer, a woman, and a human being. In addition, I've been able to develop relationships that had been put in a box somewhere. My teacher friends and I are closer in a different way, as we now have to make an effort to find time for one another--no more just popping next door. A dear friend from whom I had drifted when I was struggling through this process was dutifully waiting for me on the other side, excited to get lunch during my lunch break (a foreign concept to teachers). One of my colleagues in writing, a prophetic, powerful writer in her own right, recently shared her project with me, because now we have time to discuss it and to learn more about each other's processes and work.
My family time has shifted, but the quality has only improved as I come home each day stress-free and calm, ready to watch Wild Kratts or Downton Abbey, depending on which child is in the living room.
I have removed from my day to day those people who don't bring me life, and I'm focusing my efforts on those who do. I pray that I myself am a life-bringer. That has always been and will always be my goal. Let us surround ourselves with people who support our goals, believe in us, know our hearts, love us in all our idiosyncrasies and faults, and want to see us thrive. Then we shall, unashamedly, be our authentic selves. Then we can really change the world for good.
I was a teacher for many years, and that work fueled my heart and fed my soul. I created so many lasting relationships, both with colleagues and students, and I absolutely loved being at school each day, sharing my love of books, fawning over Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, and striving to make each student feel loved, honored, and appreciated as they are. That's good work.
And man, was I surrounded by people who gave me life. My teacher friends affirmed me, supported me, made me feel needed, laughed with me, emotionally ate with me, and cried with me. Teaching is tough stuff, but if you have the right people around you, you really are part of a community. I had the most fun I've had in my life with those friends in those years--the most fun.
But life has a way of signalling us, if we're open to receiving the signals, and that's just what happened to me. Because just as we should surround ourselves with people who give us life, we must also erect boundaries between ourselves and those who do not. It's a painful process, and it sometimes means we must move on from people and places we love. Yet faith assures us that our inner genius, as Emerson always referred to our intuition, knows the way.
I am now in an environment where I can be authentically myself, where I am surrounded by people who affirm me, who know my character, who believe in my integrity and my dedication to goodness, who support me as I strive to do my part as a writer, a woman, and a human being. In addition, I've been able to develop relationships that had been put in a box somewhere. My teacher friends and I are closer in a different way, as we now have to make an effort to find time for one another--no more just popping next door. A dear friend from whom I had drifted when I was struggling through this process was dutifully waiting for me on the other side, excited to get lunch during my lunch break (a foreign concept to teachers). One of my colleagues in writing, a prophetic, powerful writer in her own right, recently shared her project with me, because now we have time to discuss it and to learn more about each other's processes and work.
My family time has shifted, but the quality has only improved as I come home each day stress-free and calm, ready to watch Wild Kratts or Downton Abbey, depending on which child is in the living room.
I have removed from my day to day those people who don't bring me life, and I'm focusing my efforts on those who do. I pray that I myself am a life-bringer. That has always been and will always be my goal. Let us surround ourselves with people who support our goals, believe in us, know our hearts, love us in all our idiosyncrasies and faults, and want to see us thrive. Then we shall, unashamedly, be our authentic selves. Then we can really change the world for good.
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
Confessions
I'm currently reading I'd Rather Be Reading: The Delights and Dilemmas of the Reading Life, by Anne Bogel, my delightful sister-in-spirit and creator of the blog "Modern Mr. Darcy". If you read my blog but haven't read hers, then you've made a mistake and you need to head over there immediately. #lifegoals
One chapter in I'd Rather Be Reading focuses on the books that avid readers are ashamed to admit they haven't read. That got me thinking: perhaps it's confession time.
The truth is that I haven't purposefully avoided any of these works. Somehow, despite my high school English classes, college English major courses, and graduate school English major courses, I never encountered them. In fact, I own many of them...I just haven't picked them up. Admittedly, there are a few I began but then put down for one reason or another. Yet there are so many books to read, and only this one life, so when I'm not captivated I'm quick to put the book down and choose another.
In my twenties, I would refuse to "quit" a book. Haha! She who thought she had all the time in the world to read! Now I have two children and I'm nearing forty--my available reading time has quickly diminished! So I'm a quitter. But rarely do I intended to walk away from the book, never to return. I'll come back again and again until I read that book, but in the meantime...
My Shameless List of Books I'm Ashamed I Haven't Read
Grapes of Wrath: Okay, so I've read selections from this one, and I've read almost every other Steinbeck novel. But the truth is that I've faked having read this book on multiple occasions. See, I'm already defensive.
Little Women
Persuasion
The Secret Garden
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Oliver Twist
The Brothers Karamazov
Crime and Punishment
Sherlock Holmes (and I mean...any of it)
The Three Musketeers
Madame Bovary
The Pillars of the Earth
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Roots
Catch 22
1984
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Where the Red Fern Grows: Okay, I admit it. I lied. I've avoided this one.
Atlas, Shrugged
Any book in the series other than The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
The Age of Innocence
Lord of the Rings: Caveat--I read the first book and half of the second. I left off in the middle of a rather long poem, as I recall...
Now that I've unburdened myself, I ask you, dear readers--which shall I read first?
One chapter in I'd Rather Be Reading focuses on the books that avid readers are ashamed to admit they haven't read. That got me thinking: perhaps it's confession time.
The truth is that I haven't purposefully avoided any of these works. Somehow, despite my high school English classes, college English major courses, and graduate school English major courses, I never encountered them. In fact, I own many of them...I just haven't picked them up. Admittedly, there are a few I began but then put down for one reason or another. Yet there are so many books to read, and only this one life, so when I'm not captivated I'm quick to put the book down and choose another.
In my twenties, I would refuse to "quit" a book. Haha! She who thought she had all the time in the world to read! Now I have two children and I'm nearing forty--my available reading time has quickly diminished! So I'm a quitter. But rarely do I intended to walk away from the book, never to return. I'll come back again and again until I read that book, but in the meantime...
My Shameless List of Books I'm Ashamed I Haven't Read
Grapes of Wrath: Okay, so I've read selections from this one, and I've read almost every other Steinbeck novel. But the truth is that I've faked having read this book on multiple occasions. See, I'm already defensive.
Little Women
Persuasion
The Secret Garden
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Oliver Twist
The Brothers Karamazov
Crime and Punishment
Sherlock Holmes (and I mean...any of it)
The Three Musketeers
Madame Bovary
The Pillars of the Earth
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Roots
Catch 22
1984
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Where the Red Fern Grows: Okay, I admit it. I lied. I've avoided this one.
Atlas, Shrugged
Any book in the series other than The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
The Age of Innocence
Lord of the Rings: Caveat--I read the first book and half of the second. I left off in the middle of a rather long poem, as I recall...
Now that I've unburdened myself, I ask you, dear readers--which shall I read first?
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