Xenocide

There are the fans, and there are the ones who haven't got around to reading his work. I have yet to meet anyone who doesn't like Orson Scott Card's books. Well, the Ender books, anyway. I guess there are some weird, less famous ones that I've heard might be lame.

A while back, it's probably been almost ten years now, I read Ender's Game. It was an experience never to be forgotten. No other book I've ever come across has taken an idea and explored it in such a way, while at the same time creating a character I actually cared about, pretty much like I care about real people. Disturbing at multiple levels—most of which can't even surface until you've finished the book, put it aside, and utterly failed at forgetting it and moving on with your life—it stretched the boundaries of what I thought fiction books could really do and how much they actually can change you.

I've been changed by other books before, but not in such a self-aware way. The Little House on the Prairie books partially defined my childhood, L.M. Montgomery's books defined my adolescence, and Harry Potter helped pull me and keep me out of a very dark period of transition. Countless other books altered my perception of the world around me and the relationships I had formed and should form—most of them good, some of them bad. But I didn't think about it that way.

When I think about books that truly changed me, Ender's Game is always at the very top of the list. I should probably go more into why, but I don't want to, because it's a little too personal, and because I'd rather discuss Xenocide right now. For a long time, I had to recognize that I could only read a book by Card every few years or so, because when an intense personality reads an intense book, long periods of recovery time are required. So I read Ender's Game, then a few years later I read it again. A few years after that, I read Ender's Shadow, and a few years after that I read Speaker for the Dead. I got my copy of Xenocide on purpose to go to an author signing, but that, also, was a few years ago. I had to wait to start reading it when I was ready. And, contrary to my expectations, waiting a few years was not a bad thing; I could remember every character and every pertinent detail.

I just finished reading it this morning, only because last night I had a hundred pages left and was holding my eyes open with stinging tears just to get that far.

I'm sure most of my reaction to this book has to do with the fact that the author and I are members of the same faith, so I understand where his ideas are both coming from and traveling towards. But I haven't read any other books that attempt to explore and explain faith and religion with science—all at the same time throwing in dilemmas of ethics that span across planets, across villages, across religious orders, across different species, across members of the same family, and even within individuals.

What is the nature of life? Why do people care about each other? Why do people exist? How do people exist? What is free will? What is bondage? What is power? What is right? What is wrong? How much of reality is limited to our power of imagination?

He's asking the questions, and he's presenting evidence for the questions to be relevant along with evidence to provide answers. But he doesn't try to answer them.

Some authors are so open-ended you almost wish they had never brought up the questions in the first place. Others are a little too eager to wrap up their own conclusions in a box and present it to readers as if it were a great gift. A really great author leaves just enough alone. Like asking which came first, the chicken or the egg, and giving multiple arguments for either one—and at the same time wondering how vital it really is whether we know or not.

What I'm saying, then, is that Card is a great author, aside from all the stylistic fumbles he has said are relatively unimportant. He believes in substance over style, and I do agree with the overall philosophy, though I'm not convinced he's entirely correct in his approach. The book would have been much stronger if he had tighter editing (I feel patronized as a reader when the author feels the need to tell me things more than once, especially how certain people are related to others; and I was informed at least six times that Ender was Miro's step-father), and even possibly if he could employ a little more verbal subtlety in characterization.

But what's the job of a critic? In the words of Anton Ego, "the average piece of junk is worth far more than our criticism designating it so." There's plenty of junk out there in the world of books, but Xenocide isn't part of that pile.

Love Languages

I was told to read The Five Love Languages book. Being the persuadable, suggestible person I am, I did so. I'm sure it will come in way handy some day, but today I'm just not sure why I did that. I figured out a few days ago what my love language is, and reading the book just made it more blaringly obvious. I am "Quality Time."

People sometimes assume that I'm "Words of Affirmation." Not so. I like words of affirmation. They are nice. I also like acts of service--but they are more likely to make me feel guilty than loved. Even more so with gifts. I guess it's good to know that all these years I've been beating myself up for not being more grateful when someone gives me a gift, it wasn't necessarily because I wasn't grateful, but rather that gifts don't fill my "emotional tank."

So for anyone's future reference, if you want to be in my good books, all you have to do is sit down and talk to me for a while. Not something I'm getting much of lately. Oh well. I guess I just need to learn to cope with being emotionally needy.

On Books (Part Nine)

Have you ever gotten so into a book that when one of the characters should be hesitating about doing something, you yourself are hesitating to turn the page? It's an odd little feeling, and it happened to me yesterday while I was reading Everlost.

Finally getting around to starting the book was a good thing; it was one of those books I purchased after attending a reading motivation workshop, guaranteed to be interesting to young teens. I had ordered about 20 of them to pre-read and place on the shelves of my classroom, but I didn't read all of them right away, having also just begun graduate school. It sat there, and sat there, and sat there. I recommended it to a lot of kids as "something I heard was really good," but I always feel a little uneasy doing that when I haven't actually read it. Now I have! Just as I suspected, getting started was the hiccup—finishing it was not.

Victory for me, as I have this previously stated fear of never reading all the books on my own shelves.

There's always a sense of accomplishment after I've finished reading a book, but lately I've felt less of that when it's fiction. But now I have a whole stack of books on music that I've got to read before they're due back at the library. I think this evening, after I've finished everything I need to do for the day, I'll turn on some Mozart and get started.

Jordan Sonnenblick

I am going to be bold and name the author and the book outright. Once I wrote a book rant about some authors, and I wasn't exactly complimentary, then the author found herself and commented. I have rarely been so disconcerted about something. And ashamed, really. Did I think authors didn't look on the internet to find out what other people are saying about them? So, Mr. Sonnenblick, if you read this, I hope you enjoy.

Drums, Girls, and Dangerous Pie was on a recommended new release list several years ago, and I checked it out from the public library and proceeded to read the whole book in one sitting. It had a rare quality: making me laugh while crying at the same time. I've read so many books that a lot of them tend to lose their impact, but this one still packed a punch. I started recommending it to my students, and often reading it with them. Just about everyone likes it.

What's not to like in a story about a middle school boy with a typical middle school attitude but a very big heart and very big problems? The interactions between Steven and his little brother, Jeffrey, who is fighting to survive leukemia, are indescribable in a review. You'd just have to read it.

I assumed that in spite of the way it ended, Notes from the Midnight Driver was about all the sequel it was going to get; then, late last week while browsing the shelves looking for something completely different, my eyes fell upon After Ever After. And then I read the front flap and realized it was about Jeffrey. Then, I realized I had to read it. Immediately.

Same experience as the first. I see why other reviewers referred to it as a "brave" book. It deals with some seriously controversial issues ... well, controversial for anyone who's at all interested in the past, present, and future of American public schools ... in addition to the very relevant tale of what happens after a child survives cancer.

When I first finished it, I was kind of thinking along the lines of it didn't fully resolve all, or really any, of the issues it brought up. But even after very brief reflection, I've decided that's a strength. That's what makes these stories so powerful—they just tell the story, rather than asking questions and giving cookie-cutter answers to them. There was just enough of a resolution for the book to feel complete, and to allow the reader (me, I guess) some closure.

Great book. Definitely worth investing a few hours in.

Random Stuff

I found out today that it's official. My Professional Portfolio passed! I am so relieved. That was just one of the many things looming over my head lately that I've been trying not to worry about. Check off the list, and move on.

This morning I found out that it's a lot harder to keep running after a big event. I tried to rest up yesterday, especially considering it was the Sabbath. Then I got up to go to the gym, and after just one mile I was a little tuckered. I stopped and did a bunch of crunches and triceps work, then got back on the treadmill for 2 more miles. In a way, that feels wimpy, but in another way it feels like a great victory.

You Did It!

"You did it! You did it!
You said that you would do it,
and indeed you did!
I thought that you would rue it,
I doubted you'd do it.
But now I must admit it
That succeed you did!"


I should get a medal ... wait, I did!


Here are all the details on the Bud E. Bee Boo Run that nobody's really interested in. First, I don't really want to do another running event all on my own. Everyone else there either had a team or had people there to support them. The nice thing about this one was that it was a community event and a few people were really nice, and the beneficiaries were the mentally handicapped—and they were the super sweet people handing out water and Gatorade. Also the ones bestowing medals at the finish line (yay!).

I should say that with all I've read and observed about runners, I was not in denial about the fact that I'm slow—really, really slow. However, I didn't exactly plan on being the very last to finish, and about a fourth of the way through the run, I realized that I might be the last to finish. The good thing was that I had paced myself well enough that I could increase my speed over the second half. In fact, I left 6 people in the dust, and the last 2 miles were probably my fastest. That was a little surprising, but definitely in a good way. I think I'll employ the same strategy when I do a full Marathon.

Well, actually, when I do a full Marathon, I don't think I'll worry about speed at all. I think I'll let myself come in dead last if that's what it takes to finish.

Doing a half Marathon really wasn't that hard. Not, at least, any harder than tacking on an extra mile to my weekly run. I remember someone saying that it's the training that's hard, not the actual event. I would have to agree. It's taken a lot more discipline and concentration than I've put into very many things before.

A few other random things I observed about the experience—I picked a good location. This little town had lots of gradual ups and downs. The hills were slightly challenging, but I just leaned forward, switched to the next song on my iPod, and kept going. One hill in particular looked very long and steep from a certain vantage point, but by the time I got to it (both times), it hardly even seemed like a hill. Interesting.

Also, they have it arranged so that when you get a drink of water you can just throw your cup on the ground. I don't care to do that, even though I know it's socially acceptable in that situation. So I just crumple my cup and hold it in my hand until I get to a trash bin. I realized that I like having something to hold in my hand. It's comforting and encouraging, for whatever reason, to hold my iPod in one hand and a crumpled up cup in the other.

Until the wax coating on the cup deteriorates and the paper starts to come off on your skin.

But by that time, I had usually found a trash bag. I guess when you don't have a person to hold your hand, you resort to cardboard cups. Hehe.

One other very funny part was that when I was nearing the finish line and everyone was cheering for me, the finish line sort of collapsed. It was one of those plastic air-balloon finish line arches, like a piece of a bounce house or something. Well, it fell over. But they got it back up just in time for me to run under it. That was great fun.

Finally, here are the credits:

Heavenly Father, for giving me EVERYTHING, including a healthy body and lovely weather to run in.

My family, who even though several of them could have cared less, still pretended to support me.

Florence Welsh, for her amazing voice and cool harp mixed with drums.

Howard Shore, for the trailer music to Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King

"Sweet Disposition," by Temper Trap

Apple, for inventing the iPod classic, in which I can store my entire music library and lots of movies, as well as create a nice playlist for running.

New Balance, for selling a bra that doesn’t cut me

Asics, for great running shoes

Old Navy, for cool stretchy yoga shorts

Everyone who offered sweet, inspiring words of encouragement

On Books (Part Nine)

All four-hundred-page books are equal, but some are more equal than others.

Can you believe I still haven't read Animal Farm?

Last week I read a lovely book, The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. I don't normally read that genre—I believe it falls into the category of "Women's Lit"—but it came highly recommended from a friend, and just the first page was enough to recommend it for itself. Who needs to finish a professional portfolio when there's a book this good to be read? I read it in a day.

Although there wasn't anything particularly deep or earth-shattering about the book, I'm still thinking about it a week later. It was just a really good story with good, strong writing. I can't think of any flaws in the author's style or execution, and that's rare. And what's more, there are a few parts, one specifically, that were real tear-jerkers. You know, it has the same effect as the closing scene of Random Harvest (sniff). I do like a good cry now and then, and that one was quite satisfying.

The reason I started this post was to muse on the difference between The Help and The Name of the Rose. What connection do I see between them? Merely their length. In all other respects, they are nothing alike. I just think that the written word is fascinating—especially when I notice that two books of approximately the same length, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed, can have such variance in the process I have to employ to read them.

I admit, the main reason I read The Name of the Rose was so that I could say I read it and thereby feel smart. I have a thing for feeling smart. But I also knew it was a mystery, and most books of the mystery genre are second-rate, valuable only as a passing amusement. And if they aren't funny, I generally don't like them. This one, though, was brilliantly marketed as an intellectual mystery—one that actually requires you to use your brain. How exciting, to be able to transcend a superficial genre in such a way! It's true, it was intellectual, but I also had to force myself to read it. I never got hooked or absorbed, and I never reached that happy point in book-reading that ensures a rapid race to the end. It was slow. All the way through. However, I wouldn't necessarily say that's a weakness, unless you're of the camp that believes a book, in order to be a "good book" should hook you in the first chapter. Sure, it was slow, but it was a good book.

Contrast The Help, which I have already implied that I couldn't put down, and which is also not typical of its own genre. I was hooked in the first chapter. It is also a good book.

Have you heard of a genre called Steampunk? Today was the first time I ever saw a book categorized as steampunk. Apparently, it's fantasy and/or magical realism set in Victorian-like settings. Interesting. Obviously more readers than me have grown tired of the cliché medieval fantasy setting. I would find it very promising if it didn't seem to include so many zombies.

Countdown ...

Ran 6.5 miles and walked 1.5 miles. Burned approximately 1250 calories. Five days until the half-marathon. I'm so excited!

(This past Saturday was a little scary. The plan was to run another 12-miler in preparation for the event, but I was about 3 miles away from the house when the neighborhood was blessed with a vigorous rain. I contemplated stopping at a friend's house to take shelter under their porch, but it seemed like it was slowing a little, and I was already drenched. Kept going, the rain got harder, so I was planning to try to stop at another friend's porch—then a sweet lady from my ward stopped and told me to get in the car. It was such a funny adventure I wasn't too disappointed not to finish my complete run, but then I got worried yesterday morning because I had pressure in my head and thought I might have caught cold. Still a little worried about that. I guess my lucky running shorts are fallible.)

Procrastination

Have you ever noticed that the less busy you are, the more difficult it is to manage your time? I heard once that if you're in a leadership role and you need to delegate, give a job to a busy person because a busy person will get it done. That is very true.

I went to a time management workshop at the last YSA conference several weekends ago, and at first I had a really bad attitude about it—mostly due to my prideful assumption that I've heard almost everything worth hearing from workshops for single people and I don't need someone to tell me how to live my life—especially when it's a person who has no idea what it's like to be me. Did I mention I was prideful?

The beginning part of the workshop was a little annoying, but that's only because I came in a few minutes late and didn't realize that the presenter had already explained that he was going to briefly discuss principles of time management in how they relate to you spiritually, before going into the practical stuff. I didn't want to go to a time management workshop and leave later having only heard how important it was to manage my time. If I didn't already think it was important to manage my time, I wouldn't have set foot in that room.

At any rate, the principles part was brief, and the rest of it was very helpful strategic information—well represented by hand-outs and a short quiz. Is it weird to like quizzes? I guess it isn't, because even though I never read them, I've heard that girls' and women's magazines are full of them. And I constantly get quizzes sent to me on Facebook, even though I never do them. The time management quiz was a little interesting, because I scored a 25 out of 30, which is the highest score you can get in the healthy range (26 and above indicates possible issues that could lead to burnout). How does that happen? I have come to the conclusion that at least part of it is that I did what a lot of people do on personality assessments and took the quiz based on my intentions rather than my actual habits. Ouch.

How else could you explain my current lifestyle? Positive: I get things done. Negative: I never get them done anywhere near the time I designate to get them done.

The best thing I learned, however, was from the handout on procrastination. It was so validating to read that some things actually should be procrastinated. Said in a different way, I am understanding more and more that finding peace and joy in life has everything to do with getting your priorities straight. Which means I'm going to refocus and refine my ability to procrastinate.

On Books (Part Eight)

I read too many books. I counted (hehe) and discovered that I have read over 60 this year, and that number includes some incredibly long ones.

The other day I was conversing with a girl who asked me if I'd ever been in love ... with someone real. As in, not a fictional character I read about in a book. Ouch.

I'm not offended that she said that, but I always thought it was rather obvious that I understood the difference between book men and real men. I've never fallen in love with a fictional character. For instance, I've never considered myself the sort of woman who dreams of finding her very own Mr. Darcy. And as much as I love Jane Eyre, I was all about being happy that Jane and Rochester ended up together, and nothing about wishing I could be her and have a man like that. Fictional men do not make me sigh with longing, and it never occurs to me to wish that real men were in any way like the fabricated men in literary endeavors.

The truth is that I hold men to a higher standard than what is normally expected of them—or at least, I hold them to that standard if I have any plans of making them a part of my life. They rarely measure up. But I'm pretty sure it doesn't have anything to do with the underdeveloped men in books written by women whose concept of the ideal man was not entirely in sync with my own. Frankly, the man I'm going to marry will be a thousand times better than Mr. Darcy, if only for the reason that he has to have rare abilities indeed if he's going to consider falling in love with me. I'm not trying to put myself down when I say that there are hardly any men out there who would see anything in me worth paying attention to, much less falling in love with. I am not Elizabeth Bennett—she is also a fictional character.

I have had to deliberately curb my imagination in trying to come up with the ideal husband, because in addition to the fact that the ideal husband doesn't exist, there is also the glaringly obvious point that even if he did, he wouldn't want me. And to try to imagine a future with a perfect man would be rather dangerous anyway. I always thought it was a silly idea that, back when we were teenagers in church they wanted us to do things like make A LIST.

I understand why it was done, but I remember that when I made my LIST, it was brief and to the point. I wanted a man who was righteous and kind, preferably tall. Then one of the advisors got ahold of my LIST and contributed her own addenda, including handsome, charming, funny, and some other stuff. Really? My life is not, and never has been, a storybook. It's only in bad romance novels that a girl who has average looks, average intelligence, and a lot of insecurities in addition to extreme hereditary timidity ends up with the guy who is tall, dark, handsome, charming, and funny, as well as good and kind and annoyingly selfless. I was actually taking my assignment seriously.

And I hate bad romance novels.

Equally as passionately, I hate bad mystery novels. You know, the kind where there's not a single person in the book that you actually like, and every upper-class female character has an aquiline nose and an angelic profile; where the criminal actually ends up looking rather tame compared to the people who were innocent ... or even worse, the people you really liked turn out to be the vilest ones in the end.

If life were like one of those books, I'd never want to get married because I'd be sure that ten years later my husband would turn out to be an axe murderer, or worse.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that as much as I do love books, I hope I don't have any misconceptions about real life due to my love for them. There's plenty of room in my life to accommodate both imagination and reality.

I Astound Myself

This morning while I was running, I began to contemplate myself, and my own brilliance amazes me.

At first, this seems like a conceited thing to say, but if I can explain it clearly, it isn't at all. Because the very next thing that occurred to me is that in the grand scheme of things, of all the billions and billions of souls who have or will inhabit this earth, I'm nothing particularly special. Just another Child of God.

Just another Child of God is not something you can say or contemplate lightly. People, because of our divine origins, are so deep that we could spend our entire lives just trying to truly understand one person and still never get to the very bottom of that person's character.

This is why only God could come up with a Plan that would fit each and every individual.

I guess I've been reading too much about educational theories and programs, and I'm still shocked at how almost all of them are still looking for the magic formula that will churn out smart, responsible kids like a factory churns out candy.

They need the Gospel.

Mortality

I am learning new dimensions about the truth of the pronouncement in 2 Nephi, "Men are, that they might have joy." There are few things as exhilarating as going out for a 10-mile run in the brand new autumn coolness, and getting to the top of a hill near the end, saying to yourself that nothing can stop me now! I raised my arms high up in the air, ran down that hill, and felt almost like I could fly.

I'm covered with salt and gross, but otherwise I feel more alive and more healthy than some days I ever dreamed possible.

Last week's post was all about failing cheerfully; this one is going to be all about succeeding cheerfully. In my 20s I learned cynicism, but now that I'm 30, I'm getting back my optimism. In a way, I feel like I've got my true self back. Or maybe that my life somehow started over without losing any of the experiences of the past. I wasn't there for the talk in Lubbock about the best day of my life, but I get it.

Man Looketh on the Outward Appearance

I used to make these cookies as a college student, and since I promised the little bro I would make him some cookies today, this seemed like a good choice. They always turned out so beautifully—soft and chewy and perfectly round. They even look a lot prettier in the pic than they do in real life. I have two guesses as to why they didn't turn out as I expected them to:

a) sour cream doesn't substitute in cookies the way it does in brownies (my brownies are always perfection), and

b) altitude

Oh, well. He wasn't going to be impressed anyway.


While I was doing homework, he decided to come hang out with me. I guess I'm not good company when I have a deadline.

Goals

I set goals, and I fail to meet them. I set more goals, and I fail to meet them ... and sometimes I set goals and manage to meet them. Today, unfortunately, was the first day since the beginning of June that I failed to meet my running goal. Monday is my day for long runs, and I was supposed to do 10 miles. I had to stop at 7.5. Totally unexpected. Boo.

On top of that, my love for running is being offset by the number of band-aids it is beginning to require.

But, on the bright side, I haven't quit yet, and since the beginning of the summer I've lost 16 pounds. It's kind of hard for other people to tell, because it's come off so gradually, and evenly distributed. Nonetheless, it is gone, and there's no reason to think that I can't keep it up.

Also, another distance runner approached me at the gym today, and we talked for a while about running events. He was very encouraging. It was nice to talk about it with someone who knows what it's like.

Every so often

I just have to read a fluffy princess book with a cheesy love story. It's like a need. This week was Ella Enchanted, and I think what got it stuck in my craw was watching Confessions of a Shopaholic (horribly stupid movie that almost prompted a post on How to Write a Brainless, Formulaic Rom Com—I'll just sum it up here by asserting that they all have to do with glorifying the life of a liar). Hugh Dancy is in that movie. He is also in the movie version of Ella Enchanted (another horribly stupid movie).

Perhaps one of the differences between me and other women is not that I don't watch fewer chick-flicks—but that I hate myself after watching them.

There is slightly less personal loathing involved in reading a fluffy chick book, even if it was written for 10-year-olds. And at least in Ella Enchanted, the conflict was centered around a curse, rather than a big fat lie.

Beowulf

I am reading Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf, and it is so beautiful I just can't say. I wonder if it's nerdy to enjoy reading the introduction of a story just as much as you enjoy the story itself? Well, nerdy or not, that's me.

One thing I found out in reading the intro to Beowulf is that Heaney feels like his own personal style has been heavily influenced by Gerard Manley Hopkins, who really is one of the greatest poets to date. I don't claim to be an authority on poetry, particularly the more modern varieties, and my own attempts at writing it are rather sad (with the exception of the Ode to My Pilot G2, which is apparently a hit with my friends, I don't even let other people read it), but Hopkins' words—to borrow some rather cliché similes—sparkle like sunlight and glitter like gold. If you haven't read Hopkins, rush out to the nearest source of poetry you can find, and devour it. I promise you, it's worth it—particularly "The Windhover."

The most wonderful part of Beowulf is the power that comes through alliteration. I vaguely remember having read Beowulf before, both in 8th grade Literature class, and possibly in college Humanities. And it's entirely possible that I was just so ignorant about poetry that I didn't notice any of the devices. It is also equally possible that the translators I read did not preserve them.

The truth that has dawned on me—and it's almost embarrassing that it has taken so long to hit home, English major and book lover that I am and always have been—is that language is powerful. Not stories, but words. If a person knows how to use words right, he/she has immense power. Well, I guess I always knew that, but to recognize that this is the reason that kids still need to study and understand poetry as part of their school curriculum, that was the new part. I almost wish to go back to my classroom with this perspective, to flood all my lessons with the all-powerful point that the reason I taught English was to give them the tools to be powerful and successful in their careers and in their relationships. Vocabulary, spelling practice, lessons in grammar and syntax, could all be tied directly back to the central goal:acquiring and using words to create a powerful persona.

Another kind of weird thing I am discovering is that for the several years I taught English, it was always a burden to teach comprehension strategies. I considered them rather useless, and even though we worked on them in class, I always felt a sense of futility. I favored the holistic approach to reading, the one that assumes that with an increased background knowledge and practice, practice, practice, anyone can become a good reader. I don't remember having ever been taught comprehension strategies myself; well, actually, I do, but I always disregarded them because I never needed them. Anyone else remember being contemptuous of the SQ3R method? I never used it. I read my assigned reading passages, answered the questions, and went eagerly back to real reading, which was always a fiction novel. I didn't need to consciously survey the passage, form questions, read, recite, and review. I was a natural at reading the way I was never a natural at anything involving physical coordination.

Oddly enough, I find myself using that method now. I can't decide if it's because I was required to teach it as part of the curriculum I used as a teacher in preparation for the TAKS test, or if really I was using it the whole time and just didn't know it. Most notably, I've been taking notes in a little book, and most of my notes are questions—questions which are at least partially answered through further reading.

Thus, there are several reasons why I am loving Beowulf. The story itself is violent and not particularly endearing, and it's no wonder a lot of people hate it. As a cultural study, it's interesting, but only at a cursory level. But rendered through the beautiful efforts of someone who must love Hopkins much more than I do, it's lovely to read.

Next up: Grendel. So far, it's weird.

On Books (Part Seven)

Last night I looked at t-shirts and bumper stickers at an online store. The featured artwork? Bibliophiles and librarians, of course.

Among my favorite designs was one featuring a cat curled up on top of an open book, and printed under it the words "All books belong to me." This combines two of my favorite things: books and cats. And I like them both for similar reasons, actually.

Really? What can possibly be similar about a cat and a book? Just one thing: you can love them without surrendering your own independence. Unlike dogs, who regardless of how laudably loyal and happy and unselfish and noble they are, are needy. Aside from all the drool and the smell and the kibble and the barking and the fact that they'll eat anything (ew), dogs just need too much attention. Cats, on the other hand, have no issue with self-esteem. If you choose not to hang out with them for a while, they don't get all emotional about it. They're too well-adjusted to really care if you don't like sleeping with them plastered against your body. A book is kind of like that too. You can start to read it, then get distracted and leave it somewhere for days, weeks, months, even years sometimes ... and when you come back to it, nothing has changed but yourself.

There is another very weird thing about me. I have allowed both cats and books to be in the bed with me when I sleep.

P.S. I downloaded iBooks and got all the ones I wanted from Project Gutenberg. Not sure how much I'll actually use it, though. And I also sleep with my phone.

Hello!

Today the Senior Primary group welcomed me to Primary by singing "The Hello Song." Apart from being embarrassed, I was relieved that because I was the new person, the Primary president led the song, because honestly, I've never been crazy about that song.

I have this attitude about music sometimes ... and Primary songs are usually top on my list of Music That Makes Me Want to Roll My Eyes. This would be why I have just been invited to accept a calling as the Primary Chorister. Not only do I get to listen to the Primary songs every week, I get to sing them by myself, sing them with kids, design and play games about the songs, and teach the words to the kids. Yay!

Actually, the "yay" was only part sarcasm. It's a little shocking, I know, but I am having fun learning all the verses to "Follow the Prophet." This is one of the biggest ironies of my personal life to date, yet I'm going to embrace it with all my heart.

I am a child of God!

On Books (Part Six)

I just finished reading a book for teens that will remain unnamed. If you want to know what it is and you can't guess, I can tell you in person, but I'm finished blogging about living authors who are still working on their careers, unless I only say nice things about them. And I'm going to say some not nice things about this book.

First of all, it was the finale of a series. I don't really like series books, with the exception of Harry Potter. I do read series often enough, but it's more in the form of professional development than recreation. I work in schools, so I feel I should read teen books; particularly the ones that are wildly popular.

This series has never been my favorite. It's too violent, too disturbing, and too vague. I never got very grounded in the world it took place in, and I think most of the reason is that the author him/herself didn't have a concept of where exactly it was going until the series as a whole was half over. I could be wrong about that. Maybe I just read it too fast. But this is the type of book you must read quickly. You can't hover over words and sentences; you can't digest any of the details because you have to find out what happens next. I agree that for a good story the stakes have to be high, but this was over the top. By the end, I had to be dead to all feeling because it was too much. The semi-happy ending wasn't even happy to me; I guess that bothers me the most because it's not supposed to be. The author crafted the story in such a way that there was never a possibility of a happy ending, and yet, it couldn't be tragedy because the main character was narrator--present tense narrator, I might add.

The series is obviously a tremendous achievement, and one that I could never hope to come close to. The next to last book, typically, ended up unraveling every knot it could, leaving the readers hanging in the most suspenseful way possible. The finale tied up all the knots neatly enough, I think. And yet, there are just too many things about it I don't like, and too many things about the ending that dissatisfy and annoy me.

It's always true in a story of suspense like this that people die. People you care about die. But the ones who died in this one, rather than bringing the story full-circle, just seemed to de-legitimize everything that happened, and by the time it was final, it was impossible to believe there was any reason for the story to go on. The protagonist had been through the wringer ten too many times by then, realistically falling apart after each one, and I really got tired of reading about how she had to deal with the worst case scenario over and over and over and over.

In spite of the gentle denouement, there was really no note of hope for the future and no reason for the characters to keep going. Just too depressing. I think I'll lay off teen books again for a while.

On Books (Part Five)

I'm reading a book about famous military villains. The first chapter was on Spartacus. As a result, I'm highly interested in learning more about the Roman Empire. The second chapter features Attila the Hun, who is slightly less interesting, for some reason. Maybe it's because the novelty has worn off, and the book ... well, let's just say the writer is passable. I would think historical biographies would be difficult to write in an engaging way. Several people manage to pull it off quite well, but it seems a relatively rare skill.

Because I was prompted by one of my blog followers (yes, I'm making it sound like my blog is actually famous, rather than the truth that only 2 or 3 people ever look at it), I'm going to introduce here my new project, which is going to make me look like a genuine dork, but oh well. I've always thought I wanted to do an advanced degree in literature, but it doesn't seem like a good idea. I've read several articles that say that the majority of people with PhDs in English do not work full-time in their field. It makes sense. Tons of people love to read, but how many English professors are necessary out there? I value the research they do, but it's hard to contribute to a body of knowledge and ideas already so saturated. Another point, raised during a conversation I had with a friend, is that there's so little action involved in the study of literature—it's more about idly discussing ideas than it is actually doing anything truly useful. So, it seemed to me that if I did that, it wouldn't really get me anywhere professionally. That leaves only one reason to do it—personal enrichment. Now, personal enrichment is a wonderful thing, but not financially sound when you consider the cost of tuition and everything else that goes into getting any kind of formal education. Besides, I'm wary of academic agendas, and I don't like the study of literary theory. This was one of the reasons behind the career decision I made a few years ago, and why I decided to pursue the degree program I did.

However and therefore, in lieu of pursuing more formal education in literature, I have designed my own course of study, with classes, syllabuses, and everything. I am designing my own program, based solely on my own interests and goals, and I will award myself some sort of diploma at the end, after I have complete a certain number of fictional hours. And I have made sure to design the classes so that they are more than just a reading list, although they are all mostly based on reading lists.

There is always the objection that an education designed by oneself can never be as challenging as one designed by an expert, and that I'm only going off what I already know, rather than being introduced to new horizons. That is regrettable, but I'm sure I'll still get a lot of valuable knowledge from my endeavor. Here's my course listing:

* Classics I (Homer, Virgil, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Plato, Aristotle, Catullus, Ovid, Beowulf, Marie de France, etc.)
* Military History (Sun Tsu and study of warriors including Ghengis Khan, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon)
* World Mythology
* Science Fiction and Fantasy Worldbuilding
* Christianity in Literature
* Rhetoric and Language
* Spanish
* Music History
* Film
* Writing Fiction
* Advanced Victorian and Early Modern Literature
* Classics II (Chaucer, Boccaccio, Petrarch, Machiavelli, Montaigne, Cervantes, Milton)
* Advanced Shakespeare

This should be highly enjoyable.