Book Review: Daughter of Fortune, Isabel Allende

This novel was a thorough and interesting read. It follows the story of a half-Chilean girl, Eliza Sommers, as she grows up in her adopted British family's home and later travels to California during the Gold Rush of the 1840's. Allende's narrative had several interesting and well-rounded characters, events, and settings, and I liked it because although it did have an overlying theme, it also included several side stories and in-depth background investigations of characters. Several themes emerge, including the ambiguity of gender roles, the cruelty of blind racism, and what truly defines love. It's a little on the lengthy side (about 400 pages), but well worth it if you're looking for a laid-back but enticing read.

It was also on Oprah's book list for February 2000, for what it's worth, though I only discovered that upon my completion of the novel while searching for literary acclaim.

Book Review: Harvesting the Heart, Jodi Picoult - & life, etc.

This book was, at the same time, one of my most and least favourite Picoults. The plot took a good 200 pages to arrive, and even when she did start building it, I found myself hating the male protagonist so much that I could barely read his sections. Perhaps Picoult intended for that to happen; after all, the point of view in her books changes constantly, and this one used a first person narrator for the mother, Paige, but a limited omniscient narrator for her husband, Nicholas. After the plot got going, though, I found myself really loving the book; if I were judging the book by its last 150 pages or so, it would probably be my favourite Picoult so far.

Eventually, I found myself rooting for Nicholas and Paige in turn and got really caught up in how the story would end. That's why I read so many Picoults: she draws me into her stories so much that it doesn't feel like I'm reading a novel, it feels like I'm experiencing that particular situation firsthand, so I have to finish it as soon as possible to ensure all the characters turn out all right. I also like her novels because they almost always have some sort of a happy ending. Maybe one or two of the characters settle; maybe a main character dies (okay, that's not quite the happiest ending, but still); maybe everything doesn't happen how I hoped it would. But there's still a string of hope to hold onto when everything else in her novels turns out disappointingly realistic.

I have four books on my shelf from the Bellevue library, which means I have about two more weeks to read them. They are The Road by Cormac McCarthy, Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende, and another Picoult, Second Glance. Whenever I check out library books I have such a difficult time deciding which book I want to read next. I first intended to read the longest novel, Daughter of Fortune, after this first Picoult, but it took me about half a week to read Harvesting the Heart, which was much slower than I intended. I may try to read the other three and give up the Allende for another time; then again, there's not going to be much of a better time than now. I'm on break, but I honestly think I'm busier than I was during the semester. But really, I'm just happy to realize how blessed I am to have so many good novels to choose from in the first place.

It's been a busy (and stressful) half week. So far I've had a bridal shower, written all my thank you's for that (but haven't mailed them yet...), bought my wedding dress, veil, and shoes, planned several other pertinent parts of the wedding (found a minister, venue, finalized the guest list, found a woman who can alter and press my dress before we leave for Pittsburgh, trying to get flights for those attending knocked out right now), purchased the remainder of my Christmas presents, and helped my mom remove various heavy pieces of furniture from our house to be donated to Goodwill. Mom and Dad just got done remodeling the kitchen/living room; it looks great, but it's a been a lot of work so far as cleaning and rearranging the house goes. I know I'm stressed because I have four very painful sores in my mouth, and those only surface when I'm under a lot of pressure. The emergence of four at one time only goes to show just how deep the stress goes.

Tomorrow we're opening presents, then it's Christmas day, and then David (finally) comes. I doubt I'll update until after that, so for now, love to all who may read this and, only because I like the sound of it better than "happy holidays," Merry Christmas!

Parting is such sweet sorrow...

...NOT.

Here are some of my thoughts on Harding University on my last day here.

First, I did come here expecting to like attending Harding, despite the fact that I am so not a church of Christ kinda girl. (No offense to those of you who may be - my entire family is church of Christ, as are most of my friends. I don't have a problem with them wanting to worship that way, so long as I don't have to.) I figured it would be much like my previous school but with different friends - chapel would be kind of annoying, and I would prefer to take a nice literature course instead of Bible, but all in all, it would be worth it. And it was, in many respects.

I met great people whom I love to death. I had several awesome professors who broadened my world view and expanded my knowledge on their class material and many other things. I met my fiance, David, the best person I've ever known. I got what I came for - an education - despite all the other things I'm glad to be getting away from. I'd like to admit that I knew what I was getting into, but I think that's untrue in many, many ways.

I didn't know I was getting into an environment that rewarded students for tattling on their friends and roommates. I didn't know that (some of) the faculty would be more concerned with enforcing spiritual regulations than psychological health. I didn't know there would be many times I would hear the message that it's okay to judge others and bring them down so low they feel worthless, so long as you quote a few Bible verses at them in the process. I didn't know it was more important to continue receiving donation money from alumni than pleasing the current students and tending to their needs and requests. I didn't know I was supposed to try to "fix" all my gay friends. I didn't know saying anything derogatory about the church of Christ or administration was on par with debating the divinity of Jesus, which only some awful, ignorant, stupid hell-bound scum of the earth atheist would or could ever do. ...Wait... (I love you, David.)

(Side note: That article lead to one of my favourite quotes of all time.
Jerk: But if there is no eternal [divine] foundation [for morality] why should I care about the rights and dignity of others?
Awesome person: So you wouldn't be an asshole.)

Most of the things I love about this school are connected with people who are good, moral, free-thinking people despite Harding University, not because of it. Most of these people are pretty vocal about disagreeing with some core beliefs of the University, and I think when you have people who are dedicated to looking for the positive aspects rather than the negative and they are still extremely unsatisfied, there's a major problem.

I don't regret coming here - I chose to, although I didn't have many other options, and portions of it have been very good for me - but I am certainly glad I'm getting out.

It's the Saturday before finals. What am I doing?

...Just about anything but studying, and most especially pining over David because he's abandoned me (for the birthday party of his now 13-year-old brother. I know, I know - he can be so selfish).

How Well Do You Know Your Significant Other?

1. He's sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
Probably something that I've begged him to watch for about three months. Don't worry, he's not watching. He's too busy teasing me for liking it.

2. You're out to eat; what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
One that smells funny and tastes worse. I have no idea what we're going to do when we prepare salads for dinner; I am a Ranch girl, but I think he'd get tired of that.

3. What's one food he doesn't like?
Fruit (except for clementines). Weirdest kid ever. Fruit is clearly the most awesome food group.

4. You go out to eat and have a drink. What does he order?
Usually nothing, but wine if we're eating at a high-class establishment. We are bursting with class.

5. Where did he go to high school?
Seneca Valley.

6. What size shoe does he wear?
13? Shoes make his feet look monstrously intimidating.

7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be?
Intellectual books. I try to reverse this trend by buying silly ones and ostentatiously displaying them.

8. What is his favourite type of sandwich?
Chipped turkey with tomatoes and cheese and Miracle Whip. I hear about them at least once a week.

9. What would this person eat every day if he could?
Chipped turkey sandwiches with tomatoes and cheese and Miracle Whip. He probably does eat them every day.

10. What is his favorite cereal?
He's recently developed an intolerance to lactose and refuses to try soy milk, even though it is delicious and good for you, so he doesn't eat cereal anymore. This makes the four huge bags of Cap'n Crunch stacked against the wall at his apartment look even more pathetic.

11. What would he never wear?
Skinny jeans (not that I would ever encourage him to...men who wear them look ridiculous).

12. What is his favourite sports team?
Steelers! I wish I knew some catchy Steelers slogan to insert here, but I'm too recent a fan to know any. Consider my terrible towel waved, though.

13. Who did he vote for?
McCain, obviously.

......just kidding.

You don't need to know David well to realize this. You only need to talk to him for about five minutes.

14. Who is his best friend?
Me. Duh.
He really does say I'm his best friend, but I refer to Steve, Brian, and Mike as his bffs.

15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn't do?
Start losing at Nertz once he is my partner.

16. What is his heritage?
He doesn't know that himself, so I would basically be a super genius if I did. (Don't be fooled - I actually am a super genius. I just don't know his heritage.)

17. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind would he like?
He was a pretty big fan of the Butterfinger one Debbi made him for his last birthday.

18. Did he play sports in high school?
Starter for the B-string football team. That's my boy.

19. What could he spend hours doing?
Debating; he quite frequently does.

20. What is one unique talent he has?
Whenever he has to do something he doesn't want to, he has the amazing ability of transforming himself into a four-year-old throwing a tantrum. "Aaaah, AAAAAAAH!" It's hilarious, especially when needles are mentioned.

Wedding Update

I technically made this blog for wedding updates, so I guess I should update.

David and I have been hesitant to do much wedding planning while I am still down here in Arkansas. It would require too much running around on his part and not enough participation on mine. So we planned to secure quite a few things over the break for our wedding and me moving up there in general, namely a venue, our rings, getting my engagement ring re-sized (it's about a half size too large so the diamond rotates on my finger constantly), our honeymoon, finding me a job, teaching me how to drive a stick, visiting my prospective university, and registering.

Apparently we both forgot that our visits typically include a lot of cuddling in front of the TV, playing Nertz (which for some odd reason transformed into playing Halo this break; I blame David's almost-13-year-old brother, Jeff), and talking with his family. We did pick out wedding rings, obtain a somewhat-secured venue (his parents' church of Christ - not our favourite location, but it's free and convenient), and register (at Target and Bed, Bath, and Beyond), but the large-scale planning is mostly going on in my mom's and Debbi's brains, I think. Debbi sat down and tried to help me select bridesmaid gowns, but I told my girls they could pick their own as long as they were green, and now I've amended that to any colour they want so long as it is bright and happy.

I've never been one of those girls who planned out her wedding throughout childhood, adolescence, or early adulthood. I figured once I was getting married, I would be so ecstatic that everything would just fall into place. I AM ecstatic, unbelievably so, but not about venues or catering or ceremony or dresses. I just want to be married to David. I don't care if that happens in a pricey venue or his backyard or on a boat (everybody look at me, cos I'm sailing on a boat!) or a courthouse, so long as by the end of March 7th, that marriage certificate is valid.

There's still a lot of planning to do, but I honestly think it'll be a lot easier when I'm permanently up there in Pittsburgh instead of stealing minutes away from our break time. Expect another update sometime in December when we've mailed out invitations. Until then, have a great end of semester.

For the Bible Tells Me So

This documentary was so gorgeous. It brought me to tears, many times.

It chronicles the struggles of several families who were or are fundamentalist Christians with gay or lesbian children, including Chrissy Gephardt and Gene Robinson. It goes into the context of the Bible and explains things culturally and most of all stresses that the message of the Bible is love and acceptance, not judgment and ostracism. What most spoke to me was the message that it does no good to be prejudiced against the prejudiced. I often find myself looking down or being upset with Christians who either refuse to tolerate or blatantly hate LGBT people. This does no good at all and speaks against the message of the LBGT movement itself: that all people, no matter what gender, race, religion, societal position, or orientation, are equal and should be treated as such.

Shame on me for holding prejudice in my heart against the prejudiced. People say "love the sinner, hate the sin," but I don't believe in that. I try to refrain from hating at all. Hatred causes lines to blur and intentions to get fuzzy. After this documentary, I know what my intentions are - to love everyone I meet, no matter who or how they are. What are yours?

Laundry Days are the Best Days.

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
as false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
"Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven."

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks and colo[u]rs,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

"Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance."

This poem by Richard Wilbur is the first one I ever loved. I've always thought poetry should be there as something to be read in passing, something to lift the spirits and cleanse the word-lover's palate. This poem gives me that feeling. It feels like cosy fires and sunlight and sunflowers and dipping my feet in pools and kisses.

Now I'm off to enjoy a nice sleep, drunk with the scent of detergent and the hug of warm bedclothes.

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

Still having problems with my papers. Brit Lit's might turn into a huge feminist literary thought-provoking rant, Am Lit's compares Poe and Hawthorne (really. I couldn't think of anything better to do), and PC Lit's is slow going, making me really dislike a topic I loved at first.

I'm hoping this week will be a chance to buck up and just get things done, but this semester isn't readily doling out motivation. I have a severe case of ennui. I just hope it doesn't end up affecting my GPA in a serious way.

Sometime...

I want to quit school so I can just think.

Book Review: The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

Niffenegger crafts a love story so intimate and true that it's difficult to displace from reality. Henry starts spontaneously time traveling when he's 8. He describes it as being similar to epilepsy - there are tell-tale signs when he's about to vanish, but he cannot stop it and cannot wish himself back or forward in time. At 36 he travels to a meadow where he meets a 6-year-old Clare who both is and will be his wife. Niffenegger documents their relationship and their lives together in and out and through time. It was interesting and enchanting, the way Henry knew and didn't know things. His past or future selves would leave clues or guide him through tough times. Though the novel is titled The Time Traveler's Wife, it is mostly about Henry and the effect his genetic disease has on Clare, the way she is forced to pick up the pieces and carry on without him, constantly waiting and worrying and wondering when he'll return to her. I like the title in that sense. It shows that even if the reader wanted to make Clare the main character instead of Henry, his presence is so deep within her that it's impossible to view them as separate beings. I think everyone hopes for a love like that. Their love is timeless and ephemeral simultaneously.

I feel as if Clare and Henry are still out there, somewhere in time, madly and desperately in love in a situation that forces them to rely wholly on each other. This novel was easy to read and filled with vibrant characters and gorgeous emotions. Do you know what I mean by that, saying a book has emotion? Like you can just open up the cover and be overwhelmed by it. In case you don't know what I mean, I've decided to include the letter Henry writes Clare in the event of his death -

December 10, 2006

Dearest Clare,
As I write this, I am sitting at my desk in the back bedroom looking out at your studio across the backyard full of blue evening snow, everything is slick and crusty with ice, and it is very still. It's one of those winter evenings when the coldness of every single thing seems to slow down time, like the narrow center or an hourglass which time itself flows through, but slowly, slowly. I have the feeling, very familiar to me when I am out of time but almost never otherwise, of being buoyed up by time, floating effortlessly on its surface like a fat lady swimmer. I had a sudden urge, tonight, here in the house by myself (you are at Alicia's recital at St. Lucy's) to write you a letter. I suddenly wanted to leave something, for after. I think that time is short, now. I feel as though all my reserves, of energy, of pleasure, of duration, are thin, small. I don't feel capable of continuing very much longer. I know you know.

If you are reading this, I am probably dead. (I say probably because you never know what circumstances may arise; it seems foolish and self-important to just declare one's own death as an out-and-out fact.) About this death of mine - I hope it was simple and clean and unambiguous. I hope it didn't create too much fuss. I'm sorry. (This reads like a suicide note. Strange.) But you know: you know that if I could have stayed, if I could have gone on, that I would have clutched every second: whatever it was, this death, you know that it came and took me, like a child carried away by goblins.

Clare, I want to tell you, again, I love you. Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust. Tonight I feel that my love for you has more density in this world than I do, myself: as though it could linger on after me and surround you, keep you, hold you.

I hate to think of you waiting. I know that you have been waiting for me all your life, always uncertain of how long this patch of waiting would be. Ten minutes, ten days. A month. What an uncertain husband I have been, Clare, like a sailor, Odysseus alone and buffeted by tall waves, sometime wily and sometimes just a plaything of the gods. Please, Clare. When I am dead. Stop waiting and be free. Of me - put me deep inside you and then go out in the world and live. Love the world and yourself in it, move through it as though it offers no resistance, as though the world is your natural element. I have given you a life of suspended animation. I don't mean to say that you have done nothing. You have created beauty, and meaning, in your art, and Alba, who is so amazing, and for me: for me you have been everything.

After my mom died she ate up my father completely. She would have hated it. Every minute of his life since then has been marked by her absence, every action has lacked dimension because she is not there to measure against. And when I was young I didn't understand, but now, I know, how absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird. If I had to live on without you I know I could not do it. But I hope, I have this vision of you walking unencumbered, with your shining hair in the sun. I have not seen this with my eyes, but only with my imagination, that makes pictures, that always wanted to paint you, shining; but I hope that this vision will be true, anyway.

Clare, there is one last thing, and I have hesitated to tell you, because I'm superstitiously afraid that telling might cause it to not happen (I know: silly) and also because I have just been going on about not waiting and this might cause you to wait longer than you have ever waited before. But I will tell you in case you need something, after.
Last summer, I was sitting in Kendrick's waiting room when I suddenly found myself in a dark hallway in a house I don't know. I was sort of tangled up in a bunch of galoshes, and it smelled like rain. At the end of the hall I could see a rim of light around a door, and so I went very slowly and very quietly to the door and looked in. The room was white, and intensely lit with morning sun. At the window, with her back to me, sat a woman, wearing a coral-colored [sic] cardigan sweater, with long white hair all down her back. She had a cup of tea beside her, on a table. I must have made some little noise, or she sensed me behind her . . . she turned and saw me, and I saw her, and it was you, Clare, this was you as an old woman, in the future. It was sweet, Clare, it was sweet beyond telling, to come as though from death to hold you, and to see all the years present in your face. I won't tell you any more, so you can imagine it, so you can have it unrehearsed when the time comes, as it will, as it does come. We will see each other again, Clare. Until then, live, fully, present in the world, which is so beautiful.

It's dark, now, and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.

Henry

Does it count as procrastination...

...if I am putting off writing one paper to do research for my other two?

I think not.

I hope not.

I really am having trouble with writing it, which is terrible, because (so far) it's my favourite topic of all of them...

Curses curses curses. Why is November only a week away already?

It's really almost November already? Really?

I have never been one of those people who say "What happened to all the time? It seems like just yesterday we were moving in..."

Well, look who's behind on her own times.

I think I've delayed posting for so long for several reasons. 1), my news should have been shared the weekend it happened, but I was...preoccupied...; 2), it was midterms week at school and I had five tests; 3), sometimes I miss David so much it's difficult to talk about him without getting choked up, and that's especially the case after we've had to say goodbye another time.

Fortunately, this is the second-to-last time we'll ever have to say goodbye. David proposed to me during my fall break visit. It was more perfect that I ever could have imagined, and I think that's because he took me completely by surprise. We both love being outside and going for walks (in fact, he asked me out after we had walked the entire bike trail here in Searcy), so we decided to go backpacking on the Laurel Ridge trail for 12 miles when I came up last weekend. After we had reached the half-point on our first day of hiking (which was almost completely uphill - I am not exaggerating), he set up the camera to take a few pictures of us. His hands were shaking really badly as he preset the camera, and I remember thinking That's odd...he hasn't had any caffeine today.... I saw him racing around behind me to get in the picture, and when I looked to my left, he was kneeling instead of standing. I totally didn't get it. I thought he had fallen and was slightly surprised that he had missed out on the picture. When he asked me to marry him, I immediately said "Yes," assuming he was Jim Halpert-ing me (informally proposing). I realized he was serious and amazingly did not cry (much). We took more pictures (which I would include, but it's late, and I'm lazy. They're on facebook) and the rest of the hike went swimmingly (hikingly?).

We've decided on a Pittsburgh wedding on March 7, 2010. That's about as far as we've got so far. I was never one of those girls who immaculately planned out her wedding, so it's rather ironic that I'm the first of any of my friends to be engaged. Now I'm all caught up in figuring out the budget and deciding whether or not to do this or that for the wedding and I'm still completely aware that this is the most blessed I've ever felt in my entire life, as well as completely taken aback that it happened to me at all. It's surreal and entirely real at the same time.

There's my version. You can read David's here, and pictures are here and here.

Update:
That's partially the reason why I started this blog. David and I knew within the month that we started dating that we wanted to get married someday. This has been a (relatively) long time coming. I wanted to start the blog to give updates on wedding plans, moving plans, honeymoon plans, etc., and also as a means to keep in touch with friends at Harding after I've moved to Pittsburgh.

Don't think of it as losing quantity. Think of it as gaining probability.

I have lived in three states throughout my entire life (accepting that going away to college places your residency, albeit temporarily, in another state): Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. Surprisingly, I've turned out relatively normal; even more surprisingly, I've managed to escape being confronted with a (poisonous) snake. Living in a populous area like Oklahoma City doesn't put you up against the likes of five different rattlesnakes, copperheads, and cottonmouths very often. Some sort of spiritual immunity hovering over the boundaries of Searcy, AR has prevented me from ever glimpsing Arkansas' three poisonous rattlesnakes, water moccasins, coral snakes, and copperheads. I've never stepped into the cornfields or onto the western sand dunes of Nebraska, thus avoiding the prairie and timber rattlesnakes, western massasuagas, and (yet again) copperheads. In fact, the only time I've ever glimpsed poisonous snakes was as the family van ran over them in Texas or my (ex)friends dragged me and forced me up against the glass cages at the Henry Doorly Zoo. I've lived a charmed existence so far, never being confronted face-to-fangs, and I hoped I would reap more blessings as I moved north. Surely snakes only live in mild or warmer climates, right? They couldn't survive the hypothermia-inducing winters of the Northeast.
Wrong.

As I tossed and turned in my bed last night, I found myself thinking of the backpacking trip David and I will take in Pennsylvania this Thursday and Friday. We're hiking six miles, camping during the night, and hiking back the next morning. This will probably be fairly commonplace when I move up there, since we both love nature, climbing rocks, and buying cute new hiking accessories (okay, the last one is only me). A passing thought suddenly gripped me with fear: placing myself out in the midst of nature would only make it easier for the snakes to hunt me down and fang me in my sleep. Heart racing, I googled "poisonous snakes of Pennsylvania," hoping for the best. I was blown away by the results.

It turns out that snakes aren't warded away by colder climates. The same three creepers keep slithering back into my life: the timber rattlesnake, the northern copperhead, and this time, the eastern massasuaga rattlesnake. I know there are fewer poisonous varieties than in any other state I've lived in, but that's not all - I'm basically inviting them to strike at me now by adventuring off into the woods instead of staying safe and cosy in my dorm room. And what's worse, you're not allowed to kill the rattlesnakes (those that most frequent the trails), because they're either endangered or well on their way to becoming so.

Using this piece of information, you might twist it and say "Well, if they're endangered, it's not very likely that you'll see one, right?" Wrong. They can smell the fear.

I would post a picture of the sneaky snake that is most likely to bring about my demise, but then I would be too petrified to view my own blog. Instead, I will post this nice picture of the luck dragon from Neverending Story. I'm going to need all the luck I can get.

I am already tired of this blog.

This happens sometimes with me and blogs. I will be bored out of my mind one day and think "Wouldn't it be awesome if I had a blog? Then people could read my awesome thoughts and think about how awesome I am and we could become bff and fill the world with our awesomeness." And then I start one and realize I have nothing to talk about and people are probably judging me for how un-awesome I am and then I realize that surprise (but really not because I've known it all along), there are like three people reading and they are only doing it because they love me and understand that sometimes I need comments to feel important. Except usually I don't return the favour (sorry, David).

Anyway, I'm still awake, as is usual on Friday and Saturday nights (and sometimes random Wednesdays). I had planned to read Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris all in one go tonight, but then Jo, Adria, Delaney and I all watched the Mothman Prophecies (weird) and went to Sonic and David and I watched Hotel Rwanda and he wouldn't let me adopt Rwandan babies. I'm still awake because I still want to read a good portion of Charlaine Harris tonight, but I have been distracted with movies and reading blogs and other strange and random things.

I was thinking about a conversation (argument/epic challenge) that Becca, Adria, and I had earlier. Becca and I wanted pizza (mmmm!) after class, and she had a pepperoni one in the freezer, but when I took it out all the pepperoni were lined up in the middle of the pizza with just a few outliers on the edges. I don't know what kind of crazy person is okay with that, so I took off all the pepperoni and fixed them so they were more evenly spaced (though not perfectly even, as Becca would tell you). Becca thought I was being so ridiculous that she took a picture and memorialized how creepy my hands can look for eternity, but not really because I doubt it will be uploaded to anywhere. Then Adria came home and I made her (/asked politely if she would) tell Becca that rearranging uneven pizza toppings is perfectly rational and normal. Then Becca said we were BOTH crazy and all three of us changed our facebook statuses to get as many opinions as possible (Adria and I won. By...a lot). Sometime in the middle of this I grabbed my phone to text David, because I do that sometimes when I do things that people think are ridiculous. I always ask "Is it weird to do _____?" and because I am the one asking he knows I am the one doing it so he almost always says "You are a strange girl. But I still love you" and I kind of chuckle to myself because let's face it, I am a strange girl. Anyway, this time he agreed with me, which made me wonder...when did David become my pillar of rationality? He is not the most rational person. In fact, he thinks Republicans should be isolated from the rest of the world. I don't really have a point, except that sometimes, I am the most rational person in the world the most rational non-Republican person in the world more rational than David. So chew on that. And also maybe in the future, ignore any posts I make after midnight.

xoxo Heather

Book Review: The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides

I was encouraged to read The Virigin Suicides by my roommate, Adria. I purchased the movie version for her as a birthday present last year. We watched it one night close to finals week when we were supposed to be doing important scholastic things, so I already knew how the story ended, even if the novel included more background and further plot developments. I guess it doesn't take much to figure the basic concept out; it's right there in the title. Regardless, I think knowing the ending ruined the novel for me.

The story centers around five Lisbon girls, aged from 13 to 17: Cecilia, Lux, Bonnie, Mary, and Therese. Their parents are extremely devout Catholics who don't allow the girls to socialize properly. The youngest attempts to commit suicide, but fails; she is successful a few weeks later, and this provides the context for most of the novel. Told from a first person plural perspective by the Lisbon-obsessed boys of the neighbourhood, The Virgin Suicides explores how Cecilia's death affects her sisters and the rest of the neighbourhood.

I measure whether a novel is good or not by the feeling I get upon its completion. That's why I have such issues with beginning a book and then laying it aside - I feel I can't judge it properly unless I've read it all the way through. The only thing I'm overcome with is disappointment. The concept of five beautiful virgin teenage girls (well, four - Lux is a bit of a temptress) is alluring enough to pique curiosity, even if that's the only context. However, the context the Eugenides provides makes their deaths seem inconsequential, since everyone in the neighbourhood (and therefore his readers) expects it to happen. Maybe there's something in his boldness with such a tender subject that I'm missing; maybe that lack of surprise is what Eugenides felt would "make" his novel. If that's the case, I just don't see it.

Here's what I do see: an interesting concept explained by a great voice (having the boys of the neighbourhood narrate was genius, the best thing about Virgin Suicides, in my opinion) that has been lost in a molasses-slow plot and inconsistency. All signs point to the parents as the causation of the Lisbon girls' suicides, but they never do anything actively terrible. Also, two of the girls successfully kill themselves with sleeping pills. I've only done a modicum of research about suicide for a school project back in seventh grade for my health class, but even I know that taking sleeping pills is one of the least effective ways to commit suicide. The body automatically rejects the amount of toxicity by causing the consumer to vomit the pills back out. This wasn't a minute detail, it was one of the defining points of the novel. It seemed like Eugenides hadn't done much research, and that made me less inclined to appreciate his writing.

This whole novel made me reconsider what I deem to be good writing. Does a great idea make a good novel? A great plot? Characters? Themes? I don't think a novel can be considered truly great unless it has several of these characteristics, and that is why The Virgin Suicides does not meet my standards of a good work of fiction. I have tagged it an an "airplane book" because that's what I consider it to be: it doesn't matter if you get distracted, because it's not a novel that requires concentration and active thinking. This novel is good for whiling away the hours, but not for sparking intellectual curiosity. I wouldn't recommend not reading it, but I wouldn't recommend reading it, either.

My suitemates are crazy

...but I love them.

Book Review: Handle with Care, Jodi Picoult

Let me preface my post with this: I love Jodi Picoult. She is one of my favourite authors. I love that her plots are a combination of medical dilemmas, ethics, and lawsuits; I love that each novel has chapters from multiple points of view; I love the interactions within her plots. All of those elements were present in this novel - and they were good - but somehow, they did not blow me away this time, like they usually do. I don't think a novel is great until it surprises me in some way. This novel didn't do that, or at least not at the end, which is the best time to be surprised.

Picoult's formula is a good one, but for some reason, Handle with Care came across as too formulaic. It felt like Picoult took the exact same plot for My Sister's Keeper, exchanged the medical problems and attorneys, subtracted one kid, plugged in new careers for the parents, and shipped it off to her editor.

In this novel, the mom, Charlotte, files a lawsuit against her obstetrician for wrongful birth. Her daughter, Willow, has Type III osteogenesis imperfecta, which means her brittle bones will break at the slightest jostling for the rest of her life. Her obstetrician could have caught this earlier in the pregnancy, giving Charlotte the option to terminate and try again for a healthy child. Charlotte's logic determines that it doesn't matter "wrongful birth" implies she wishes her daughter had never been born. She thinks she can convince her 6-year-old otherwise, by day-to-day living and loving. She feels this lawsuit is all for Willow, since the money will improve her lifestyle.

I think the main reason why I wasn't sold on this book is because, as I said before, it's predictable. It's predictable that Charlotte would file the lawsuit, so sure her daughter would believe that she loved her and was doing the best for her all along, and then question it later on. It's predictable that Sean, Charlotte's husband, would disagree with the lawsuit eventually, and that it would cause problems within their marriage. It's predictable that both parents would favour the ailing younger sister, completely ignoring 12-year-old Amelia (and I think everyone knows that 12-year-olds should not be ignored and left to their own devices). It's predictable that Marin, Charlotte's lawyer, would disagree with her client, since she was given up for adoption at birth. It's predictable that the lawsuit would break up Charlotte's relationship with her obstetrician.

Despite all this, Handle with Care is written beautifully, strategically planned to make readers explore the morality of wrongful birth lawsuits. Is it okay to terminate a pregnancy if going through with it guarantees a lifetime of pain for your child? Is it okay to blame someone else for the inadequacy you have as a parent to provide insurance and health care for your family? Is it okay to say one incredibly hurtful thing to loved ones - I wish you had never been born - if it ultimately improves their lifestyle?

For this reason, Jodi Picoult's novels will always spark my interest. Reading them is not so much a matter of identifying with the characters as it is making me think about my worldview and opinions. If you like thinking, if you enjoy good writing, if diverse characters and situations catch your interest, and if you don't mind some small factors of poor plot (predictable, recycled, or conventional - for this author, anyway), I encourage you to pick up a Picoult. You won't be sorry.

Impulses, Pt. 1

I just bought five Jodi Picoult books on amazon when I was looking for a present for David.
I did get him the present. And it's friggin awesome. But still.

Ridiculous Ramblings and Run-On Sentences, pt. 1

I chose to write in Lucinda Grande because it sounded grande. Turns out, it's not so great.

I took three Benadryl last night because I was itchy and wanted to commemorate my first Monday of sleeping in. Before today, I had to rise and shine and give God the glory at 6. 6 AM. I am not a 6 AM kind of girl. I am a 9 AM kind of girl. So this was a momentous occasion. Very momentous, as it turns out, because instead of waking up at 8:15 I woke up at 9:17 because the three Benadryl (not me!) heard my alarm go off at 6 and shut it off and then made me collapse back into my warm bed where I tried to will myself to set another alarm but let's face it, the Benadryl had taken over my body and it was the point of no return. So instead of reading Cry, the Beloved Country in chapel I spent fifteen minutes trying to decide what to wear (very uncharacteristic) and marched off to class.

Let me tell you something about my Mondays. They are torturous. That has climbed the charts from the outright anguish that I experienced before I dropped my (second, all-freshman) bible class, and especially since (as you already know!) some precious girl switched my Monday work hours for her Friday hours. Now, I have one class at 10, a break (goodbye bible!), three classes from 12-3, and another class from 4:30-6. Not too shabby. Life is looking up lately.

Oh, I suppose this post should have been something introductory. Let's face it: if you've made it this far, you know what I'm like. I'm impulsive, quite silly, very amused with myself, and excessively garrulous. If you couldn't tell by that last word, I read ravenously, and when I so please my vocabulary can be quite extensive. Don't worry, I don't so please very often. I really started this post because I was craving waffles. That went away sometime in the process. That happens, too.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression, though. I can be quite intelligent, and I'll probably write blogs on morality, spirituality, and literature, because I love all those things. I'm an English major, so sometimes I just like to write. Basically, this blog is for whatever literary expression I need at the time, whether it be ranting, rambling, rhetorically inclined, or romancing. Enjoy the ride.