Writerly Maladies

This article about "maladies" many writers out there are afflicted with is hilarious!

Excerpt:

Description Overload: Upon this page there is a period. It is not just any period, it is a period following a sentence. It follows this sentence in a way befitting a period of its kind, possessing a roundness that is pleasing to the eye and hearty to the soul. This period has the bearing of a regal tennis ball combined with the utility of a used spoon. It is an unpretentious period, just like any other, the result of hundreds of years of typesetting innovations that allows it to be used, almost forgotten, like oxygen to the sentence only darker, more visible. And it is after this period, which will neither reappear nor matter in any sense whatsoever to the rest of the novel, that our story begins.

Self

Sometimes a person might behave in ways he or she regrets - ways that are not representative of who he or she is. Sometimes a person portrays an image of him or herself to the world that is not who that person truly is. This can be frustrating. What's even more frustrating is letting such a thing bother you when really you ought to just go on behaving the way you feel you should. Eventually, people will either get it or not get it, but you'll know you're still you. Even if the whole world is blind to who you are, you know who you are. If you are true to yourself, you have the right to stand tall and look people in the eye because you are not hiding anything. You are presenting to the world your true, majestic self.

Hirhurim linked a dvar Torah by R' Twerski that I think is worthwhile for everyone to read. Excerpt:

Today, we vote in blocs and think in blocs. We are influenced by the mass media, major corporations and by the leaders of educational institutions. Indeed, the educational system has been criticized as forcing all students into the belly of the bell curve, resulting in mediocrity as well as uniformity. We yield to whatever fad prevails. Our minds are made up by everyone except ourselves.

There are indeed rules and principles by which we must all abide, but there is ample room within these parameters to be oneself. What is my goal in life? What do I think happiness is? What are my unique abilities that I should develop? What kind of lifestyle do I want?

Rebbe Shalom Shachna, the father of the Rebbe of Rhizin, married the granddaughter of Rebbe Nachum of Chernoble. The latter’s chassidim did not approve of Rebbe Shalom Shachna’s ways, which did not conform to the Chernoble practices, and complained to Rebbe Nachum. When Rebbe Nachum asked his grandson why he was not conforming, the latter answered with a parable.

The egg of a duck got mixed up with the eggs of a hen. When the chicks hatched, the mother hen took them for a walk. When they passed by a stream, the duckling jumped in. The mother hen panicked, shouting, “Come out of there! You’ll drown!” The duckling responded, “Have no fear, mother. I know how to swim.”

Rebbe Nachum told his chassidim, “Leave him alone. He knows what he is doing.” Thence came the dynasty of Rhizin, famed for its uniqueness.

Listen to the words of Rav Shlomo Wolbe. “Every individual, like Adam, is an entire world. The existence of billions of people does not detract from each person’s uniqueness. Every individual is a one-time phenomenon.

Every person should know, “I, with my strengths and talents, facial features and personality traits, am unique in the world. Among all those living today and in all past generations, there was no one like me, nor will there ever be anyone like me to the end of time. Hashem has sent me into the world with a unique mission that no one else can fulfill, only I in my one-time existence” (Alei Shur vol.2 p.71),

And again, “How distant from reverence for Hashem is the person who seeks only the approval of others, and is ready to imitate whatever he sees others do.” (Alei Shur vol.1 p.132).

God created us all with sechel, intelligence. With that intelligence, we have the ability to make decisions and form opinions. If I cannot be certain of myself and my own decisions and opinions, how can I be certain of anything? We have to take the time to strip away the voices and opinions of everyone around us and really figure out who we are, what we want, where we are, and where we wish to go.

I recently read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. One of the characters in the book, Howard Roark, discusses the concept of Second-Handers. Second-Handers are people who live not motivated by what they truly want but by how they wish to be seen by others:

They have no concern for facts, ideas, work. They’re concerned only with people. They don’t ask: “Is this true?” They ask: “Is this what others think is true?” Not to judge, but to repeat. Not to do, but to give the impression of doing. Not creation, but show. Not ability, but friendship. Not merit, but pull. What would happen to the world without those who do, think, work, produce? Those are the egoists. You don’t think through another’s brain and you don’t work through another’s hands. When you suspend your faculty of independent judgment, you suspend consciousness. To stop consciousness is to stop life. Second-handers have no sense of reality. Their reality is not within them, but somewhere in that space which divides one human body from another. Not an entity, but a relation—anchored to nothing.

[...]

After centuries of being pounded with the doctrine that altruism is the ultimate ideal, men have accepted it in the only way it could be accepted. By seeking self-esteem through others. By living second-hand. And it has opened the way for every kind of horror. It has become the dreadful form of selfishness which a truly selfish man couldn’t have conceived. [...] Look at everyone around us. You’ve wondered why they suffer, why they seek happiness and never find it. If any man stopped and asked himself whether he’s ever held a truly personal desire, he’d find the answer. He’d see that all his wishes, his efforts, his dreams, his ambitions are motivated by other men. He’s not really struggling even for material wealth, but for the second-hander’s delusion—prestige. A stamp of approval, not his own. He can find no joy in the struggle and no joy when he has succeeded. He can’t say about a single thing: “This is what I wanted because I wanted it, not because it made my neighbors gape at me.”

If one spends her life overly concerned with what others think, she will never get to learn what she thinks. In essence, she will never really exist as a unique individual - only as the member of a throng, of a collective opinion. Then one day, she will wake up and wonder, "Who am I? Why am I here? What is my purpose? What have I done in this life and why have I done it?" And there will be no answers. Until that point, she has not existed without others informing her how to exist. She has not lived as an individual.

We have to value our own worth and feel confident in the competence of our own minds. And if you make a mistake, even a big one, absorb it, make it part of you so you can learn from it and understand how to behave in the future. Recognizing something as a mistake means you understand proper ways to behave. Take confidence in that. You cannot erase, but you can build. Mistakes are precious - they show us the paths we should be careful around next time, they help us understand others who are as imperfect as we are, and they help guide us towards more correct behaviors and decisions in the future.

You are a being created by God. By putting yourself down, you are putting down one of God's creations. If God created you, there must be worth to you. A good friend once said, "Only you determine YOUR self worth. That's why it's called self."

We're all unique and we all have something substantial to offer. Remember that. :)

S.A.

I've heard of Alcoholics Anonymous. I've even heard of Over Eaters Anonymous. But there's another kind of abuse that I think requires its own Anonymous group. These abusers make every appreciator of writing cringe - or ought to. If they don't make you cringe, perhaps you should attend a meeting of the newly formed Sesquipedalians Anonymous.

These are the Thesaurus Abusers. They write sentences such as this one:

"The abundance of his leonine mane and the floppiness of his silk cloth conspire to create a sort of vaporous tutu, causing the gentleman to forfeit his customary virility." - The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Hey, I gotta cite my sources.)

Or this:

"Since then, I have gone every day to the butcher's to buy a slice of ham or some calf's liver, which I slip into my net bag between my packet of noodles and my bunch of carrots. I then obligingly flaunt these pauper's victuals - now much improved by the noteworthy fact that they do not smell - because I am a pauper in a house full of rich people and this display nourishes both the consensual cliche and my cat Leo, who has become rather large by virtue of these meals that should have been mine, and who stuffs himself liberally and noisily with macaroni and butter, and pork from the delicatessen, while I am free - without any olfactory disturbances or anyone suspecting a thing - to indulge my own culinary proclivities." - ibid

Of course, there's always this:

"Moreover, a concierge who reads Marx must be contemplating subversion, must have sold her soul to that devil, the trade union. That she might simply be reading Marx to elevate her mind is so incongruous a conceit that no member of the bourgeoisie could ever entertain it.

'Say hello to your mother,' I murmur as I close the door in his face, hoping that the complete dissonance between my two sentences will be veiled by the might of millennial prejudice." - ibid

I don't know about dissonance between her sentences, but I'm pretty sure there's some dissonance between what she's trying to say and the decorative cloak she's throwing over it. It doesn't even work as a piece of irony, unless she's trying to be so ironic that she overdid herself and ended up sounding like a college freshman trying to impress her English Comp. teacher.

As a professor in Stern once said:

"Don't write: the conflagration consumed the edifice. Do write: the house burned down."

The professor then left the class with this bit of advice: "Eschew the sesquipedalian."

So I encourage all of us to eschew our own inner sesquipedalian. Realize that mastering the English language does not mean using its fanciest words at every given opportunity. It means understanding how to use simple words to convey your sophisticated (or not so sophisticated) ideas aptly and precisely.

Thank you.

Integrity

"What is it that I like so much about the house you're building for me, Howard?"

"A house can have integrity, just like a person," said Roark, "and just as seldom."

"In what way?"

"Well, look at it. Every piece of it is there because the house needs it -- and for no other reason. You see it from here as it is inside. The rooms in which you'll live made the shape. The relation of masses was determined by the distribution of space within. The ornament was determined by the method of construction, an emphasis of the principle that makes it stand. You can see each stress, each support that meets it. Your own eyes go through a structural process when you look at the house, you can follow each step, you see it rise, you know what made it and why it stands. But you've seen buildings with columns that support nothing, with purposeless cornices, with pilasters, mouldings, false arches, false windows. You've seen buildings that look as if they contained a single large hall, they have solid columns and single, solid windows six floors high. But you enter and find six stories inside. Or buildings that contain a single hall, but with a facade cut up into the floor lines, band courses, tiers of windows. Do you understand the difference? Your house is made by its own needs. Those others are made by the need to impress. The determining motive of your house is in the house. The determining motive of the other is in the audience."

"Do you know that that's what I've felt in a way? I've felt that when I move into this house, I'll have a new sort of existence, and even my simple daily routine will have a kind of honesty or dignity that I can't quite define. Don't be astonished if I tell you that I feel as if I'll have to live up to that house."

"I intended that," said Roark.

"And, incidentally, thank you for all the thought you seem to have taken about my comfort. There are so many things I notice that had never occured to me before, but you've planned them as if you knew all my needs. For instance, my study is the room I'll need most and you've given it the dominant spot -- and, incidentally, I see where you've made it the dominant mass from the outside, too. And then the way it connects with the library, and the living room well out of my way, and the guest rooms where I won't hear too much of them -- and all that. You were very considerate of me."

"You know," said Roark, "I haven't thought of you at all. I thought of the house." He added: "Perhaps that's why I knew how to be considerate of you."

--The Fountainhead

---------------------------------------------------------

Last summer, I started reading The Fountainhead and felt very frustrated with it. I did not like either of the main characters, seeing them both as crazy extremes of the way one is to approach life. This summer, I am reading it again and I find it to be an interestingly, wonderfully different experience. It's amazing how much a person can change in a year. Even subtle changes can inspire drastic growths in one's outlook on the world.

This particular segment of the book is one which I feel speaks directly to me and my learning experiences this past year, so I am sharing it with you. It speaks volumes of truth to me. I hope it does to you, too.

Conversation Of The Day

[I'm working in July as a substitute assistant teacher in a pre-school where my mother does physical therapy. Today was my first day. With about an hour left to the day, the music teacher came.]

Teacher: This is [my mom's name]'s daughter.

Music Teacher: Oh...you're the writer?

Me: Heh, yeah.

Music Teacher: Yeah, I had a whole conversation with your mom after graduation.* You know, soon after that I got an email from the father of one of the kids who thought I did such a good job with the graduation, and I saw that on the bottom of the email there was a link to a website. I clicked on it and saw that this boy's father is an author! A really big one.

Me: Oh, cool.

Music Teacher: Yeah, I thought of you. I don't know if you've heard of him or not...Gordon Korman?

Me: [thinking: did I hear that correctly?] Gordon Korman?! I used to read his books! Oh my gosh! That's so cool!

Music Teacher: Yeah! So I wrote him back and we're going out for coffee so I can pick his brain because I'm thinking about writing kids' books also. I'll mention it to your mom.

Me: ::starry-eyed:: Reeeaaally???

Gordon Korman...Jerry Spinelli...Louis Sachar...ah, childhood.

But how cool is that?!

*I went to the pre-school graduation a few weeks ago.

On A Dark And Stormy Night

It's raining and thundering so hard, I can't sleep. Lightening keeps flashing through the blinds on my windows. Often when I sleep during a storm, the sounds and flashes from outside incorporate themselves in my dreams in some way, and that makes me reluctant to fall asleep.

When I was younger, I used to imagine that thunder was the sound of a heavenly bowling alley God was making use of that night. It does sound like some sort of cosmic bowling night, doesn't it?

I also have a distinct memory of opening up an umbrella outside during a particularly windy rainstorm and being nearly carried off Mary-Poppins-style by the wind.

If I wasn't so tired, I would describe these memories more poetically and in greater detail, but I'm really only awake because of the din and commotion outside.

Did any of you ever have any strange notions about thunder and lightening?

I happen to love storms, but not while I'm trying to fall asleep. This old video I dug up on youtube was strangely comforting - if only because it's a clip from one of the best children's movies ever. It makes me sad to think kids don't watch Wee Sing movies anymore (I hope I'm wrong about that!) because they were such quality kid entertainment.

Also, I used to always want a dress like Sally's. :)

...Things seem to be quieting outside. For now, at least. Except I think the wind just knocked against our garbage cans outside because something scraped against the house just now. It had better be the wind, anyway. A little unnerving...

...And now the rain's started again. Wow, I think I'm liveblogging a storm. I am way too tired for this. The rain, if I'm going to start using metaphors for everything, or similes - as the case may be, sounds like the earth is taking a strong shower. Or like a humongous watering can from one of Jack and the Beanstalk's giants being poured down onto the world. Or like the clouds are dumping buckets of water on us. Which is somewhat accurate, anyway. Isn't is funny when your simile is actually what's really going on? The clouds are dumping water on us.

Well...so much for being poetic.

Alright - I'm going to try and let the rain lull me to sleep...

...Though I'm hungry. Have you ever read A Wrinkle in Time? It starts off like this. A storm. Meg, the protagonist, goes downstairs to get something to eat. Charles Wallace, her brother, has already made her a sandwich, intuiting that his sister would be upset by the storm and want something to eat. Their mother comes down and has something to eat, as well. And then they get a surprised visitor and the adventures begin...

Good book. Highly recommended.

I feel like Meg tonight. In fact, I feel like Meg often. Smart, not especially cool, average in looks, high hopes and dreams. And like Meg, I've learned many things this year about myself and my own strengths. I spent time learning about the Happy Medium (aka Balance). And I am still learning how I, an ordinary girl whose succes - until now - has remained only in dreams, can stand firm and grounded on my own two feet and face the world with my chin held high.

I was just thinking recently how, ever since school ended, I haven't written much on my blog. It seems a stormy night is fertile ground for thinking.

Someone said to me today that I ought to consider myself an adult, not a little girl. Well, that person is right. It's high time for me to take the mantle of adulthood, and I guess that begins with not letting a storm keep me up at night.

So I think I shall try going to sleep now. I'm certainly tired enough for it...

Good night!

But perhaps with a lamp on... ;)

Reflections Of An English Major

Some coast through college as though it is just a current tugging them along to graduation and then spitting them out into the "real world."

Others endure college because it is a practical guide for skills they can later use to make money, but they are not interested in wasting their time with studying anything impractical in that venue.

But there are also some who really use college as a time for personal growth. While this is not mutually exclusive from the first two categories, I do believe it deserves its own category anyway.

Someone who takes her English major seriously cannot possibly escape college without reaching a sort of self-knowledge she did not have before. Part of studying literature is studying yourself. A true English major gains an awareness of what she is doing. There is a certain kind of carefulness with which she learns to approach texts and, as an extension of that, the rest of the world.

Not all books are literature. The thing is, many people separate "popular fiction" with "high art literature." But literature is not synonymous with "high art." The way I like to understand it, though this is not my own idea, what makes something literature is its ability to be both good writing and exist on the same plane as its reader. There is not the book that is somehow on a pedestal higher than the reader, but rather the reader is able to take the book and see herself in its writing. That should not be confused with seeing herself in the characters. A real piece of literature is one that lasts through time and exists as its own entity, not dependent on a time period or a piece of background knowledge. You don't have to know anything about the author, about the time period, about the subject matter other than what is written in the book. It is writing that can speak to readers a hundred years ago, today, and a hundred years from now.

As my teacher put it: "It becomes literature the moment you enter the picture."

About a year and a half ago, I wrote a post about calling myself a writer. The crux of the post is that I find it somewhat absurd to go around calling myself a writer when I don't have any spectacular piece of writing to prove I deserve such an identity:

...by speaking the words I am a writer, I am effectively giving myself the title of, well, Writer, and I guess I just feel rather pretentious doing so. Because I'm not really a writer. I have nothing to show for being a writer. Its more like I fancy myself a writer.

But is the identity of "writer" really reserved for those who churn out bestsellers every year? Or is there some other way to be a writer? Is that kind of activity really writing?

I think that true writing requires a kind of consciousness of what you are doing, regardless of whether you get anything published or not. It's not like once you publish something, you are hereafter known as a writer. You can publish twenty books a year and not be truly writing. Or you can publish nothing but spend your energy really concentrating on what you are writing, how you write, and the fact that you are writing at all. Thinking about whether or not you are a true writer is indicative of a certain kind of attention that all true writers require.

After spending so much time and effort on doing this kind of work - four years of it, in fact - it's weird to feel like you are now walking away. Moving on. Enriched, perhaps, but somehow...leaving something behind. I don't even know what it is that I'm leaving behind, but it definitely feels like something.

It's weird to feel like I could have put so much more effort into my major, that I could have grown even more, that I could have achieved so much more. There's so much I was exposed to that I didn't properly soak in. And I know, you're not supposed to live in the past. You have to move forward. And I know you don't stop learning once you leave college.

But that doesn't mean it's hard to feel like I'm graduating a major that I did not take full advantage of.

The world may say that an English major is impractical. It may insist that English majors are wasting their time, ruining the economy, getting a BA in the Useless Members of Society club, and not gaining any real skills that matter outside of book clubs.

All that may be as true or not true as you decide.

But English majors also spend their time gaining an understanding of themselves and of other people. And the more they understand and work on themselves, the more they can understand and have an effect on the world.

I believe there's a R' Salanter quote about that. :)

That is the gift four years of studying literature and writing brings. So, no matter how useless my skills might be upon leaving college, I will never regret having been an English major. No other concentration could have given me a richer education.

It's just odd to think that the struggle in this environment is now over, yet I am not finished growing. I have a better understanding of what makes good writing, but can I do it? Can I take on the mantle of being my own teacher? Or will I slip into the routine of "real life" the way most people do and wake up thirty years from now wondering when I'll have time to start reading, thinking, and writing again the way I did back in my good ol' college days? How do I know I have the strength and determination to take control of my life instead of letting life's pressures and expectations take control of me?

Ahem

I have finished my senior thesis.

(!!!!!!!!!)

Why I Want To Be A Writer

Ever since I was a little kid, I was writing stories. Most people who want to be writers will tell you that. It is a rather trite thing to say at this point and, truthfully, it doesn't come close to answering why you want to write. Do you want to write because you've been writing ever since you were little?

Sometime yesterday, I said to a friend, "You know, I really miss the Harry Potter books."

I didn't mean I want there to be more of them. I'm certainly not looking for HP8 (heresy, I know, but the series feels over to me). "Over vacation, I want to go back and read Book One," I said. Because that is what I miss. I miss the magic.

The magic in Harry Potter exists not only in the world of Hogwarts. It exists in the way the words travel around your senses and pinch your imagination in little sparks, nudging you here, then over there, then a little to the left, to the right, until you are in love. You don't even know what you are in love with, but you are in love. You want nothing to exist in the world except you and the book you are reading. What's more - it is your book. You don't want to share it with millions of fans. You want it to be yours and yours alone. You want to sit cross-legged on your bed with your hair falling over your face as you read avidly, devouring the book 'til the very end, when you can turn right back to the beginning and devour it again.

But as you sit there on your bed alone in the absolutely lovely world your imagination has created, millions of other children are sitting in the same exact position, equally stirred by the same exact words. If a giant were to stand on our planet and look down at the world, it would see millions of children engrossed in books. And not just children. Teenagers. Adults. People who have sworn off reading long ago. Children who can't be paid to read for school. Everyone.

Reading.

That sight must be one of the most glorious sights in the world. Just imagine every being on this planet pausing in work, in games, in war, in fights, in stress, in time and together stepping through a portal to another world, to a world which hugs you and shows you that evil truly is evil and good is quite good indeed. That it is not the power we have but the choices we make that matter.

"It is our choices, Harry, that show us who we truly are, far more than our abilities," says Dumbledore.

Imagine making the choice to write a book about making good choices. A book about friendship. A book about family. A book about love. About courage. About strength. About never giving up.

In a documentary, J.K. Rowling was asked, "How do you want to be remembered?"

"As someone who did the best she could with the talent she had," she said.

You can watch that part of the documentary here, though I would recommend started from part one if you have time:



We never know what is going to happen to us in our lives. For me, I'm at a significant turning point. I have a little over a month and a half left of college and then...that's it. Then I'm on my own. I don't know what that will come to mean and I don't even know how much I'm looking forward to it, but I also know that by not looking forward to it, I am betraying my more adventurous side. I am suppressing the magic of possibility.

In The Once and Future King, King Arthur, when he is a little boy, gets turned into various animals by Merlin as part of his education. He turns into a fish, a hawk, a goose, even an ant. Later, when he has already become king, Merlin asks him, "Do you remember anything about the magic you had when you were small?"

"No. Did I have some magic? I can remember that I was interested in birds and beasts. Indeed, that is why I still keep my menagerie at the Tower. But I don't remember about magic."

"People don't remember," said Merlin.

When I read that passage, I was overcome by a profound sadness. Only children can experience magic because only their minds allow for that possibility. As they get older, they enter "reality" and all possibility for magic vanishes.

What J.K. Rowling did was reignite the spark of imagination. There don't have to be spells and witches and flying broomsticks in order for magic to exist. Magic lives in the imagination and imagination is what helps us see possibilities in this world.

Writing brings the world to life and that's why I want to write. I want to be involved in the world. I want to be part of the magic. I want to speak to people, but not on a platform. I don't want to be famous like J.K. Rowling. I just want people to pick up something I've written and feel like I've written it specifically for them. I want to explore my world and then share it. I want to make a difference to someone.

I want to bring out the magic.

Most importantly, though, I want to look back on my life and say, "I did the best with the talent I had."

Not Just For Kids

Children's books are not just for kids.

Let me say it again--

Children's books are not just for kids.

I think there is something supremely beautiful in a book that both a child and an adult can read with real seriousness. The fact is - yes, children and adults exist on different maturity levels. But they share emotions. They share thoughts about the world. Adults are still very much like children, and children are very much like adults. They understand more than most adults realize. And sometimes, if adults can let go of their egos for a little bit, they'll see that they, too, can learn and feel and see anew from a book "meant for" children.

Because here's the thing. Books are books. At the end of the day, a good book is a good book, whether it is meant for children or not. And if it is on a level that children can understand, that doesn't mean adults will find it "below them." I'm not talking about entertainment. Adults and children may have different ideas about what is entertaining. But when something speaks to the heart - it can do so on a first grade level, a fourth grade level, a sixth grade level, a tenth grade level, a college level...it doesn't matter. If it speaks to the heart, it speaks to the heart. If it talks about our world - it's the same world. We live in the same world. We all share this human experience together, no matter how old we are.

I truly do believe that some of the best books you will ever read will be the ones you read when you were ten. Or seven. Or twelve. If you go back and read those books that made you cry when you were a kid, or even ones that gave you shivers because they were just that good, you'll see that they deal with a lot of the same issues and ideas as adult books. Because life isn't childproof. Real events are not split up into a "children's section" and an "adult section." Life happens to all of us at all ages. And we all feel real emotions. We all think real thoughts. We are all philosophers at all stages of life. If anything, the only books that have ever made me cry - or get the good sort of shivers - have been children's books. Adult books are so worried about sounding profound or intelligent, they often drown their ability to reach out and touch you. I'm not knocking adult books. But I think there is a way of reaching out that is unique to children's books - or perhaps the rare adult book - and that should not be belittled. It's different, not babyish.

I'm not really sure why I did it, but today I decided I wanted to read a book I had not read in a very long time. I don't think I've really opened it since I was ten. I still remember when I read it. In fifth grade, we had a literary club during lunch for those students who liked to read. It was run by the teacher of the other fifth grade class and we read books like The Witch of Blackbird Pond and Tuck Everlasting. Today I took down from my shelf another book we read called Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. The title comes from the saying, "Don't judge a man until you walk two moons in his moccasins." And even though this book is probably on a twelve year old reading level, it made me cry. Simpler writing does not mean stupid writing. It means writing that can reach inside and gently touch you, maybe even hug you, because it's telling you something difficult or powerful or both. And sometimes this simplicity is what makes it powerful. It's a voice that speaks to all, not just to a select few. Sometimes life is not about being one of a select few. It's not about being the best or smartest or most sophisticated in order to understand what some great philosopher is saying. Sometimes life is just about communicating. Understanding. Reaching out.

"It seems to me that we can't explain all the truly awful things in the world like war and murder and brain tumors, and we can't fix these things, so we look at the frightening things that are closer to us and we magnify them until they burst open. Inside is something that we can manage, something that isn't as awful as it had at first seemed. It is a relief to discover that although there might be axe murderers and kidnappers in the world, most people seem a lot like us: sometimes afraid and sometimes brave, sometimes cruel and sometimes kind." --Walk Two Moons

Tell me that is not something adults think about, too. Even struggle with. I dare you to tell me that. Because even though this book is written using simpler words - words that children can understand, it is not a children's book. It is a person's book. A book for the inhabitants of this world - all inhabitants.

And sometimes, if you're looking for inspiration, for soft words of advice...if you're looking for someone to lift you up and tell you it'll be alright...it's right there in your favorite books from when you were seven. From when you would hide away under your blankets reading late at night with a flashlight so your parents wouldn't know, giggling in a hushed sort of way and wiping your eyes with your sleeve at some parts, until you would fall asleep and be carried off into dreams that would lift you up - just like the book. And tell you that it'll be alright.

Whose Life Is It Anyway?

I don't know how many of you recognize the name Malcolm Gladwell, but he has written some pretty popular books lately. If you've heard of The Tipping Point - that was his. One of his books, which people say is not as amazing as The Tipping Point, is called Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. When I first read it, I liked the ideas but I wasn't particularly impressed by them. I thought, "this is natural. Why is he telling me about something I already do naturally? What new thing have I learned?"

What I didn't realize was that I was learning without even knowing it.

One of the stories in Blink is about a mock-war the United States government had once in order to test out some strategies before going into real war. They split themselves up into the blue team and the red team - the red team being the enemy (I think). The blue team - run by the government - used all its technology to discover everything about the red team so it could predict just what the red team would do in a given situation. The red team - run by an old war general - decided not to figure out anything about the blue team but worked on using initiative and innovation to approach situations as they arose. In this way, they created a gap in which to be creative rather than applying pre-planned strategies onto anything they might face. The problem with pre-planned strategies is that they don't take into account every circumstance in a situation, and even if they do, they don't give you room to think on your own. In order to use your own, best judgment, you have to approach a situation without any extra knowledge. Sometimes knowing a lot is knowing too much and that can hold you back. You have to see each thing as the thing itself, not as everything else about it that is irrelevent to the specific situation at hand. You can use what you know, but if you know too much, all that information gets in the way of dealing with what is actually happening before you.

Consequently, even though the blue team knew everything about the red team, the red team was able to use its judgment, creativity, and improvisation to win.

If you've ever read the book Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, it deals with the same concept. Ender is a young, inexperienced leader of an army in battle school, yet he manages to win all of his battles against the older, more experienced teams because he realizes this very thing. He understands that getting stuck in strategy and formation every time you approach a battle restricts your ability to think on your feet. You're so busy thinking about which strategy to apply, you don't see that none of your strategies really fit the given situation and that you actually have to try something new - and what's more, you have to try something new now, in the moment. You come in knowing too much. You come in with this idea that if they try formation A, we'll do plan B, and if they try formation E, we'll try plan A. That works very well in simulated practice conditions, but in real battle, or in real life, situations and strategies don't match up exactly. You have to improvise. You have to be creative. You have to approach every situation as its own event, not as a kind of event. Because if you say, "I know what this is, it is this sort of event where these things happen in this way," you're imposing knowledge onto something that doesn't have to follow your rules. You won't be ready for it when it decides to do something completely different because you're still stuck in your own ideas of what it is and which strategy to approach it with. You are blinding yourself to actually seeing the thing itself for what it really is - as its own individual, unique situation.

Today in class, we were discussing the difference between something being strategic versus something being tactical. Something strategic, we said, creates a plan in advance in which it is going to approach an entire story, or even life as a whole. Something tactical, however, approaches each situation within the story, or within life, as its own thing. Being tactical means being improvisational. You use tactics in order to do something creative and new, adjusting yourself to each situation you come across.

When I was talking about this idea in class, I had this moment where I realized, "this is exactly what it talks about in Blink." Instead of talking about the piece we were reading, I started talking about Blink and that made it all so much clearer to me. Everything seemed to connect.

In a conversation I was having last night, we were talking about how a person can convince herself things are a certain way when in reality they're not, and that this mental block is completely self-built. That it is you who is blocking yourself off, not anyone else. This fits exactly with an idea in The Book of Think by Marilyn Burns. The first section of the book is called, "Getting Out of Your Own Way." The first piece of advice the book offers is, "thinking hard doesn't always work." Sometimes you find yourself in difficult situations and you feel like if you think hard enough, you'll get to the bottom of things. But often "getting to the bottom of things" is not at all helpful in actually dealing with the problem. You don't really have to know background to a problem or even why the problem arose in order to solve it. You might want to know what caused a problem so you can avoid it in the future, but that is something else. Often, like in Blink and in Ender's Game, knowing too much can get in the way of concentrating on what you actually need to know in order to deal with a situation.

Here are some more pieces of advice from The Book of Think:

1. "Sometimes you get in the way of your own brain. Your thinking gets stuck. Sometimes you build your own mental walls. Then you keep bumping into them."

This is just like when you pre-plan a strategy before actually facing a situation. You predict and assume and try to fit each situation into a box you already know how to deal with instead of actually looking at the situation. It's a good thing to demolish the walls and limitations you set on yourself by all that pre-strategizing and just trusting yourself that you can be creative and innovative in dealing with something new and unexpected. Most situations are going to have elements that are new and unexpected and you have to be able to deal with them.

2. "Keep looking at ordinary things. Look at them as if you're seeing them for the first time. You'll see lots of new things you've never looked at before."

So many things in this world are ordinary. Because of that, people easily dismiss them. People don't look at something ordinary because, according to them, there is nothing to see. They know what the ordinary thing is already. After all, it's ordinary. They've seen it before in a million forms but it's all the same thing. And because of that, they don't bother really looking at it as its own thing.

There is often - or even all the time - something extraordinary in the ordinary, and you don't even have to look deeper, past the thing itself, in order to find it. But you do have to look.

3. "Watch out for mental blinders. They'll get in the way of the problem solver every time. They often stop you from seeing out of the corner of your brain and solving the problem."

We set up these mental blinders. They come in the form of assumptions. We assume we know everything about a situation. We assume we know all about a person. We don't allow that gap of doubt to exist, and without that space in which there is room to doubt our assumptions, we don't allow ourselves to see past what we have already decided about something. That means we can never see anything new and that means we won't be able to approach something as what it really is - only as what we already decided it is.

This holds true for labeling people, for dealing with problems as they arise in life, or even for getting through a Literature class.

There is so much out there in the world that we're blinding ourselves to. There is so much that we block ourselves from seeing or achieving because we decided we can't do it. "I'm not the type who will succeed at that." "I can't do it, I'm only twenty-two and there's no way I have enough talent." "I'm not smart enough." Etc. etc. etc.

But we can do all these things. I don't think the American Dream is this ridiculous nonsense of, "if you try for your dreams, you will reach them and become rich." It's so much more than that. I think the real American Dream is the idea that possibilities are open to anyone, as long as you allow yourself to see those possibilities as applying to you. The only person who, in this country, decides you can't do something is you. You might not succeed, or you might not succeed by following the strategy you think is necessary in order to achieve your goals, but that doesn't mean there isn't a way at all. You just have to be creative. You can make that way for yourself.

Even if you don't live in America - this idea is not American. It's human. Every situation can be dealt with. There is always a way. Nothing is hopeless. It's only hopeless if you've convinced yourself that it is. "If you will it, it is no dream." - Theodor Herzl. And he wasn't American.

You can do anything. We can do anything. We just have to stop telling ourselves we can't based on our preconceived notions of what people can and cannot do or the way things can and cannot be.

Anything is possible. Be ready for it.

A Preface To Nowhere, A Chapter Of Nothing

Preface

There's this strange dialectic that happens on Fridays, usually right after candle lighting. You suddenly think of something you'd really like to do but can't on Shabbos. This then proceeds to torment you the entire Shabbos until immediately after Havdalah where you rush to whatever it was.

For a writer, this is extremely difficult. The best ideas always come on Shabbos. This makes perfect sense, of course; on Shabbos, the regular distractions from the week are gone and you actually have time and space to think (what a concept). This sort of time and space is not physical. You can't tell me - well, during the random hours of free time you have during the week, you could get the same ideas!

...No. It has to be coupled with a mental relaxation that only comes with the sweeping peace of Shabbos. I suppose that is what I meant a few posts ago when I said I write better when I don't think. It's not that I'm not thinking. It's that I'm mentally relaxed.

Some might say that I can achieve this state of mental (and emotional) relaxation even during the week if I lived out of town. And perhaps that's true - I wouldn't know. But that is beside the point entirely.

The point is - when it comes to creativity, you've got to grab onto it when it comes to you. So how can you do that on Shabbos when you can't write anything down? How can you make sure you don't lose your inspiration without also overfocusing on it on Shabbos?

Chapter One

I was particularly early for the train home today - so early, in fact, that the track had not even been posted yet. Instead of waiting around in the middle of Penn Station, staring up at the information board in perfect unison with everyone else (they all look like a herd of penguins, don't they? Standing in a miscellanious group looking up with the same tilt of the head - same to very angle degree - and the same harried expression on their faces, each one occasionally looking down at a watch and then back up again like they're in a game of wac-a-mole), I decided to hang around in the station book store.

It's a very narrow store, but deep, so I dragged my imbalanced wheelie suitcase (I can't ever let go of it or it tilts forward like it's just been kicked in the back) past the sci-fi, romance, and self-help sections until I reached the set of shelves labeled "Young Readers." I scanned the books, looking for any familiar, nostalgic titles, when I reached a somewhat messy stack at the very bottom. There, the title Johnny Tremain caught my eye. Johnny Tremain! I leaned my suitcase against the shelf and eagerly reached for the book. It was sandwiched tightly in the middle of the stack and I had to squeeze my fingers around the binding so I'd be able to pull it out. That was when I felt the most peculiar sensation.

"Is the cover made of velvet?" I wondered to myself (not out loud - just in my head). I frowned, unsure how that made sense, and gave a final tug, the book finally pulling free.

No. It was not made of velvet. But then why was it so soft?

Slowly, I lifted a hand from the binding and looked at the tips of my fingers. They were covered in layers of thick black dust. I held the book a moment longer, wondering mournfully how long the book had been wedged in that pile, unread, unlooked at, untouched. The idea made me sad. I hurriedly returned the book to the shelf and dragged my suitcase out of the store.

A Thirst Unquenched

Have you ever had it happen to you that you just wished you knew more? That you felt it was futile to express opinions about something because you were so acutely aware of how little you knew and you just weren't in the mood to be shot down by those who knew more than you?

I've always had this insurmountable desire to know everything. I would walk into a library and be overcome by all the books I still haven't read. How could I possibly read anything twice? How was there time when there were so many things I hadn't yet read once? And what about Torah? There is so much I never formally learned in school. There is so much more to know. How can I ever learn it all? How can I ever prioritize what I want to know? I can step inside the Beit Midrash at Stern and feel the weight of all that I don't yet know and ought to know pressing down - so much so that I just don't learn any of it. And Torah, more than literature, is something I feel I must know, and I am so self-conscious of all that I don't.

There was a point in time during my early semesters at Stern where I thought I was going to minor in History. I've always found History fascinating and I immensely enjoy listening to a professor teach it. The problem is that I also never did well in history. I was bad at memorizing all the names and dates, especially so many at once. I'm quite good at remembering history in the context of literature, when you get to really learn and understand a time period, its politics, and the people involved through the telling of a story.* I'm not good at memorizing lists of facts, or events, or people who I don't really get a sense of more than just their names and a resume of their accomplishments.

So after sitting through (and loving but not doing particularly well in) APUS History in 12th grade, and then Western Civ., French Revolution, and some others (I think) at Stern, I ended up smack against a brick wall. I was taking a class on the Middle East. Though I've never felt the same sort of romanticism in Arabic history that I've felt in American or European, I was drawn to the class because of its rather timely subject. I wanted to truly understand the issues in the Middle East. I wanted to be one of those people who could defend Israel properly and intelligently, being well-versed in everything going on in connection with the Arab-Israeli conflict. The same way that I always wanted to be able to participate in a discussion about American politics and actually sound like I know what I'm talking about. But that semester I was taking a bunch of English classes and another History and the work became too much. I couldn't handle two classed that I both loved but couldn't do well in at once, so on the day of our first test, when I'd had way too much other work to properly study, I dropped the class, and along with it, my History minor.

So I did not end up spending a semester studying the history behind the issues in the Middle East. And I do not know enough about American politics to speak in the presence of anyone who knows more than just a little about it. And I have not read some of the major classic works of literature that are out there. And I have not learned many practical halachos inside in order to really understand what I'm doing and why, or to even know what I really should be doing in certain circumstances. And I do not know many random obscure bekius in Tanach. And I do not know about a lot of major Rabbis that people talk about - even ones at YU.

And...there is so much that I don't know. How can I ever learn it all? And when? How can I consider myself an intelligent person when there is so much I feel I don't know? When I am ashamed of what I don't know? When I don't feel comfortable asking sometimes because that means admitting to someone that I just don't know? And, more overarchingly, how can I ever quench this thirst for knowledge? I want to know and understand so much. I just can't imagine how I'll ever be able to.

*I've read a little bit of Historical Fiction, but not a lot of it, but I'm pretty sure I'd love it, so if anyone would like to recommend anything good, please do!

A Roundup Of My Life These Past Weeks

1. A new semester means lots of things. New classes, new books, new classmates to interact with, the strengthening of old friendships, and even new displays of humor in the elevator:

2. Starting off the semester sick is not the ideal of beginnings, but I did learn a valuable lesson: Nyquil takes approximately 100% too long to wear off. I took some last night and not only did I still wake up in the middle of the night coughing, I now also feel fuzzy in my head, like my legs are made of jelly, and like I need to just lay down and sleep for a number of years. I mean, I was tired before, but now I feel drugged. However, I did have a much deeper sleep last night so I suppose that, at least, is a plus.

3. It took me a surprisingly short amount of time to get used to having a Mac and not that much longer to turn into a huge fan. It's true what they say, there really are amazing graphics on here. And really cool features like simple finger swiping combinations on the track pad to do all sorts of things you can't even do at all on a PC. Don't get me wrong, there's a part of me deep inside that misses having a PC. But I love my new Mac. I'm increasingly happier I got a Mac instead of a PC, especially as, each day, I discover new awesome things I can do on here.

Anyway, Macs: highly recommended.

4. My parents' 25th anniversary was yesterday! I went home 'specially (though now I am back in school for the senior class shabbos) and my siblings and I got my parents an ice cream cake (the chocolate crunchies are the best part of ice cream cakes, of course). If my parents had not gotten married 25 years ago, I would not be here! So happy anniversary to them!


Have a great Shabbos, everyone!

Why I Love Tristram Shandy

(Excerpted from The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne)

(Btw, "Madam" in this chapter is you, the reader)

CHAP. XX

--How could you, Madam, be so inattentive in reading the last chapter? I told you in it, That my mother was not a papist. --Papist! You told me no such thing, Sir. Madam, I beg leave to repeat it over again, That I told you as plain, at least, as words, by direct inference, could tell you such a thing. --Then, Sir, I must have miss'd a page. --No, Madam, --you have not miss'd a word. --Then I was asleep, Sir. --My Pride, Madam, cannot allow you that refuge. --Then, I declare, I know nothing at all about the matter. --That, Madam, is the very fault I lay to your charge; and as punishment for it, I do insist upon it, that you immediately turn back, that is, as soon as you get to the next full stop, and read the whole chapter over again.

I have imposed this penance upon the lady, neither out of wantonness or cruelty, but from the best of motives; and therefore shall make her no apology for it when she returns back: --'Tis to rebuke a vicious taste which has crept into thousands besides herself, --of reading straight forwards, more in quest of the adventures, than of the deep erudition and knowledge which a book of this cast, if read over as it should be, would infallibly impart with them. --The mind should be accustomed to make wise reflections, and draw curious conclusions as it goes along;

[...] --But here comes my fair Lady. Have you read over again the chapter, Madam, as I desired you? --You have: And did you not observe the passage, upon the second reading, which admits the inference? --Not a word like it! Then, Madam, be pleased to ponder well the last line but one of the chapter, where I take upon me to say, "It was necessary I should be born before I was christen'd." Had my mother, Madam, been a Papist, that consequence did not follow.

It is a terrible misfortune for this same book of mine, but more so to the Republick of Letters; --so that my own is quite swallowed up in the consideration of it, --that this self-same vile pruriency for fresh adventure in all things, has got so strongly into our habit and humours, --and so wholly intent are we upon satisfying the impatience of our concupiscence that way, --that nothing but the gross and more carnal parts of a composition will go down: --The subtle hints and sly communications of science fly off, like spirits, upwards; --the heavy moral escapes downwards; and both the one and the other are as much lost to the world, as if they were still left in the bottom of the ink-horn.

I wish the male-reader has not pass'd by many a one, as quaint and curious as this one, in which the female-reader has been detected. I wish it may have its effects; --and that all good people, both male and female, from her example, may be taught to think as well as read.

Why Slower Is Quicker

When under pressure, people tend to perform activities in a rushed manner. This usually results in sloppy work that needs to be either fixed or completely redone. Or, you know, left alone to be sub-par.

I don't mean one should take his grand old time doing something that shouldn't take long at all. I just mean, if a person were to slow down enough to have time to perform tasks properly, it's actually a lot more efficient. There would be no need to go back and re-adjust what was done. The work would get done in the most efficient yet careful manner.

On a slightly separate note, I had a discussion with a good friend some time ago about how New Yorkers do everything so quickly - as if they always have to "get somewhere."

While this issue can be debated, it definitely is true that walking quickly through life with eyes only on your destination and ignoring all in between is actually less enriching than a walk through life where you take your time to notice things and to think. Walking quickly, you may think you're getting to where you need to be in the most efficient manner, but you're also not allowing yourself to be as much a part of the world. You're kind of just racing through it. And that is a much sloppier, less careful way of living, don't you think?

Do you ever catch yourself getting like this?*

There was once a boy named Milo who didn't know what to do with himself -- not just sometimes, but always.

When he was in school he longed to be out, and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he thought about coming home, and coming home he thought about going. Wherever he was he wished he were somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why he'd bothered. Nothing really interested him -- least of all the things that should have.

"It seems to me that almost everything is a waste of time," he remarked one day as he walked dejectedly home from school. "I can't see the point in learning to solve useless problems, or subtracting turnips from turnips, or knowing where Ethiopia is or how to spell February." And, since no one bothered to explain otherwise, he regarded the process of seeking knowledge as the greatest waste of time of all.

As he and his unhappy thoughts hurried along (for while he was never anxious to be where he was going, he liked to get there as quickly as possible) it seemed a great wonder that the world, which was so large, could sometimes feel so small and empty.

"And worst of all," he continued sadly, "there's nothing for me to do, nowhere I'd care to go, and hardly anything worth seeing." He punctuated this last thought with such a deep sigh that a house sparrow singing nearby stopped and rushed home to be with his family.

Without stopping or looking up, Milo dashed past the buildings and busy shops that lined the street and in a few minutes reached home -- dashed through the lobby -- hopped onto the elevator -- two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and off again -- opened the apartment door -- rushed into his room -- flopped dejectedly into a chair, and grumbled softly, "Another long afternoon."

*Excerpted from The Phantom Tollbooth

As much as I don't think I have the habit of rushing too quickly through life, ever since that conversation, I do catch myself, at times, hurrying when I don't need to hurry or feeling like I need to be somewhere else when, really, I don't need to be anywhere at all. And each time I feel myself doing it, I take a deep breath and remind myself, "Take your time. You don't need to be anywhere except right here."

Slow down. Relax.

You don't need to be anywhere except right here.

Enjoy being right here.

You Are What You Read

When I was in eleventh grade, my high school took us on a Jewish History trip. This consisted of going to various different Jewish communities in the New York area and seeing for ourselves what other types of Jews were like. We went to New Square, we went to a Lubavitch school, etc. In one of the places we went, we were told that in their school, they don't read secular books. At all. (This might have been New Square but I don't want to say for sure because I don't actually remember specifically). A lot of the girls in my class, including myself, found it outrageous to censor secular books completely from our library. I couldn't imagine not reading novels just because there were secular ideas, or because a boy and a girl were friends, or anything like that.

One summer, I interviewed at a Literary Agency for a summer internship. They told me at the interview that, if I got in, I'd have to read all different kinds of manuscripts, from adventure to historical fiction to, yes, pornography. Believe it or not, they told me, there is such a thing as good pornography. I wanted to throw up. So when they asked me if I'd be interested working in their children's books department instead, I very readily said yes.

These are two extremes. The first - censoring yourself completely from all secular literature. The second - being asked to read pornography. To me, the answer in those situations are clear. The first - um, no way. The second - um, no way.

But what about everything in between?

Earlier this year in one of my classes, my teacher was complaining about how her freshman class did not want to watch a movie she assigned them because it was inappropriate. She argued that the inappropriate content wasn't there for no reason, it was there as part of the art of the movie. She ended up assigning us the same movie and my first reaction after watching it was, "no wonder the freshman class complained." My second reaction was, "wait a minute, it's art, it's for the sake of art so it's okay." My third reaction was, "what?! Would I really compromise my own standards for the sake of art?! Of course not! That's ridiculous! What is art to me? Not higher than my own religion! Not higher than my own moral standards!"

Yesterday in a different class, my teacher talked about two schools of thought back in the 18th century when it came to literature. One was that literature was supposed to be an emotional experience where you actually get affected by what you read in an emotional way and it becomes a part of you because of it. The other was that literature is supposed to be a bit more removed from a person so they have time to think about it but not feel actual, almost physical, emotional responses (like, for instance, crying. Or being put in a mood all day because of something you've read). My teacher claimed, and I think I agree with her, that you are what you read. What you read does become a part of you. It does affect you. It affects the way you think, the way you feel about things, it gives you experiences that, while they may not have actually happened to you, you've experienced vicariously through the characters in a book.

That's scary.

I know people who love reading trashy books because it makes them feel like they have a boyfriend. Even - look at this comment from my post a few days ago: "I think you're missing the point of reading Twilight and, to a certain degree, a lot of the iffy teenaged girl literatuer out there. The characters are allowed to be flat because the goal is not to create well rounded characters, the goal is to deal in wish fulfillment [...] I think that there is something about modern culture that causes the masses to feel more at home with being the story than being told it. Even if that means a compromise in the characterization and telling of the tale."

I completely agree with this assessment of modern culture - but that doesn't make it okay!

Perhaps the line is different for everyone. Perhaps you can't make a general rule about what should and should not be read or what should and should not be written about. Still, I think it's very important to recognize how what we read affects us. It's not only about reading quality literature (though that's of course part of it), it's also about choosing what we expose our minds, imaginations, and emotions to and what we don't. I'm not trying to sound extreme. I don't even mean this in an extreme way. I'm not advocating for the banning of books. No way. I'm just asking everyone to be smart. Just like you are what you eat, you are what you read. You are what you watch on TV. You're affected by your experiences in life AND in fiction. I, God forbid, do not mean people should not read or write about major issues that happen to be inappropriate or frightening or both. It's important to raise awareness about those issues. Of course. I just mean - well, I already said it. Be smart. Know yourself. Know what you want to expose yourself to. Do you really want to read an explicit description of a rape scene, for example? Where are your lines? It's important to know.

Confessions Of All The Teenage Drama Queens Requested

(Today my dad insisted that I write about something controversial. I'm pretty non-confrontational and I actually have no desire to push anyone's buttons, so I'm going to compromise and, instead, heavily criticize something I know is very popular that I just can't stand. I know that's not the same as being controversial, but that's the best I can offer at this present time)

Just out of curiosity...

What's with all the Twilight hype?

I finally read the book and found it to be poorly written, the plot unoriginal and stupid, the characters pretty flat, and Edward more annoyingly stalkerish than attractive. The romance wasn't even done well. It was irritating, over-the-top, and I didn't believe it for a second.

I just don't get it. Am I the only sane person out there? Is there something I'm just not understanding? Has the quality of literature diminished so far that people actually think this stuff is good?

I'm all for people reading novels they can actually understand as opposed to more difficult literary works - that's fine with me. Not everyone is an English major. But there is still a difference between well-written, well-plotted stories and, well, trash.

I've heard, on numerous occasions, Twilight being called the next Harry Potter. Come on! Even Harry Potter wasn't the best written of novels, but at least it was a good story, had a good plot, and had some really fun characters. Twilight has none of that. I'm sorry. It's too trite. Too cliche. Too obvious. Too dull. I was bored while reading it. I have absolutely no desire to read the other ones in the series. It actually made me nauseous just to read the first one. The overly sappy romance on every single page made me want to just barf.

Is it that our society craves soap operas? Is it that people are so unsatisfied with their own relationships, they live vicariously through characters flat enough that anyone can insert herself in? Is it that people thrive on heavy gossip? Is this why so many teenage girls are obsessed with Gossip Girl? One Tree Hill? The OC? I don't get it. Can't people go and live their own lives instead of spending an eternity wishing they had the thrilling (???) drama of fictional characters? Trust me, there's enough real drama out there. You don't need TV and novels to provide it for you. No, you're not going to fall in love with a vampire, though. Sorry. But so what? Do you want to live in the world? Or do you want to live on TV?

I mean, on the one hand, some of the fun of reading is because things happen in books that don't necessarily happen in life and it's fun to pretend, for a few hours, that they could. But on the other hand, be careful what you let suck you in. It's a mistake to think that just because a character is described as good looking, that he is a good character. Just because a character is "hot" doesn't mean he's complex! Edward is in no way complex. Sorry. Neither is Bella. She's too flat. She has none of the complexities of human beings. She's too perfect. Making her a klutz does not give her realistic character flaws. It's very superficial. It makes no sense that every single boy in her school should be obsessed with her. It makes no sense that she has no sense of self-preservation. It makes no sense that she would not care that Edward has been spying on her every night the entire school year. Where is the tension here???

Our society seems to settle for stories that are way too simplistic if it actually thinks that a human girl falling in love with a hot vampire - and then nothing much happening except their constantly professing their love to each other and saving each other from random things - is a good story.

If you really want to read an exciting vampire thriller/romance, stick with Dracula. Seriously. Not that Dracula is spectacularly written either, but at least it's a much better story!

It actually truly bothers me that so, so, so many girls will become obsessed with a book, or a TV show, or a movie just because the guy is really good looking. Is everyone that shallow?

A HOT GUY DOES NOT A GOOD STORY MAKE.

And if people can no longer tell the difference between something well-written and something trashy, then I mourn for our literary future. I really, really do.

Can't I Handle The Truth?

Y'know...I've always considered myself to be an English Literature major, but today, I received the insult of insults. I was told I was coming at things from a scientist point of view!

Apparently, I am too practical for the world of literature - or, at least, for literature as read through the eyes of a philosopher. Why? Simply because I believe that it is important to make the distinction between fiction and reality.

Of course, that begs the question - what is fiction? If we define fiction as something that is "untrue," then just because a story is fabricated does not necessarily make it entirely "fictional" in the context of distinguishing it from "reality." Yes, it is a story of fiction, but it may also contain many truths and those truths are definitely not part of the fictional aspect of the tale.

Therefore, I do not mean to suggest that there is no practical purpose to imagination or to stories, nor am I saying there is no value in them - even if we can't find them to be particularly practical in our every day lives - but I do feel it is imperative to recognize fiction for what it is.

I am a creative writer. I spend an awful lot of time conjuring up fictions. That does not mean I don't recognize them as fictional, even if they are based on me or on actual events or emotions. Even children who play imagination games and get so completely engrossed in them...even they recognize that what they are playing is something from their imagination. They know that when they go in for supper, they are stepping out of the game for a little while. They can see that there are two worlds - the world of adults and the world of the game. They do not think the adults are playing with them. They know fiction from reality. It could be that they create a new reality for themselves during the game, but they still can tell the difference between that reality and the tangible reality that exists outside their imaginations.

There is a difference between hoping, dreaming, imagining and actually believing that something exists when it does not. How can there not be infinitely more value in being true to one's self and one's reality than in living a shallow life of lies and illusions?

And there is a difference between those shallow lies and illusions vs. using your imagination to deal with reality. For instance, in A Little Princess, Sara uses her imagination to help her get through her Cinderella story. She knows that what she imagines is not real, she does not go around sincerely telling people that she is imprisoned in the Bastille (for instance), but she allows herself to go along with the game just enough that it helps her get through her troubles.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, there is creating a world of imagination, and then there is living a life of illusion and delusion and denying reality altogether. This latter thing is what I'm against. I find it unethical to allow such delusions to go on in someone else and I find it a shallow existence to deny reality in favor of illusion.

With Northanger Abbey, there would have been a big difference if Catherine had only hoped to find a Gothic story going on at the abbey, or even played a game that there was one, as opposed to actually believing one existed. If she was only playing, she would have allowed herself to slip into her imagination and deliciously pretend exciting things were happening. But the fact that she went so far as to intrude into Henry's dead mother's rooms, and the fact that she actually accused Mr. Tilney of murdering his wife to Henry's face - and in all seriousness, too! - shows the danger and preposterousness of allowing yourself to believe that it is perfectly okay for fiction - true fiction - to be substituted for reality.

But this does not mean I am against imagination - believe me, I am all for escaping into your imagination. I just don't believe in substituting fiction for reality. Yes, I see them as separate, though there are some blurring of the lines, and yes, I see value in both.

So, alright, perhaps I am too practical for philosophy. But I have a perfect imagination and yet I am still able to be true to myself. And that's what counts.

Not On The Same Page

(This text-message conversation took place in the middle of Tisha b'Av while I was looking for one of my favorite books to read)

Me: Did I lend you To Kill A Mockingbird to bring to camp?
Mavis (my brother): No u didnt give me any dvds
Me: Lol! It's a book.
Mavis: O

(It also happens to be a movie, but shhhh. And I don't own the movie, anyway)

By the way, anyone who reads this blog and has not yet read To Kill A Mockingbird or doesn't remember it at all - READ IT. That's your summer reading homework from Erachet - and I hear a lot of people thought Erachet was "teacher" scrambled. Well, I suppose it is, but that's not what I meant when I made the name Erachet. :) But I'm still giving y'all summer reading! It's a smooth, easy read and is probably one of the best books ever written.