Standing on the lip of a canyon -
The sunset spilling blood on the sand,
The bright, floating drops hot,
Like glitter fresh off a dancer's breasts -
Fortune caught my eye.
She winked,
Touched the tip of her tongue to the sharp edge of one fang,
Glided closer,
Pressed shivers into my neck
With a soft palm.
I felt her teeth graze my ear,
Her breath condensing on my skin
As she commanded in a whisper:
"Watch this."
She flitted away,
Bowed theatrically -
Laughing,
Kicked a drum set and a cymbal off a cliff.
Numbly, I pressed 'record,'
And listened to the air whistle
Before the punchline.
6/30/12
Poetry... HERE
I am going to start posting some of my more recent poetry here. None of the old stuff - just stuff I'm working on now or have written in the past year.
There are several reasons for this change in content policy: 1) AllPoetry, the site I've been using to host my poetry, has changed its posting policy in a way that is not conducive to how I wish to use the website. 2) Most of what I've been writing lately is poetry. 3) I've decided it doesn't really make any sense to make you go visit extra pages to see my poetry.
So, voila. Poems. There's going to be a whole glut of them posted after this point.
Enjoy. :)
There are several reasons for this change in content policy: 1) AllPoetry, the site I've been using to host my poetry, has changed its posting policy in a way that is not conducive to how I wish to use the website. 2) Most of what I've been writing lately is poetry. 3) I've decided it doesn't really make any sense to make you go visit extra pages to see my poetry.
So, voila. Poems. There's going to be a whole glut of them posted after this point.
Enjoy. :)
5/13/12
Self-Destructive Musings Interrupted by a Phone Call
I wish I was lonely without you here. It'd be easier if I needed you that way. Instead, I'm sitting on my bed, hair sweat-soaked from dancing, one heel broken off, fearing my lack of attention span.
I try to convince myself that a week is just a really long day, and that if you called, we'd find plenty to say, and that not a word would be a lie, or even a half-truth. But I know that even though I didn't mean to, from the start I've been dishonest with you.
I warned you that first night we stayed up and talked that I was dangerous, but I don't think you believed me. You turned the hour glass over, and I sprawled on the couch as the sand rained down, counting the seconds before I pushed my identity underground. I became complacent, soft, a cat begging at your feet, only wanting your affection.
I stayed in when I'd normally go out, wore long skirts and boots instead of lace miniskirts and fuck-me heels. For you, I let my lingerie gather dust in a drawer, and forgot what it meant to walk into a room and glow. Uncharacteristically, I let you be the only man in my life, became a peninsula anchored to land only through you.
But that's not who I am. I've never been good at sitting still, and now that you're gone, I'm clawing my way out of the sand, gasping for breath and remembering. I play with hearts as if they're stuffed with catnip. I am a new Delilah, clad in lace with a taste for variety. I go out dancing, glow in the dark and capture gazes with my hips, and then come home with sweat-soaked hair and one heel broken off my shoes, drunk off the power and the strobe lights. This person doesn't need you, even as she wants you. As she tugs off her shoes, she muses that it would be easier to hold on if she were lonely without you.
I try to convince myself that a week is just a really long day, and that if you called, we'd find plenty to say, and that not a word would be a lie, or even a half-truth. But I know that even though I didn't mean to, from the start I've been dishonest with you.
I warned you that first night we stayed up and talked that I was dangerous, but I don't think you believed me. You turned the hour glass over, and I sprawled on the couch as the sand rained down, counting the seconds before I pushed my identity underground. I became complacent, soft, a cat begging at your feet, only wanting your affection.
I stayed in when I'd normally go out, wore long skirts and boots instead of lace miniskirts and fuck-me heels. For you, I let my lingerie gather dust in a drawer, and forgot what it meant to walk into a room and glow. Uncharacteristically, I let you be the only man in my life, became a peninsula anchored to land only through you.
But that's not who I am. I've never been good at sitting still, and now that you're gone, I'm clawing my way out of the sand, gasping for breath and remembering. I play with hearts as if they're stuffed with catnip. I am a new Delilah, clad in lace with a taste for variety. I go out dancing, glow in the dark and capture gazes with my hips, and then come home with sweat-soaked hair and one heel broken off my shoes, drunk off the power and the strobe lights. This person doesn't need you, even as she wants you. As she tugs off her shoes, she muses that it would be easier to hold on if she were lonely without you.
3/29/12
Fairy Tale, Draft 5
"Holy screw monkeys in a stocking!"
"What happened?" Sarah called from the hotel bathroom, the clatter of makeup products being unpacked abruptly ceasing.
"My books!" I replied, fighting back the burbling edge of panic that was gathering forces for an attack on my throat. "My books are missing! Someone stole my books!" I wailed, collapsing on my knees before my suitcase, open on the far bed.
It was admittedly a rather melodramatic reaction.
"Oh, chill, 'Dia," my best friend responded, poking her head into the room. "No one stole your books, okay?"
"But they're gone," I insisted. I rocked back and forth, hands shaking in front of me. I wasn't quite sure what to do with them. Normally, in such a state, I'd occupy them with holding a book, but that was, in this case, obviously not an option.
Sarah stared at me, unmoved by my hysterics.
"Yeah, uh-huh," she said, voice wry and flat. "Someone broke into your suitcase, which was locked underneath the bus, in order to steal your copy of Pride and Prejudice."
"Exactly!"
She shook her head slowly, her shoulder length red hair swishing with the motion.
"Kennedia, I know summing up situations in pithy little sayings is your deal, but you read too much and it has addled your brain."
"Has not-"
She continued over the beginnings of my protest.
"First off, all the other people on this trip are male. Even if they could get under the locked bus, dig your suitcase out from the bottom of the pile, open it, remove your books, then return your suitcase to its former position, unnoticed, all while the bus was constantly in motion, what are the chances they'd leave your corsets untouched? Not a single one of them wants your books. They don't even want to read them. Their principle occupation in literature is praying that they are never tested on a novel from the Victorian period, especially not a novel from the Victorian period written by a woman."
I paused, the stream of indignation and drama temporarily halted. She had a point.
Seeing that she was getting through to me, Sarah moved into the room and perched on the other bed.
"Furthermore," she went on, "this is supposed to be a social event. It's a conference, not a weekend of sitting in the corner with your nose in a book in between debates."
I grimaced, leaning back on my heels. The carpet ground beneath my toes, abrasive and cheap. I knew where she was going with this.
"So, really, it's a good thing that you don't have your books, which you merely left at home. Consider this an opportunity for learning and growth. No book means that you might actually have to talk to people."
Her lipsticked smirk seemed much too satisfied from my vantage point.
The vanguard of panic that I'd been holding off took advantage of that moment to rush into my throat, sealing off the passage. I could not breathe, let alone speak.
I rolled off my knees onto my side, using the slight force of the impact to jar my lungs into a squeaky exhalation.
Sarah's facial expression did not become any less smug.
My voice, when it came, was small and high, perhaps even a bit whiny.
"But I don't like talking to people."
People didn't like talking to me.
My best friend finally moved from her position on the bed, proffering a hand to help me off the floor.
"There, there, 'Dia," she said, hauling me to my feet. "You're good at talking when you forget to be self-conscious. You're a great debater, and I might go so far as to say that you should try your hand at drama club." Her tone took a dry twist as she patted me on the shoulder. "Besides, if you talk to them, people aren't going to eat you."
"What happened?" Sarah called from the hotel bathroom, the clatter of makeup products being unpacked abruptly ceasing.
"My books!" I replied, fighting back the burbling edge of panic that was gathering forces for an attack on my throat. "My books are missing! Someone stole my books!" I wailed, collapsing on my knees before my suitcase, open on the far bed.
It was admittedly a rather melodramatic reaction.
"Oh, chill, 'Dia," my best friend responded, poking her head into the room. "No one stole your books, okay?"
"But they're gone," I insisted. I rocked back and forth, hands shaking in front of me. I wasn't quite sure what to do with them. Normally, in such a state, I'd occupy them with holding a book, but that was, in this case, obviously not an option.
Sarah stared at me, unmoved by my hysterics.
"Yeah, uh-huh," she said, voice wry and flat. "Someone broke into your suitcase, which was locked underneath the bus, in order to steal your copy of Pride and Prejudice."
"Exactly!"
She shook her head slowly, her shoulder length red hair swishing with the motion.
"Kennedia, I know summing up situations in pithy little sayings is your deal, but you read too much and it has addled your brain."
"Has not-"
She continued over the beginnings of my protest.
"First off, all the other people on this trip are male. Even if they could get under the locked bus, dig your suitcase out from the bottom of the pile, open it, remove your books, then return your suitcase to its former position, unnoticed, all while the bus was constantly in motion, what are the chances they'd leave your corsets untouched? Not a single one of them wants your books. They don't even want to read them. Their principle occupation in literature is praying that they are never tested on a novel from the Victorian period, especially not a novel from the Victorian period written by a woman."
I paused, the stream of indignation and drama temporarily halted. She had a point.
Seeing that she was getting through to me, Sarah moved into the room and perched on the other bed.
"Furthermore," she went on, "this is supposed to be a social event. It's a conference, not a weekend of sitting in the corner with your nose in a book in between debates."
I grimaced, leaning back on my heels. The carpet ground beneath my toes, abrasive and cheap. I knew where she was going with this.
"So, really, it's a good thing that you don't have your books, which you merely left at home. Consider this an opportunity for learning and growth. No book means that you might actually have to talk to people."
Her lipsticked smirk seemed much too satisfied from my vantage point.
The vanguard of panic that I'd been holding off took advantage of that moment to rush into my throat, sealing off the passage. I could not breathe, let alone speak.
I rolled off my knees onto my side, using the slight force of the impact to jar my lungs into a squeaky exhalation.
Sarah's facial expression did not become any less smug.
My voice, when it came, was small and high, perhaps even a bit whiny.
"But I don't like talking to people."
People didn't like talking to me.
My best friend finally moved from her position on the bed, proffering a hand to help me off the floor.
"There, there, 'Dia," she said, hauling me to my feet. "You're good at talking when you forget to be self-conscious. You're a great debater, and I might go so far as to say that you should try your hand at drama club." Her tone took a dry twist as she patted me on the shoulder. "Besides, if you talk to them, people aren't going to eat you."
~*~
As I looked around the ballroom, my arms were crossed tightly across my stomach, the soft material of the dress I was wearing an unfamiliar sensation on my skin. Sarah had insisted that I looked great in it, and had refused to let me wear anything else.
3/27/12
Letter to Self
SD-
You're being ridiculous and melodramatic. Stop it.
Your life does not always run as smoothly as you'd like. You cannot always have it all.
Quit bitching and making more problems than actually exist.
You love him. It's scary, I know. This is what? The longest you've been in a relationship since you dated your best friend? It's been a long time since you've met anyone so amazing, and for someone who's used to moving on, that's hard.
But guess what, doll?
It's not falling apart this time.
It still thrills you just to get a text from him. It's still as though you never want evenings with him to end. It still makes you smile to think of him. It's still the case that he's the first person you want to talk to about all your big ideas. It's still him you want.
So, hush. This is not a problem. Focus your energy elsewhere.
Say, don't you have a research paper to write? Or a poem to compose? Or line-edits to do? Or a test to study for? Or groceries you have to buy? Or a resume to revise? Or a gym to go to? Or cookies to bake? Or dishes to wash?
Yeah, I think I've made my point.
- SD
You're being ridiculous and melodramatic. Stop it.
Your life does not always run as smoothly as you'd like. You cannot always have it all.
Quit bitching and making more problems than actually exist.
You love him. It's scary, I know. This is what? The longest you've been in a relationship since you dated your best friend? It's been a long time since you've met anyone so amazing, and for someone who's used to moving on, that's hard.
But guess what, doll?
It's not falling apart this time.
It still thrills you just to get a text from him. It's still as though you never want evenings with him to end. It still makes you smile to think of him. It's still the case that he's the first person you want to talk to about all your big ideas. It's still him you want.
So, hush. This is not a problem. Focus your energy elsewhere.
Say, don't you have a research paper to write? Or a poem to compose? Or line-edits to do? Or a test to study for? Or groceries you have to buy? Or a resume to revise? Or a gym to go to? Or cookies to bake? Or dishes to wash?
Yeah, I think I've made my point.
- SD
3/26/12
Spare Minute or Sixty
Don't you sometimes wonder why we're doing all this?
We're both going through life like the other's a bonus, something to be squeezed in when we have a spare minute or sixty, something to be enjoyed and then forgotten about as we move on to more serious, more important affairs. And we pretend, because we've got that spare minute or sixty for each other, that this whole 'us' bit is a Priority.
But can you even imagine a future with me, five years down the line? I'll be in grad school, and you'll be who knows where, embroiled in research or in an underground bunker wearing your flat face as you consider a panel of gauges. And we're supposed to do what? Be married at that point? Have had a quiet church wedding that'll satisfy your parents but that I won't have believed a whit in? Go to church every Sunday, so I can think about the implications of Facebook for adolescent sexuality as I desperately try to ignore the sermon? Go home in the afternoons to our little apartment, where you'll immediately start on dinner and I'll retreat to my desk and ignore everything but schoolwork, including you and your food? Go to bed at night, where you'll briefly cuddle with me, and then wake up at 3:07 in the morning, wishing like a six year old about to blow out his birthday candles that you were sleeping alone?
We don't even have to go that far. How's this summer going to play out, do you think? At the very least, you're going to be two hours away, probably more. You'll text me every once in a while, tell me about some minor aspect of your day, and you won't call more than twice the entire summer. Mostly, I'll text you, silly sweet stuff like "I'm thinking of you," and when you don't answer, I'll eventually give up, and we'll go days without exchanging so much as an emoticon. And the entire time, I'll be here, meeting people and flirting the way I always flirt, but you'll seem farther and farther away, until I can't even remember the way that you smell, much less the mingled taste of scotch and dark chocolate as we kiss. I'll compare every single last male to you and find that they come up short, and I'll still wonder why all I'm doing is flirting, because I won't really have you, except as a single line on Facebook regarding my relationship status.
But in the meantime, in that spare minute or sixty, we wrap our arms around each other, taste the salt on the other's neck, and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist, and it is fabulous. I remember that night on the roof when we were dancing with the lightning, off a few miles, flashing all around us, and you leaned down and kissed me and I went up on relevée to meet you and closed my eyes - the entire world disappeared, and it was just you and me. It was just us. It was just your lips on mine. It was just my arms pressing into the fleece of your jacket. It was just the warmth of your hand on the back of my neck. It was just us. And then I opened my eyes and we broke the kiss and we both panted hard as we fought to catch our breath and leash it, and it was physically painful to look around and see that the clouds had moved in and there was an entire other world outside of us, and we had to go back to it. Immediately.
After every spare minute or sixty we manage for each other, we go our separate ways. You go back to your desk, to your computer, adding just a few more shades of depth to the purple beneath your eyes, and I go back to my empty bed, where I toss and turn and try to imagine that you're holding me so I can fall asleep, but since I can't quite picture it, I never really get there.
Maybe I'm ungrateful, or maybe I'm naive, or maybe I don't really have a heart - just an overactive imagination to make up for the lack. But I can't help but sometimes wonder why we're doing all this - is this what love's really like?
We're both going through life like the other's a bonus, something to be squeezed in when we have a spare minute or sixty, something to be enjoyed and then forgotten about as we move on to more serious, more important affairs. And we pretend, because we've got that spare minute or sixty for each other, that this whole 'us' bit is a Priority.
But can you even imagine a future with me, five years down the line? I'll be in grad school, and you'll be who knows where, embroiled in research or in an underground bunker wearing your flat face as you consider a panel of gauges. And we're supposed to do what? Be married at that point? Have had a quiet church wedding that'll satisfy your parents but that I won't have believed a whit in? Go to church every Sunday, so I can think about the implications of Facebook for adolescent sexuality as I desperately try to ignore the sermon? Go home in the afternoons to our little apartment, where you'll immediately start on dinner and I'll retreat to my desk and ignore everything but schoolwork, including you and your food? Go to bed at night, where you'll briefly cuddle with me, and then wake up at 3:07 in the morning, wishing like a six year old about to blow out his birthday candles that you were sleeping alone?
We don't even have to go that far. How's this summer going to play out, do you think? At the very least, you're going to be two hours away, probably more. You'll text me every once in a while, tell me about some minor aspect of your day, and you won't call more than twice the entire summer. Mostly, I'll text you, silly sweet stuff like "I'm thinking of you," and when you don't answer, I'll eventually give up, and we'll go days without exchanging so much as an emoticon. And the entire time, I'll be here, meeting people and flirting the way I always flirt, but you'll seem farther and farther away, until I can't even remember the way that you smell, much less the mingled taste of scotch and dark chocolate as we kiss. I'll compare every single last male to you and find that they come up short, and I'll still wonder why all I'm doing is flirting, because I won't really have you, except as a single line on Facebook regarding my relationship status.
But in the meantime, in that spare minute or sixty, we wrap our arms around each other, taste the salt on the other's neck, and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist, and it is fabulous. I remember that night on the roof when we were dancing with the lightning, off a few miles, flashing all around us, and you leaned down and kissed me and I went up on relevée to meet you and closed my eyes - the entire world disappeared, and it was just you and me. It was just us. It was just your lips on mine. It was just my arms pressing into the fleece of your jacket. It was just the warmth of your hand on the back of my neck. It was just us. And then I opened my eyes and we broke the kiss and we both panted hard as we fought to catch our breath and leash it, and it was physically painful to look around and see that the clouds had moved in and there was an entire other world outside of us, and we had to go back to it. Immediately.
After every spare minute or sixty we manage for each other, we go our separate ways. You go back to your desk, to your computer, adding just a few more shades of depth to the purple beneath your eyes, and I go back to my empty bed, where I toss and turn and try to imagine that you're holding me so I can fall asleep, but since I can't quite picture it, I never really get there.
Maybe I'm ungrateful, or maybe I'm naive, or maybe I don't really have a heart - just an overactive imagination to make up for the lack. But I can't help but sometimes wonder why we're doing all this - is this what love's really like?
3/25/12
Sleepless Nights
They tell me that the days are getting longer, the weather's getting warmer, and those sleepless nights are not so cold.
I'm spending the late afternoon standing out in the rain, feeling water stream down my face. It's almost impossible to see the puddles among the bricks. The world is bright - shades of gray reflecting shades of white. As I ineffectually wipe the moisture from beneath my eyes, I wonder how it is that the storm beats the sunshine for light.
Haltingly, I proceed home, leaping from dry spot to dry spot, but still constantly getting wet. But even once I've gotten inside, the windows are still open, still waiting for the night.
The rain taps an arhythmic melody, keeping scattered time as the evening progresses, and I tug down the blinds. I snap on my desk lamp, invoking coziness, warmth - everything that cannot be found outside. I do not change my clothes, but shiver as I dry.
When the rain petters out, the last few drops pressing on like a runner's final gasping strides, it's midnight. Sighing, I change clothes, crawl into bed, cut off the light. They tell me that the days are getting longer, the weather's getting warmer, and those sleepless nights are not so cold. They tell me, but I snuggle up to empty air and wonder how you're wasting your warmth tonight.
I'm spending the late afternoon standing out in the rain, feeling water stream down my face. It's almost impossible to see the puddles among the bricks. The world is bright - shades of gray reflecting shades of white. As I ineffectually wipe the moisture from beneath my eyes, I wonder how it is that the storm beats the sunshine for light.
Haltingly, I proceed home, leaping from dry spot to dry spot, but still constantly getting wet. But even once I've gotten inside, the windows are still open, still waiting for the night.
The rain taps an arhythmic melody, keeping scattered time as the evening progresses, and I tug down the blinds. I snap on my desk lamp, invoking coziness, warmth - everything that cannot be found outside. I do not change my clothes, but shiver as I dry.
When the rain petters out, the last few drops pressing on like a runner's final gasping strides, it's midnight. Sighing, I change clothes, crawl into bed, cut off the light. They tell me that the days are getting longer, the weather's getting warmer, and those sleepless nights are not so cold. They tell me, but I snuggle up to empty air and wonder how you're wasting your warmth tonight.
1/30/12
Back Up on Blog Auditions
For those of you who have sent me blog auditions in the past three weeks, I'd like to apologize for the lack of response. I've been seriously busy lately. I suppose 21+ credit hours can do that to a person.
Anyhoo, you have not been forgotten, you are not being ignored, and I am (slowly but definitely) getting to critiquing blog auditions, giving every audition the time and attention to detail that it is due.
Some notes to remember, however:
* Please, please use proper spelling and capitalization as much as possible, at least to the point where if you break any rules, it's obviously very intentional.
* The pieces for blog auditions should be complete, not excerpts of larger works. When judging blog auditions, I need to know that you have a certain attention to structure and can tie stories or vignettes into a whole. It does me no good to see that you can start a piece.
* For maximum impact, if one of your pieces is an expository work (ie, primarily telling the reader something), make the other piece a narrative work (ie, primarily showing the reader something). While submitting two expository works will not necessarily knock you out of the running, it does make it a tad more difficult for me to judge whether or not your style is compatible with this blog. When uncertain, I am far more likely to say no than I am to say yes.
* Please remember to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, beneath your moniker. This serves two purposes: it tells me you can follow directions and let's me keep a running list of those who have auditioned. If you fail to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, no matter how redundant it may seem to you to do so, then your audition will be discarded without any further ado. I've already had to do this for several auditions. If you think your auditions may have been one of these, please rectify the issue and send it again.
All this information will be updated on the "Want to Write With Me?" page in short order, and you can look to see your critiques back in the next couple weeks.
Anyhoo, you have not been forgotten, you are not being ignored, and I am (slowly but definitely) getting to critiquing blog auditions, giving every audition the time and attention to detail that it is due.
Some notes to remember, however:
* Please, please use proper spelling and capitalization as much as possible, at least to the point where if you break any rules, it's obviously very intentional.
* The pieces for blog auditions should be complete, not excerpts of larger works. When judging blog auditions, I need to know that you have a certain attention to structure and can tie stories or vignettes into a whole. It does me no good to see that you can start a piece.
* For maximum impact, if one of your pieces is an expository work (ie, primarily telling the reader something), make the other piece a narrative work (ie, primarily showing the reader something). While submitting two expository works will not necessarily knock you out of the running, it does make it a tad more difficult for me to judge whether or not your style is compatible with this blog. When uncertain, I am far more likely to say no than I am to say yes.
* Please remember to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, beneath your moniker. This serves two purposes: it tells me you can follow directions and let's me keep a running list of those who have auditioned. If you fail to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, no matter how redundant it may seem to you to do so, then your audition will be discarded without any further ado. I've already had to do this for several auditions. If you think your auditions may have been one of these, please rectify the issue and send it again.
All this information will be updated on the "Want to Write With Me?" page in short order, and you can look to see your critiques back in the next couple weeks.
1/11/12
Throwing the Canon Overboard
I am not a literature person.
Theoretically, I should be. I love books, I love to read, I love to write, and I love to appreciate good writing. But damn, I'm an English major, if that tells you anything.
But I just don't enjoy literature.
One of my professors loves to emphasize the pleasure of the literary canon. He describes the thrill of reading a story with the knowledge that thousands, tens of thousands of others have read it before you, the low hum of satisfaction in finding meaning in it, a meaning fractionally shared with that multiplicity of other people.
I've never felt that with the literary canon myself.
I pick up a book from the literary canon and I get through it, annoyed all the way, and wanting to brutally murder the narrator with a tea kettle by the end. For what I can gather, the main feature of canonical literature is a whiny-ass main character. Hamlet, Winston, Bernard, Frankenstein, Heathcliff.... Allow me to use my mastery of the English language to paraphrase these characters: "Bitch bitch bitch."
I'll grant that I enjoyed A Clockwork Orange and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and while I can't say I took pleasure in A Confederacy of Dunces, I did appreciate the masterful use of satire and footnotes (I really loved the wonderful break from Ignatius that the footnotes offered). And after spending a month researching paganism in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, I finally developed a sort of begrudging respect for the work.
But, on the whole, I don't really enjoy those texts that are typically defined as literature.
Listening to my professor describe the buzz one derives from literature, I realize that I have felt it before - while watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And again, while streaming Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. And yet again, when I was tearing through the series Firefly, and later the film Serenity. I've felt it while watching Amélie for the six-billionth time, and when I was first introduced to Dr. Who, and How I Met Your Mother. I experienced it when I first discovered Anne McCaffrey's sci-fi/fantasy vision of Pern way back in elementary school, and when I took the time to peruse my first Draco/Hermione fanfic. The thrill of reading raced through my system when my best friend loaned me a few short novels by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, and again when I plucked Kim Harrison's Dead Witch Walking off a bookstore shelf. I spent hours poring over Christopher Moore's re-interpretation of King Lear, although I believe the power of the play to be greatly lost with Fool's very altered ending. Sarah Dessen's Just Listen continues to fascinate me, six years after I first laid hands on it.
Make no mistake. I've felt the "inherent pleasure" of literature. I've found the critical processes of English to be deeply beneficial, even natural, to me - when applying those methods to just about anything other than the standard canon. Literary criticism and analysis focused on Buffy are the main component of my "for fun" reading (I can't decide if Rhonda Wilcox or Joss Whedon is my biggest hero), and I frequently find myself drafting a mini-analysis for just about any text that crosses my interest. I love being an English major.
But I am not a literature person.
Well, not unless you'll let me throw the canon overboard.
Theoretically, I should be. I love books, I love to read, I love to write, and I love to appreciate good writing. But damn, I'm an English major, if that tells you anything.
But I just don't enjoy literature.
One of my professors loves to emphasize the pleasure of the literary canon. He describes the thrill of reading a story with the knowledge that thousands, tens of thousands of others have read it before you, the low hum of satisfaction in finding meaning in it, a meaning fractionally shared with that multiplicity of other people.
I've never felt that with the literary canon myself.
I pick up a book from the literary canon and I get through it, annoyed all the way, and wanting to brutally murder the narrator with a tea kettle by the end. For what I can gather, the main feature of canonical literature is a whiny-ass main character. Hamlet, Winston, Bernard, Frankenstein, Heathcliff.... Allow me to use my mastery of the English language to paraphrase these characters: "Bitch bitch bitch."
I'll grant that I enjoyed A Clockwork Orange and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and while I can't say I took pleasure in A Confederacy of Dunces, I did appreciate the masterful use of satire and footnotes (I really loved the wonderful break from Ignatius that the footnotes offered). And after spending a month researching paganism in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, I finally developed a sort of begrudging respect for the work.
But, on the whole, I don't really enjoy those texts that are typically defined as literature.
Listening to my professor describe the buzz one derives from literature, I realize that I have felt it before - while watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And again, while streaming Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. And yet again, when I was tearing through the series Firefly, and later the film Serenity. I've felt it while watching Amélie for the six-billionth time, and when I was first introduced to Dr. Who, and How I Met Your Mother. I experienced it when I first discovered Anne McCaffrey's sci-fi/fantasy vision of Pern way back in elementary school, and when I took the time to peruse my first Draco/Hermione fanfic. The thrill of reading raced through my system when my best friend loaned me a few short novels by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, and again when I plucked Kim Harrison's Dead Witch Walking off a bookstore shelf. I spent hours poring over Christopher Moore's re-interpretation of King Lear, although I believe the power of the play to be greatly lost with Fool's very altered ending. Sarah Dessen's Just Listen continues to fascinate me, six years after I first laid hands on it.
Make no mistake. I've felt the "inherent pleasure" of literature. I've found the critical processes of English to be deeply beneficial, even natural, to me - when applying those methods to just about anything other than the standard canon. Literary criticism and analysis focused on Buffy are the main component of my "for fun" reading (I can't decide if Rhonda Wilcox or Joss Whedon is my biggest hero), and I frequently find myself drafting a mini-analysis for just about any text that crosses my interest. I love being an English major.
But I am not a literature person.
Well, not unless you'll let me throw the canon overboard.
1/2/12
Videre
The carpet was soft, freshly vacuumed and smelling of the clean sheets on the nearby bed.
Nervous, I attempted to raise my head.
"Get down!" she hissed, tugging at my hand. "There are too many windows! The Hunters will get you!"
I rolled my eyes and settled in beside her. The afternoon sunlight washed past the crevice between her lavender walls and her bed, painting her delicate bedspread with the pale golden-white of spring.
This was not how I'd intended to spend my Saturday.
"Okay, go," my friend whispered, crawling past me, grabbing a painted stick of bamboo from beneath her mattress.
I followed her, indulging her latest fantasy. The girl was a master at playing pretend; at times I wondered if she confused her constructs for reality.
She held out a hand, demanding pause, as we neared one of her many bookshelves. The bottom rung of this one held a thesaurus, various books on espionage, and two non-fiction volumes on Lord of the Rings: one on the films, the other on weaponry.
"Shhh!" she admonished me. "I think I hear something!"
"What?" I asked, confused. I certainly didn't hear anything.
"A tapping," she enunciated, articulating the two words with all her three years of drama camp.
"Huh?"
"They're shooting arrows at us!" Her eyes went wide with excitement and the simulation of panic. "Take cover!"
As though crouching on her floor to avoid the two walls of windows were not enough to protect us from the imaginary attack.
She leaped to her feet and pressed herself between the tall keyboard and the shelf, narrowly missing the windowpane.
I stood more slowly, feeling the pale green carpet grind against my toes. I didn't bother to avoid the window, instead leaning over the keyboard to peer into the front yard. The puff paint and the keys it decorated were a series of cool bumps under my palm, giving with clicks of protest.
The only things moving in the yard were the magnolia leaves as the wind scattered them on the lawn.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, words rolling out high and fast. "Don't be stupid!"
I ignored her, moving over to sit in the desk chair. The padding was thin, and I could feel the cardboard beneath the upholstery rub against my tailbone.
"He-ey!" came her whine of protest.
"There's nothing there, 'Lyta!" I exclaimed in exasperation, tracing my fingers through the pencil shavings that coated her desk, sending the scent of cut wood spiraling into the room.
For a moment, there was only the air-conditioner's hum to prevent silence.
The bed squeaked a little as she settled next to her pillows, pushing a stuffed animal out of the way as she set down her decorated bamboo stick.
"You're no fun," she complained.
I shrugged.
"We can't all live in fantasy."
Nervous, I attempted to raise my head.
"Get down!" she hissed, tugging at my hand. "There are too many windows! The Hunters will get you!"
I rolled my eyes and settled in beside her. The afternoon sunlight washed past the crevice between her lavender walls and her bed, painting her delicate bedspread with the pale golden-white of spring.
This was not how I'd intended to spend my Saturday.
"Okay, go," my friend whispered, crawling past me, grabbing a painted stick of bamboo from beneath her mattress.
I followed her, indulging her latest fantasy. The girl was a master at playing pretend; at times I wondered if she confused her constructs for reality.
She held out a hand, demanding pause, as we neared one of her many bookshelves. The bottom rung of this one held a thesaurus, various books on espionage, and two non-fiction volumes on Lord of the Rings: one on the films, the other on weaponry.
"Shhh!" she admonished me. "I think I hear something!"
"What?" I asked, confused. I certainly didn't hear anything.
"A tapping," she enunciated, articulating the two words with all her three years of drama camp.
"Huh?"
"They're shooting arrows at us!" Her eyes went wide with excitement and the simulation of panic. "Take cover!"
As though crouching on her floor to avoid the two walls of windows were not enough to protect us from the imaginary attack.
She leaped to her feet and pressed herself between the tall keyboard and the shelf, narrowly missing the windowpane.
I stood more slowly, feeling the pale green carpet grind against my toes. I didn't bother to avoid the window, instead leaning over the keyboard to peer into the front yard. The puff paint and the keys it decorated were a series of cool bumps under my palm, giving with clicks of protest.
The only things moving in the yard were the magnolia leaves as the wind scattered them on the lawn.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, words rolling out high and fast. "Don't be stupid!"
I ignored her, moving over to sit in the desk chair. The padding was thin, and I could feel the cardboard beneath the upholstery rub against my tailbone.
"He-ey!" came her whine of protest.
"There's nothing there, 'Lyta!" I exclaimed in exasperation, tracing my fingers through the pencil shavings that coated her desk, sending the scent of cut wood spiraling into the room.
For a moment, there was only the air-conditioner's hum to prevent silence.
The bed squeaked a little as she settled next to her pillows, pushing a stuffed animal out of the way as she set down her decorated bamboo stick.
"You're no fun," she complained.
I shrugged.
"We can't all live in fantasy."
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