I've been aloof! My bad. Let me tell you, college gets needy. It's like a puppy that's sick so it needs extra attention in addition to all the attention it already needs. And I'm a cat person. A healthy cat person. Anyway, between writing 15 page papers I've been squeezing in some writing that matters. You know, the stuff that I plan on birthing a career from. CHRIST ALIVE. Well, some folks are liking it because I got published again :)
I haven't posted in a fat ass minute. I was playing ghost to get into Halloween. Is that allowed? Is that an excuse? I don't think so. It's okay if you don't think so. Listen, college is annoying. I've got fifteen page papers and exams and hookah parties to get through. That last one really isn't an excuse.
ANYWAY, guess what's coming up? Halloween. Guess who's favorite holiday is Christmas and not Halloween. Mine. Last year I had a rough holiday. Freshman in college. Halloween. Liquor. Do the math, babes. Actually I take that back. Read between the lines, babes. I don't want anyone doing any math on my blog. I got white girl wasted. So this year I'm keeping it real chill. My mom shipped me up enough candy to make me lust after my 1500 calorie diet. You might think gorging on M&Ms (pretzel, peanut butter, and peanut) and Almond Joys and 100 Grands and Twix and blah blah blah would be great. And it is at first. Then you wake up the next day strewn in chocolate laced cellophane and wonder how you got to be there.
Now that that tradition is out of the way, I'm looking to do something festive, but thinning. Guess what has zero calories? Reading. Guess what this blog's supposed to be about? Reading. Guess what I wanna do this Hollaween? READ. So far I've got Stephen King's Pet Sematary and The Shining. Looking forward to curling in the crisp and getting creeped.
Stephen King is the... well... king... of creep for me. I think it's because he creates such real characters and then puts them in such situations that make readers feel as if a close friend or even themselves are in the midst of all the horror. I think IT is my favorite. Great, sprawling read with unforgettable characters and a setting real enough for a map.
So what's the scariest book you've ever read? What do you do on Hollaween?
Q. What book that hasn't been turned into a movie (yet) would you most like to see make it to the big screen, and who would you like cast as your favorite character?
Oh this is a hard one. I really enjoy the translation from book to movie as I think stories often lend themselves to several mediums. That's also why I'd rather a story stray from what happens in a book when adapted as long as the changes build a better film. A film should be a good film before fretting being a good adaptation. Sometimes it works out like with The Virgin Suicides and No Country for Old Men and Winter's Bone. Other times not so much as in that Foxfire mess from the 90s. I hear they're remaking it now so here's to hoping they'll do right this time around.
I'd love to see Blood Meridian become a film, but I don't know if there's enough corn syrup in all of Hollywood to meet the book's bloodshed. I'd love to see Looking for Alaska hit the big screen. I think Elle Fanning would be great in a Lolita adaptation.
So lemme know what you think. What adaptations work and what ones don't?
Thanks for reading,
Nick
P.S.: Upcoming adaptation that looks like it gonna rawk:
So there was this recent lashing out in the publishing industry when a writer started yakking about an agent/editor/someone important I don't remember who and this isn't the Wall Street Journal, it's my blog so go find out the concrete details yourself that said his novel would work better if he "straightened" out his characters as in make the homosexual relationship heterosexual.
OH GIRL, NO YOU DIDN'T.
Well, this caused a bit of a riff-raff. Twitter started the #yesgayya tag and agents took to blogs to give their two cents and gays took to their blogs and readers took to their blogs and sometimes some or all of the above were the same thing and they took to their blogs. I'm just taking to my blog now, because I had to plot a 15 page literary analysis on Blood Meridian and Go Down, Moses. I HIGHLY recommend Blood Meridian although I do warn that it will make more violent than you may have thought yourself capable.
This news story sucks if it is true, but what sucks even more is that we might not be able to blame the agent/editor/don't get me rambling again that stated it. It must be understood that the book market is not an art gallery. It's a business. Sorry if I offended art galleries, but I just finished plotting a 15 page literary analysis so my metaphors are wavering. Books need to make money. Gay doesn't equate money. I can think of very few books surrounding gay culture that made a big impression on the market. At Swim, Two Boys comes to mind, but that was a colossal endeavor into the literary novel more so than a YA love story. Don't get me wrong, the genre has seen success with The Vast Fields of Ordinary, Boy Meets Boy, Will Greyson Will Greyson, but in comparison to all the heaping mounds of heterosexual YA love stories...
I think this is sad that I have to admit to a niche. That's what gay fiction is, especially YA gay fiction. It resonates with a certain audience and there are places for it, but unfortunately they're usually places more indie and small. Not that there's a problem with that. I'd disintegrate if an indie press was like LET'S PUBLISH YOUR MANUSCRIPT, but I do wish all love stories could appeal to the mainstream.
So how do you guys feel about all this? Let me know in the comments and let me know about any good gay titles you've read. My favorite is Mysterious Skin by Scott Heim, as most of you probably already know.
What imaginary book world would you like to make a reality?
Can I be a total cliche? You know what's coming. Yeah, I don't even have to say it. I kinda feel stupid for saying it, because I'm sure so many are going to say it. Harry Potter Verse would be a nice place to exist, alright? Owls, magic, a school that teaches you defense against the dark arts instead of geometry? That's swell and a half. I haven't really read a whole lot of other books that take place in fantastical worlds, so I'm just going to be that guy. I mean what else am I going to say? I wish I lived on the scalp strew deserts of Blood Meridian? No.
Never was I a big memoir guy. After the Million Little Pieces/Angry Oprah charade, I shied from the genre. Something about it struck me selfish or self-indulgent. So I was kinda like WTF when I went to the Boarder's closing sale (60-80% off muddafuckaz!) and hit up the so-called biography section. They were cleared out of all the Augusten Burroughs titles, which have been recommended to be by everyone I know and I really need to finally run with some scissors. I also looked for Prozac Nation, because Elizabeth Wurtzel amuses me on twitter, but they were out of that too. Yeah, there's a reason they were 60-80% off.
GIRLBOMB. It kind of jumped off the shelf. Last of the copies, a thin little book that Entertainment Weekly compared to Girl, Interrupted on the cover. It details the true story of a chick sick of her abusive home life so she stomps out of her house and just keeps stomping, presumably into a story worthy of publication. I was intrigued. It was $4. I'll let you know how it goes.
I dug Girl, Interrupted, but only read it, because the movie makes me cry every time I watch it. I liked The Bell Jar too, which while technically is a novel, was based largely on Sylvia Plath's life and was born long before the category of "memoir," when suffering the human existence didn't allow you a "biography." Biographies used to be for dead presidents. Now they're for whoever's in office/lost the last election and they're more "autobiography" than "biography," but really it's still "biography," because I don't belive Sarah Palin wrote a book. And now biographies are also for those who have withstood suffering, those who tread.
I read another book recently, Lidia Yuknavitch's The Chronology of Water which was about a girl becoming a woman through rampant sex, drug abuse, and art. Only wrong. It wasn't really about that, it was more about becoming. I read savaged my way through the book on a fifty-two thousand hour car ride to Toronto. Dare I say I drowned in it? Please? I did.
"Out of the sad sack of sad shit that was my life, I made a wordhouse."
- Lidia Yuknavitch, The Chronology of Water
Not only did the book fever me, but (here comes another water metaphor) the rush broke down that dam I had constructed for "memoir." So come on, Girlbomb. Come on, Burroughs. Come on, Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in a Man's Prision, Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood, and Leaving Dirty Jersey: A Crystal Meth Memoir. I wanna read em all. I get it now that we write about our suffering not to show off our wounds, but to understand them.
But maybe I'm just hoping someday I can write a memoir. I'm currently being ordered to wear that infamous Lindsay Lohan accessory, so maybe just maybe. I'm too in it right now to understand it though. Maybe someday. Maybe maybe maybe.
So what do you think? Memoirs: yay or nay. Tell me in the comments!
Sorry if it has been a minute. This week has been spent moving back to cowledge and acquimating to my crazy schedule. I'm taking two 300 level writing classes and a 400 level American Literature class. I kinda love it, but it's like Twilight love, because it's all forbidden and wrong and sparkly.
I'm reading Go Down, Moses by William Faulkner right now. Get the blog title now? Aren't I hilarious? Laugh. Anyway, I originally thought the story might surround some brassy southern gal demanding pleasure from her lover, Moses. I thought wrong. At first, I didn't really know what it was about. The language is stream rushing Niagara waters of conscious, so it's easy reading for drowning. I slogged through though and now, I'm almost awed. I get it. I'm a swimmer in Faulkner rapids. Ain't that great? I got a job at the library where they pay to not sell fried chicken, sit in front of a computer, occasionally check-out/in books, and do my homework. Today I read a chunk of this book and sometimes language just hits me in the gut. There's a scene where young Ike gives himself in to wilderness. He abandons compass and riffle. The giving in was so well presented that I felt like I was finally letting loose to something as well. Almost choked up. Good one, Mr. Faulkner.
You know how I get about B&W photographs of Southern Gothic authors so here ya go:
WHAT A CLASSY GUY! I feel a new blog button coming along?
So what about you? Ever start reading a book, get totally lost, but push through and ultimately gel with the style? I wanna know so lemme know in the comments!
It's Friday and you know what that means. TOMORROW IS CATURDAY! Yes, but it also means today is Follow Friday so get commenting and get pressing that follow button.
Today's question:
Q. In books like the Sookie Stackhouse (True Blood) series the paranormal creature in question "comes out of the closet" and makes itself known to the world. Which mythical creature do you wish would come out of the closet, for real?
OH MAN DO I LOVE TRUE BLOOD. Never read the books though.. Hmm, an interesting question. I'll say witches. Yeah yeah yeah I know all about those dusty little shops filled with folks in frocks rubbing stones together for the moon goddess of the north, but I'm talking WITCHES as in Harry Potter and Charmed. Actually, I'd like to come out as a witch. I think that'd be a good thing to be. I think it'd be best to be a Bewitched witch. No demons would try and kill me, although all that housework... a demon within itself.
I almost said fairies, but a lot of us are already out of the closet ;)
I'm going back to cowledge this Saturday Caturday and I haven't packed my underwear or toothbrush or rice cakes yet. I have packed all my books.
I don't get it. They're heavy; I'll never have the time to read/re-read them what with all the reading I'll be doing for classes, essay writing, working, and manuscript revisions. Also, socializing. If you don't socialize in cowledge it can be pretty unbearable. Still though, I packed up my Steinbeck boxset, my Faulkner boxset, complete collections of O'Connor, all the Palahniuks and Heims and McCarthys and Oates and about twenty or so more novels that simply CANNOT be left behind. Am I crazy?
There's such a safety in these books, such a gathering of home. They're all kind of my friends, I guess. They're your grandmother's pillow you took after her funeral. They're your mother's perfume when you're all grown up and she's gone, but boy does that smell take you back. Does this make sense? Am I dumb?
When a friend saw all my piled books they said, "When will you ever have time for casual reading?"
I hate the phrase "casual reading" and if anyone ever uses it to describe my manuscript when it grows up to be a novel (I've decided that WILL happen) I might cry. No reading should be casual. Fiction must be jarring, has to grab you by the neck and rattle you to a world away from your living room so that you can understand your living room.
All novels must not only abduct you to be a success, they must also bring to you Stockholm Syndrome.
Toronto was fab. Days were spent hounding the streets and shopping and getting hit by waves of exhausted silence only to stop for a Blue Lagoon or Pale Ale or Beached which sent us into a type of delirium that resulted in us imagining Great Danes dressed up as one another. We're strange. At night we drank orient apple Absolut Vodka in the hostel and made ourselves pretty. A man from Austria asked me if I was Persian and I felt like the classiest guy. Then we headed out and club hopped, bar hopped, hopped out of our fancy ouchy shoes.
I miss it already.
But I have this distraction in that the manuscript I've been working on for however long is coming to a close. The first draft. I think I know what I want to call it, but for now it will stay "manuscript." I don't think unpublished authors should be allowed to call works in progress "novels" or "books," because chances are they aren't. Novels and books are things that have struggled through query letter hell and submission hell and agent revision and editor revision and galleys and ARCs and finally ended up on a shelf, in a Kindle. Maybe this manuscript will make it to that. I have hopes for her, but before any of that comes REVISIONS. Writing is rewriting. Editing and chopping and copy/pasting.
Right now they're killing each other to this:
Now I know I have a few writers following me from cowledge (which I return to this week which means homework is going to try and interrupt the revising of manuscript especially because I'm in two 300 level classes and a 400, but I will prevail. Somehow), but what about the rest of you? Any writers? What do you write? What's your writing habits?
A summer or so ago I attended a writing workshop on creative non-fiction. My piece was complimented by the mother of one of the other writers. I thought that was pretty sassy of the mother to come and gush all over me while her kid ate a quarter of a ham sub in the corner. Well, I've since revised revised revised and now it's been published on Thought Catalog! Check it out here:Why I Am Water Between Two Worlds
They changed the title.
I also found out that another short story of mine, "Little Deformities", will be published in Cannoli Pie Literary Magazine! I'll link you when it's up.
And guess what else? I'll be working in the school library this year and no fried chicken is allowed.
Loves,
A review. Of a book. The day after I finished it. I do believe in miracles. I do. I do. I do.
"She lifts both arms in surrender, but the bleeding black thing disappears, vacuumed through the open window, a single swift bolt, as though it never existed at all."
Finished Scott Heim's In Awe. It's his lesser known work, overshadowed by Mysterious Skin. I must say that I understand that shadow. The misfits in Mysterious Skin were odd in a way that lent them to likability, while the misfits in this work were kind of... freaks.Their actions are bizarre outlandish, and at times unbelievable, but each eyebrow raised action pours them out to the reader. These weirdos give us their insecurities and fears in raw detail no matter if we can handle it or not. This is what makes the novel strong.
In Awe surrounds three people coping with the death of a mutual friend family member. There's Harriet, the delirious and spaced mother of the diseased; Sarah, a young woman obsessed with the macabre and horror flicks; and Boris, a disturbed teen obsessed with a boy that doesn't know he exists.
At times, the novel's language makes the book seem somewhat paranormal, despite no supernatural elements. It's a dreamy language, hazy at points. It's easy to get lost in, to flow too in the rush. But that's what these characters are: Lost. Abandoned. Unrequited. Their fantastical worlds have spilled to reality.
In Awe is an exact representation of living after losing a loved one.
You know the drill! Follow moi et I follow tu. That's french. I think. I'm not very good at French. I failed all my exams and had to retake them for a higher score and left the class with a C. Meh. C'est la vie.
Question for the week:
Q. How has your reading habits changed since you were a teen? or If you are still a teen what new genres are you in love with currently?
I'M STILL A TEENAGER. No I'm not. I'm twenty years old. T-W-E-N-T-Y. That spells "old." No it doesn't.
Surprisingly, my reading habits have changed quite a bit between nineteen and twenty. My teenage years were lazy days. I went to school through the motions. Didn't have too many friends. Don't get me wrong, I didn't wear Korn t-shirts and paint my nails black and blab about the world not understanding me. No, that was middle school. In high school, I spent most of my free time either re-watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer or reading books. I loved Stephen King and still do. He's vastly underrated. I have moved beyond that safety net quite a bit. I really enjoy transgressive, southern gothic, and literary fiction. I didn't know I liked Young Adult until I became an adult. Reading time has changed quite a bit. I attend college now, have become QUITE social, and write consistently. Of course I still read. All writers must read. It's more of a planned activity rather than a way of life now, which almost seems sad. Sometimes I have to schedule in reading time. I don't think it's all that melancholy. Books help us understand the world and what good is something understood if we do not take the time to embrace it?
Book Blogger Hop's question:
“Let’s talk crazy book titles! Highlight one or two (or as many as you like!) titles in your personal collection that have the most interesting titles! If you can’t find any, feel free to find one on the internet!”
Hmm. I particularly enjoy The Chronology of Water and The Grapes of Wrath. Very strong titles that really jar when the eye scans over the spines. Never Let Me Go, Mysterious Skin, As I Lay Dying, Gravity's Rainbow are all great too. Wally Lamb, while his works can be too sentimental/melodramatic for some, comes up with striking titles like She's Come Undone, The Hour I First Believed, and I Know This Much is True. I hear his next book will be called Willow, Weep For Me or We Are Water, both great.
I can always tell Summer's coming to a close when the county fair rolls into town. I was pretty patriotic the day we went to the fair. I listened to American Pie by Don McLean and what is any more American than a county fair? Prized pigs, funnel cake, and freak shows are staples of the red, white, and blue.
The best part of the whole thing was on the hay ride that takes you from the parking lot field to the entrance. So I was sitting there with two of my girls and it was food drive day so I had some sweet corn in my. The air was all horse shit and cotton candy. The sky was blue. And in surveying the scene you'll never guess who was sitting there on that hay ride with me.
Guess.
Uncle Sam? No.
Guess again.
Lady Liberty? No.
Fine. I'll tell you. IT WAS MY EX-KFC BOSS.
So then I made this noise that should have been a scream, but I stomped it out before it became scream. So it ended up being this muffled whale sound. I quick whispered the news to the girls, but who are we kidding? When I excited whisper I kind of shout. I realized this and stared at the can of sweet corn until we got to the gate. 70 cals per serving. 3.5 servings per can. Doesn't that seem like a lot? I had green beans the other day and they were only 20 cals per serving for the same amount. Strange.
We finally got off the ride and Ex-Boss got off first, thank God, because if I had to walk by her I probably would have stepped on her of flailed at her or something ridiculous. PS: She wore her tacky black work shoes out in public. I had on these great boots that were originally $99, but I got them for $11. Steal, huh?
The rest of the fair was fun. We looked at a lot of cows and one of the girls taught me how to tickle a horse. We ate honey and snubbed all the "photography" in the Arts & Crafts barn. I wanted to eat everything, but only had lemonade.
When we left a tanning bed boy told me through bleached teeth that I was wearing my sister's jeans. The girls tripped over each other to tell me he was a middle school moron and that I was masculine blah blah blah. But actually, I was kinda flattered.
You guys got any good fair stories?
Book update: I'm reading In Awe by Scott Heim. I like it a lot, but there is some real nasty stuff in this one.
Writing update: I WILL be reaching my goal of having the rough draft of this manuscript completed by August 27th, which is the day I head back to college for sophomore year. Yay for keeping deadlines!
I saw a dead squirrel when I was walking home yesterday. It wasn't roadkill, just quiet dead with shut up eyes and a limp neck. Today I walked the same path and it was gone from the thicket. I say Squirrel was sleeping.
And I say "squirrel" is a difficult word to spell.
I remember Alice in fourth grade. She lost the spelling bee to "squirrel."
Another follow Friday! I love these things! They get people talking about books and they tick up those numbers. I know, I know, I know it shouldn't be about the numbers, but come on... we all love how our tummies get squishy whenever we gain one more follower.
Today's Question:
Q. Talk about the book that most changed or influenced your life (was it a book that turned you from an average to avid reader, did it help you deal with a particularly difficult situation, does it bring you comfort every time you read it?).
Today's Answer:
Invisible Monsters was a book that really sparked something in me as a reader, but more importantly, as a writer. It showed me that the unconventional can be embraced. Agents always say that you should never write for a trend and that you must write what you want to write, but this seems almost too good to be true considering markets and demographics and all the risks that goes into the manuscript to bound novel metamorphosis.
For those of you who haven't read it, the story surrounds the rehabilitation of an ex-model who has had half her face blasted off. To go from a life so rooted in pleasing the world with ascetics and to have that inverted made the novel such a compelling and poignant read.
Invisible Monsters stresses that it is okay to be bizarre, outlandish, freaky, and most of all, yourself.
"The heavenly light you admire is fossil-light, it's the unfathomably distant past you gaze into, stars long extinct."
Loves,
Today I review a book. Yes, I know. This is a rarity, but it should not be as this is kind of a book blog. I read often, book binge, but the starved novelist is often writing and writing and writing and not being paid for that, but has to pay for other useless things like nourishment and shelter and that is as exhausting as that run on sentence was. However, sometimes books really clutch you. They rattle you so much to the point where you simply have to stop and praise/curse it's title. Foxfire by Joyce Carol Oates is one of those books.
The story surrounds a rabble rousing girl gang making mischief in the 1950s. At first it's small, wearing red scarves and crafting homemade tattoos, but then the mischief contorts into macabre and the comfort the gang had provided to the girls suddenly turns on them when one member decides to stands alone after such a time of them standing as one.
Foxfire burns bright. The narrator, Maddy-Monkey is a meek thing, but she has an irresistible voice, a readable ramble that sends us traipsing through the gang's past. Maddy joins us, reliving old memories through journal entries. We know her well and this technique lends to a certain relativity that makes the Foxfire affair so real. We share her envy of Legs, the group leader and her distaste for Violet, a saucy gal that joins later in the game.
Foxfire is a read to stumble through, as the narrative is at times fractured. Oates abandons the laws of grammar to bring small town voices to life. At times she omits commas to give a rambled sort of voice, something rushed and impatient as if it has so much to tell in so little time. This really elevates the novel above the plot summary. It's what is most important in literary fiction, not necessarily the plot, but how the plot is shown to us. As a writer and a reader of the genre, I count myself lucky to be educated and entertained by this novel, this triumph.
Joyce Carol Oates leaves readers nostalgic for a place they've never been. Although, I guess that isn't true. I was there. I rode in, through, and out on the simple spell cast by language, a world created by words.
That last part was cheesy, I know. Sometimes I like the cheese, but I gotta keep it outta the serious writing. Literary agents don't like cheese. So here, you have it. Put it on nachos.
No not that Laurie Halse Anderson YA golden bull. I'm talking about literally speaking. Any of you hate small talk as much as I do? I like to think of myself as introverted because of this. Listen, I don't want to know how your weekend was, what you're majoring, or even what your name is. And I certainly don't care if you care about those things in relation to me. I'll find all this shit out when I creep on your Facebook.
But maybe I just want to be called introverted, because that's what people call Cormac McCarthy and JD Salinger. Don't get me wrong, I'll run you down with my motormouth once we're comfy together, but getting to that point is rough for me. I don't really know how to make friends. This is why I like drinking. I love going to parties, getting tipsy, and mingling with folks about interesting subjects. That whole introductory phase is such nonsense.
So maybe I'm just weird?
Whatever I am, don't ask me how my summer was or what I did. What? You want a list? Let's just take a shot of cheap vodka and work our way past the bullshit and to who you accidentally did the deed with and/or what episode of Six Feet Under made you cry the Nile.
BTW, I'm not an alcoholic. Trust me, I've been analysed. Twice. Goddess Chelsea Handler once said this: "I went out with a guy who once told me I didn't need to drink to make myself more fun to be around. I told him, 'I'm drinking so that you're more fun to be around.'"
That's basically me, but with the whole fucking universe instead of one guy. Does that make me narcissistic? At least I'm not an alcoholic. I have papers if you need proof.
Anyway, I know this is supposed to be a book blog and I'm the all time worst book blogger on Blogger, because all I ever do is ramble about myself, BUT I just recently finished Foxfire by Joyce Carol Oates and it was <3. I should have a review up soon!
Sorry if the breaks between posts have been too long for you bated followers. I just got some financial info from Hiram College. Every time they email me about money owed, my foot twitches to find the rib-cage of some innocent terrier.
Until then, bow down to
PS: I'm not Michael Vicks. The terrier is Hiram's mascot. Off color humor, yeah yeah yeah.
Another Follow Friday! At too early an hour! I'm up at 6:31 AM, because I plan on going with one of my girls to babysit. Gross, babies. Gross, sitting on them. Why would I do such a thing? Because Baby's house is air conditioned and it's close to one hundred degress Fahrenheit here! I don't know what that is in not American, but everything is sticky, sweaty, and salty. I need a break.
Q. Name 3 authors that you would love to sit down and spend an hour or a meal with just talking about either their books or get advice on writing from?
I would never eat with any authors, because I don't eat in general. Just kidding. Little dietary humor. Not funny? Sorry, early.
I would love to sit down with anybody that would be interested in introducing me to their agent and/or giving my book a blurb.
For realz, probably Truman Capote, Cormac McCarthy, and Joyce Carol Oates. I'd as Capote about the glamour of being an author, McCarthy on isolation, and Oates on proliferation. I'd also love to chat with Chuck Palahniuk, Flannery O'Connor, Scott Heim, William Faulkner (you just call him Faulkner), John Steinbeck, and Jeffrey Eugenides.
My time with Harry Potter is strange. I'm not an obsessive fan and mostly if you ask me about the series, I'll mumble something about it being fine story telling, but lacking in language. I stick to that statement even at times like these. These times are the times that Harry finds me. It's often in July or November, maybe December now and again. It's whenever a new book or film arrives. It was in elementary school, middle school, high school, and college. He swoops in on his Nimbus 2000 Firebolt to prove time after time that his magic is not just in wands and potions, but in nostalgia and an unfailing ability to transfigure me back to childhood. I become a ravenous fan in these periods and although my hunger wanes with time, there's always a reprisal whenever he comes back.
What's sad is this: the "it's" are now "it was." Harry will not come looking for me again. He himself is now a piece of nostalgia, just memory.
So I had been preparing myself for HP n Da Deathly Hallows all week by watching the previous films and reminiscing of my childhood years spent sprawled on the floor munching away at the books. It's all very rushing to me, like I'm in a fast car... or a train... express train... HOGWARTS EXPRESS *bursts into tears*
And then the car halted and I broke my nose on the dashboard when the credits rolled.
So yeah, I cried a bit. A lot. I guess I'll just run down the major waterworks:
- The title card. It was the last one. Ever.
- When those horrible Goblins rattled at the sun deprived dragon and then again when the dragon smelled fresh air and then again when it escaped to the sky. I really felt for that thing.
- Any time McGonagall looked at the camera. Her eyes were so tired and brimming.
- When Snape told Harry to take his tears. TAKE MINE TOO, HARRY!
- The Prince's Tale. As if I even need to explain.
- Harry accepting his fate.
- Harry closing his eyes.
I guess that doesn't seem like all that much, but shut up. I sniffled. Yeah, sniffled. With my nose. More of a snort snotty sniff. It upset the man next to me, but I didn't care. Through half the film this dude was making origami or something with his popcorn bag, because you just can't make as much noise with a bag as he did by simply putting your hand in it. He also smelled like nicotine. AND HAD AN UNKEMPT BEARD.
I found this HP survey online and decided to give it a whirl, just to share some of my thoughts on the series as a whole. And I need some closure.
Favorite Book in the Series
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince or Deathly Hallows or Order of the Phoenix.
Least Favorite Book in the Series
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets?
Favorite Character
Harry Potter. Sorry if that isn't original. Hermione is my main bitch. Ron also. And everyone else except Luna. She was obnoxious and said things at inappropriate times. I hated Draco too. Maybe I just don't like fair skinned blondes? I wish I had that complexion. It must be jealousy. And that can't be right, because I love Hedwig.
Favorite Villain
<3 Bellatrix <3
Saddest Moment
The Prince's Tale. Book and film.
Favorite Professor
Minerva McGonagall
Least Favorite Professor
That douche from Chamber of Secrets.
Favorite Subject
Defense Against the Dark Arts
Least Favorite Subject
Muggle Studies sounded too much like real life.
Favorite Shop in Diagon Alley
The one with Hedwig.
Most Handsome Character
Ron or Harry or Draco. None of the others were all that fetching. FILCH.
Most Beautiful Character
Hedwig.
Most Missed Dead Character
Sirius or Hedwig.
Favorite Book Cover
Ew, I love them for nostalgic purposes, but they're all kind of tacky. I guess POA.
Favorite Tri-Wizard Tournament Challenge
Dragons. The maze reminded me of The Shining.
Rate the Houses From Most to Least Favorite
Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin. I hate people that think it's cool to like Slytherin. No. Slytherin is comprised of assholes and cowards.
Favorite Animagus
Sirius.
Favorite Unforgivable Curse
Avada Kadavera, duh.
Favorite Horcrux
HARRY.
Favorite Deathly Hallow
The invisibility cloak. Didn't you read that story in Beetle the Bard? That bro was the most clever.
Funniest Moment
Harry said some sassy things that made me chuckle.
Most Emotional Moment
The Prince's Tale? Can I say that again?
Aspired Quidditch Position
None. No sports. Not even magic ones.
Favorite Patronus
Snape's doe. *cries again*
What You Think Your Patronus Would Be
HOUSE CAT!
Favorite Dursley
Petunia. I like a good betch.
Favorite Wand
Dragon heart-string or something.
Favorite Magical Ability
Transfiguration would be fun.
Favorite Death Eater
Bellatrix.
Favorite Portrait
The fat lady.
Favorite Spell
Expecto Patronum is always so pretty and bright.
Oh, the end of an era.
You cryin', followers? Tell me about it in the comments. Or tell me what you thought of the film, the books, the end of it all.
I have earned a decent amount of $$$ this past summer. I plan to spend it on school books and loans and paying for various fees I accumulated for being boisterous a trip to Toronto with two of my girls! Isn't that exciting? Three nights in a city where the drinking age is 19. We're taking a megabus there and staying in a hostel.
Now listen, I saw those movies. Those Hostel movies. They were pretty sub-par, but that kinda thing could really go down. So I'm going to pack a chainsaw or something. Just to be safe.
Anyway, I guess my time at KFC and stuffing fliers into doors really was worth it. Who knows how I'll ever pay for school and who cares? Well, I do, but not right now. I actually should have enough for the trip and for fall semester books so I'm not being too willy-nilly.
ANYWAY LAST NIGHT I WAS SO EXCITED I COULDN'T EVEN SLEEP.
Also, the new last Harry Potter flick comes out Friday, but I'll be seeing it on $5 Tuesday. I'm wary. This is the end of an era. As if I need another reminder that I am no longer a child...
So I have been watching all the other movies in preparation. I read the books way back when and while I was enchanted and mystified and found a home away from home blah blah blah, I was mostly annoyed with her uses of telling and not showing. Still love em, still have em lined up on my shelf in hardcover, but I'm not all Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets to Rowling's Tom Riddle.
So I watched the first two so far. The best part was in the second one when Ginny asked Mrs. Weasley where her jumper was and Mrs. Weasly said she saw it on the cat. I laughed for like five minutes.
Not that huge a fan of the first two flicks. They're fine adaptations, but as films they tend to drag. I love Prisoner of Azkaban and Order of the Phoenix, which are quite the opposite. Lousy adaptations, but well made films. I'll take the latter over the former as I always feel film and book are vastly different mediums and should never try and emulate the other, but take the same story and represent it in a way that works best for itself. Men with baby heads is a startling image on page, but would be silly on film.
So what do you think of Toronto? Favorite Harry Potter book/movie? Least? Let me know! I have to say my favorite book is probably Half-Blood Prince. Love all the Voldey back story. Deathly Hallows was great too due to all the epic. And Order of the Phoenix would be up there as well if Harry hadn't been so ragin' on hormones, testosterone, and teenage angst. I don't remember being that angry when I started to like girls. Well, that never really happened, but well whatever.
Today was a good day if not poignant. That is my favorite word. "Poignant." And "undulate."
Me and two of my girls made like old times. We put cheap wine into water bottles and walked in the dusk around our their hometown. We found this construction tunnel thing. It was like a drain pipe, but there was nothing for it to drain. It was just sitting in the middle of some baseball diamond waiting to be put to use. Good thing we showed up. We took sexual pictures on it, practiced jumping on it like a horse (that almost hurt my man goods), attempted cartwheels across it, and then we crawled inside of it. I don't know if it was a construction tunnel. Curled up in there, it felt to me like a womb.
There was this orange setting sun hanging over our whole night. The only thing is that it wasn't a sun. It was a streetlamp, but we all thought it was the sun.
Just found a new way to snatch some more loves. Is it weird that I call you that? Are you creeped? Is this why you don't comment? I could say "Like You Like a Friends," but it's just not the same. I'm not really in love with you. I will not sneak up in your hedges and peer in your windows. I will not snatch your child and blame it on my nanny. I don't have one, but since when does that matter?
Today I am participating in Teen Fiction Centre's Weekly Book Blog Bonanza. Almost like a Book Blog Banana, but with less potassium. Clicky:
This week's question: "Who is your favourite book character and why?" English American translation: Who is your favorite book character and why?"
This question is not happening. Sorry. I like too many. So you're all going to have to deal with hearing a few of my favourites favorites.
Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye
I really do like Holden and have never understood the idea that he is some vain narcissistic pessimist. The guy wants to save children from losing their innocence for crying out loud! I really jelled with his voice. It was all relative, I could hear myself. I admire his desperation to keep from going from the rye, to keep frank and honest and to restrain from that type of bloated affection we associate with sincerity. He's a crazy kid, but I love him.
Lolita from Lolita
What a girl. There is something so intriguing about loving Lolita, because I feel like I shouldn't. She's a vapid, slutty tween that uses feigned innocence to manipulate her way to success. She's what Holden wants to keep children from becoming. Still, I can't help but be fascinated by her ability to pull this off. She's just a girl. The "success" she manipulates her way to is found in candy, records, and new clothes. She's a figure of purity strewn through the gutter and I can't help but eat away at any description of her. Her acid sass made me laugh out loud.
Rosasharn from The Grapes of Wrath
I can't talk too much about Rosasharn as her becoming mirrors the entire point of John Steinbeck's classic. I will say this: she is one of, if not the best, transitional character to ever be put to print. Her metamorphosis is contagious; it encourages readers to find change within themselves.
Neil McCormick and Brian Lackey from Mysterious Skin
There were times during the book where I didn't really care for Neil all that much. He's reckless, conceited, and blind to everything whooshing around him. Ultimately, these are the same reasons why I like him so much. Neil is a superb cause and effect character. Brain works great with Neil and vice versa. Their polar opposite reactions turned the book into nicotine. The interwoven narrative makes experiencing Neil and Brian a constant compare and contrast. When it comes down to it, I just wanted to hug them both.
Owen Meany from A Prayer for Owen Meany
I love Owen, because I'm a sap. He's a dwarfish, shriveled boy who has every reason to hate the world, but instead he declares himself an instrument of God.
I bet that was it. That headline was the one to do it. You're all going to stop following me, spread words of my obscenity, and maybe even hunt me down and find a mysterious nanny figure to drug me up. Well, calm down.
Listen, am I glad that whole trial is over with. The facts came down to a lack of evidence so they couldn't rule her guilty. It's that simple. Did she do it? Obviously. Can it be proven? No, which is why she's going to be spending next weekend drinking vodka and doing lines of coke at a big surprise party thrown by one of her personalities instead of making dice out of soap bars.
That headline is also very very very true. The Terminator's (ex?) wife was offered $15 million for a tell-all. She didn't even have to pen the thing and probably never will. Oh, it'll come out and she'll buy a new Porsche or maybe a Smith & Wesson 9mm semi-automatic, but it won't be written by her. She should probably invest in a dog or cat or something too.
Casey Anderson should not, because she would kill it the first time it gets in the way of her donning an American flag toga and swigging a bottle of moonshine.
I was at a Fourth of July shindig with the fam and all those old aunts of mine wanted to talk about was that damn Casey Anderson. Luckily, my aunts used to ride motorcycles in the 80s and had really big hair, so there was plenty of booze around. I took a swig/shot every time they mentioned her.
"I can't believe the way the defense is trying to handle that Casey Anderson," they said.
"Gulp," I said.
"I wonder what she'll get? Oh, we won't know for a while."
"Glug," I said.
Then I rambled something about nannies, but no one heard me so I played with the dog. That was actually a lot of fun, especially considering all the gulps and glugs.
Now those same aunts and company are blowing up Facebook with ill grammar such as this:
"Unbelievable..........................."
"Did those jurors seeing the same thing i am ---- ARE YOU KIDDING?!?!?!!?!!!!????"
"WTF is all I can say!!!! NO JUSTICE FOR CAYLEE!!!!!"
"Looks like GOD is going 2 have 2 bring justice to Caylee!!!"
And some have the audacity to say youth disrespects the English language.
Now they want me to turn my porch light on in memorial. They want me to put it on at nine o' clock. When it's dark out. Turn on my porch light at night? What a demonstration!
So what do you guys think about this whole thing? I don't deal well with crime giving way to celebrity. We all have financially secured this broad for the rest of her life. She just has to hire someone to write her book. Hey, I'm available.
Remember that time I said Cormac McCarthy is better than you and me and everyone else? Well, there's another fellow that's better too. I'm in the midst of reading one of his novels right now and while his writing is poignant and swell and clearly depicts figures of human existence and blah blah blah, I think the main reason he's so fabulous (sorry about using such a cliche gay boy word, but let's face it, it's an appropriate word) is because of his persona and routines.
Truman Capote is his name as if you haven't already read the post header. Here he is at the apex of his cuteness:
Yeah yeah yeah I already posted this, but it's worth a double take. Also, I'm going to talk about it, so take a third look. Done? Okay. Hold on, I'm still looking. He's looking back at me. Not you. Me specifically. Alright. This photograph was taken by Harold Hama in 1947 for the jacket of Capote's novel Other Voices, Other Rooms. I'm reading that right now so don't talk about it in the comments. Apparently this photo caused a huge ruckus, good and bad. Andy Warhol, pop-art prince of the 1960s, instantly befriended Capote. Old women gasped and clamped their gloved hands over their grandchildren's eyes when passing book stores and the LA Times said Capote looked "as if he were dreamily contemplating some outrage against conventional morality."
Well, let's face it. He probably was. The year was 1947. Truman Capote was openly gay.
What's great is that he didn't do much to hide it. He was flamboyant and crass and basically me except he had a job at The New Yorker by age 17 and was contracted by big wig Random House to write his first novel in 1946 after his piece, "Miriam", won the O. Henry Award for best first published story.
I had to stop writing and take a gulp of my roman coke because I am currently furious with envy. Sorry if you're offended I drink. You probably understand. Planting petunias gets to a person. Also, I hope you have read my other entries, because I like using those inside jokes that only will be outside if you're familiar with my other posts.
Sorry, distracted. Anyone got some Adderall? Boy, if that Gay and Lesbian Review really does decide to check this out, they'll probably copy and paste a form rejection to be sent to my form rejection landfill email as fast as you can ask "Why the hell couldn't I be friends with Harper Lee?"
Well, guess who was friends with Harper Lee? Truman Capote, that's who. You remember Dill in To Kill a Mockingbird? He was based off Capote. Idabel, a fiesty and crass (word of the day) scoundrel in Other Voices, Other Rooms was based off Lee. The two grew up together in Alabama and Lee eventually helped a great deal in Capote's research for his creative non-fiction work, In Cold Blood. She's even part of the movie based on the book's research process entitled quite simply Capote. They're pictured together to the right to the right (Mom's been having a Beyonce day).
Capote was also friends with Carson McCullers, writer of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Only no he wasn't and this is why maybe I don't want to be Truman Capote, but just Nick Sawatsky.
"I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true."
— Truman Capote
Capote brought to the literary circle of the time an air of Hollywood exclusivity and glamour. He held the infamous Black and White Ball, an event so big that entire books were written about it. The thing is this: Capote treated the ball a type of narcissism. He dangled invites and ultimately snubbed a lot of former friends, including McCullers. It was from here that Capote spiraled. Sometime after In Cold Blood he stopped being a writer and started being a celebrity. He drank in excess, did too many hard drugs, and frequented talk shows. He was kind of like Lindsay Lohan, but jail and thievery wasn't as chic then as it is now.
Sadly, Capote died of liver cancer at just 59 years old.
I just splashed the remains of my roman coke in the sink to be dramatic, but then I realized no one was watching me and now my buzz is dull and this whole comment is in bad taste, but Capote would probably like it so I'm keeping it.
Ultimately, Capote only published three novel length works (Other Voices Other Rooms, The Grass Harp, and In Cold Blood) as well as the famous novella, Breakfast at Tiffany's. There were sprinkled short stories and anthologies throughout his career and a few manuscripts made it to shelves posthumously, but I still gotta sigh. I mean, he has his pal Harper Lee beat, but she was always notorious for writing manuscripts and trunking them as she felt they couldn't surpass Mockingbird. I don't see Capote having that problem. I feel like he became distracted by himself, but how can we be surprised? His first major reaction from the world was based in a photograph of himself.
So what's the verdict? You gonna hit up Half-Priced Books/Amazon/B&N/Whateva to check this cat out? Already fan? Let me know in the comments!
"But I'm not a saint yet. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a drug addict. I'm homosexual. I'm a genius."
— Truman Capote
I've been aloof! My bad. Let me tell you, college gets needy. It's like a puppy that's sick so it needs extra attention in addition to all the attention it already needs. And I'm a cat person. A healthy cat person. Anyway, between writing 15 page papers I've been squeezing in some writing that matters. You know, the stuff that I plan on birthing a career from. CHRIST ALIVE. Well, some folks are liking it because I got published again :)
