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Nov. 11th, 2017 10:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowkat1. Sigh. National News is still triggering me. So too is FB and social media. So trying to stay away. It's weird how social media can make one feel furious, lonely, envious, and like a garbage person at times. I thought I was alone in this feeling, but I've read a few articles about it. Nope. The media, our media, can be toxic. Also, fun and kindness on it is fleeting, and the relationships across it often, not always, seemingly hollow and empty.
[ETA: re-reading this, I feel I have more to say. But not sure how to convey it. Lately, or off and on, I've been noticing that things I've read here and elsewhere have been triggering me. Causing a bad performance to erupt from me. I think the internet is more triggering sometimes than face-to-face in person interactions. I was discussing this with someone just this past week...how they got more upset over the news of the Texas Shooting than the terrorist incident that occurred in the street right outside their school. They said that in both instances they went online and interacted with people. But what was different between the two, was in regards to the NYC incident, they left social media and texting, and went for a walk with their husband, trick-or-treated with their baby, and had a drink. They got away from it and interacted with actual people.
The problem with the internet, particularly sites such as this one -- is we are talking to people with names like shadowkat67 and refusetoseeyou and catchall10. We don't know each other outside of what we write. And that leads to...rude behavior. And erupting in anger.
I see it in myself and those I'm surrounded by. At any rate, I'm learning that I need to stay away more. I've already stopped watching the national news. Perhaps I need to stop reading dreamwidth and facebook as well? Or be more selective? And far more careful in my responses?]
2. A question was asked..."what book do you wish you would have written? Or envy on how it was written, and wish you'd written like that?"
I don't tend to feel this way. More often than not, I'm thinking, damn, I could have written this better. My book is better written this. This needs a good editor. Or I love this idea, but they needed to change this, and rewrite this and why can't I just edit and rewrite this book for them? Which may be testament to the quality of books that I've been reading lately?
To be honest, I've never felt that way. Have I felt envious of a writer's success? Yes. Did I wish I'd written the book they wrote? No. Do I wish that I had managed my writing as well as they did? No, because people write differently. I do feel envious that they got published and aided on their journey. But that's different.
OF course I don't appear to write for the same reasons a lot of people do? I write because a story/idea/something is stuck in my heart/head/craw and I'll burst if I can't get it out. I used to just tell my stories out loud to myself in my backyard while bouncing a ball. Until my parents bought me a type-writer and insisted I type them out instead. Unfortunately, my writing ability took a long time to catch up.
Right now, the stories are stuck. Having troubles dislodging them. So I envy those who are able to, dislodge them and craft them in such a way that the universe responds with applause. Can't say I understand the applause. What turns folks on is more often than not a mystery to me. For example?
A lot of people online love John M Ford and Pamela Dean and Neil Gaiman's work -- but I was disappointed. There was something missing from them, I felt...as if I had bitten into one of those beautiful creme puffs, but ...it just wasn't as tasty as I was lead to believe. Sort of bland, actually. The emotion isn't quite there, or they've stopped short of full exhale.
Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond novels are harder to read, yet, I fell in love with them. I felt like I was getting a four course meal, satisfying, with clear and developed characters. Do I wish I had written them? No. Do I envy her, no.
Oddly I envy Gaiman more who appears to achieve success with relatively little effort. Prolific and graceful, charming, and kind...he seems to sail through life with ease. Emphasis on appears and seems, I have no way of knowing if this is true. He only shows us the lovelies. But I read his work and it's nowhere near the quality of Dunnett or even Tolkien. It doesn't dig into my ribs and soul.
His words are lovely at times, but his characters feel like ciphers mere metaphors for a thematic story told in poetic verse.
Most of the books I've read, I barely remember. Some not at all. Quite a few I've read that I can't remember anything about except that I read them. Others I will remember a few moments here and there. I think my memory of a book may depend on how vividly I've seen the story play out in my head? Or how deeply it resonated with me on some level. I will admit that I remember the novels of Gaiman's that I've read far better than others. I remember Pamela Dean's Tam Lin vividly, and I read it about six years ago? Maybe more? But I can't remember about thirty of the novels I've read in the past year, which I think I enjoyed more. So there's something to be said for that. While, I remember small vague bits and pieces of John M. Ford's The Last Hot Time. If that's the title, can't quite recall even that. While Gaiman's Neverwhere, American Gods, and Ocean at the Land are still fairly clear in my memory.
Still none as clear as say Dorothy Dunnett's Chronicles of Lymond, which I've held onto because I'd like to re-read. Or the Austen novels. Or Herbert's Dune....
I always found it interesting that I forgot the Harry Potter novels soon after I read them. Loved them, forgot them, didn't feel a need to re-read. While...Philip K. Pullman's His Dark Materials seem to reside in my consciousness for eternity. As too, does Harriet the Spy, Witches of Worm, The Hobbit, and the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - White Gold Welder.
I don't know why one story sticks and another does not. I can't remember anything I read by Garcia Marquez -- who I adored. A Hundred Years of Solitude, which I inhaled over the course of a summer in college, and desperately wanted to write my senior thesis on, I can't remember a word of now. It's as if I never read it. But I remember The Great Gatsby, which I read in high school -- granted I wrote an essay on it in high school and watched the Robert Redford film. I did not like The Great Gatsby.
While I had loved A Hundred Years of Solitude. Also, it should be mentioned that I can remember American Psycho, which I despised, but not one syllable of A Hundred Years...why?
My memory makes no sense to me.
Eh, this wasn't supposed to be about that. But it is. Hmm.
3. Finished Sins of the Wicked Duke -- the book about the down-on-her luck six foot maid posing as a footman in a Duke's residence. I was disappointed by it. The first half of the book is quite good. The second half...sort of derails into "oh I want her so much, I can't control myself" and "oh I want him so much, I can't resist his advances" and I'm rolling my eyes and wanting to kick the writer and editors of the thing. Genre books are notorious for their poor editing. It's as if the editors don't even care...and put all their effort into the literary efforts. (Note - the literary efforts don't require as much editing...or shouldn't.)
Instead of building on the relationships between the leads and the supporting characters, along with the whole woman posing as a footman and then a valet...which is a big deal for a footman, the writer went the erotic route. The least interesting and most cliche path.
I was horribly disappointed in it.
That said, I did like the overall theme which is about letting bygones be bygones. Or forgiving in order to move on with your own life and not let the past destroy you. Both characters need to let go of past transgressions in order to live a happy life. I sort of liked that bit. And got something from the book. Also it is an easy book to read on very noisy subways. Last night, a man insisted on playing a video on his phone so everyone on the subway could hear it. And a woman was talking very loudly on her cell next to him. (Subways were far more pleasant before the invention of the smartphone.)
[ETA: re-reading this, I feel I have more to say. But not sure how to convey it. Lately, or off and on, I've been noticing that things I've read here and elsewhere have been triggering me. Causing a bad performance to erupt from me. I think the internet is more triggering sometimes than face-to-face in person interactions. I was discussing this with someone just this past week...how they got more upset over the news of the Texas Shooting than the terrorist incident that occurred in the street right outside their school. They said that in both instances they went online and interacted with people. But what was different between the two, was in regards to the NYC incident, they left social media and texting, and went for a walk with their husband, trick-or-treated with their baby, and had a drink. They got away from it and interacted with actual people.
The problem with the internet, particularly sites such as this one -- is we are talking to people with names like shadowkat67 and refusetoseeyou and catchall10. We don't know each other outside of what we write. And that leads to...rude behavior. And erupting in anger.
I see it in myself and those I'm surrounded by. At any rate, I'm learning that I need to stay away more. I've already stopped watching the national news. Perhaps I need to stop reading dreamwidth and facebook as well? Or be more selective? And far more careful in my responses?]
2. A question was asked..."what book do you wish you would have written? Or envy on how it was written, and wish you'd written like that?"
I don't tend to feel this way. More often than not, I'm thinking, damn, I could have written this better. My book is better written this. This needs a good editor. Or I love this idea, but they needed to change this, and rewrite this and why can't I just edit and rewrite this book for them? Which may be testament to the quality of books that I've been reading lately?
To be honest, I've never felt that way. Have I felt envious of a writer's success? Yes. Did I wish I'd written the book they wrote? No. Do I wish that I had managed my writing as well as they did? No, because people write differently. I do feel envious that they got published and aided on their journey. But that's different.
OF course I don't appear to write for the same reasons a lot of people do? I write because a story/idea/something is stuck in my heart/head/craw and I'll burst if I can't get it out. I used to just tell my stories out loud to myself in my backyard while bouncing a ball. Until my parents bought me a type-writer and insisted I type them out instead. Unfortunately, my writing ability took a long time to catch up.
Right now, the stories are stuck. Having troubles dislodging them. So I envy those who are able to, dislodge them and craft them in such a way that the universe responds with applause. Can't say I understand the applause. What turns folks on is more often than not a mystery to me. For example?
A lot of people online love John M Ford and Pamela Dean and Neil Gaiman's work -- but I was disappointed. There was something missing from them, I felt...as if I had bitten into one of those beautiful creme puffs, but ...it just wasn't as tasty as I was lead to believe. Sort of bland, actually. The emotion isn't quite there, or they've stopped short of full exhale.
Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond novels are harder to read, yet, I fell in love with them. I felt like I was getting a four course meal, satisfying, with clear and developed characters. Do I wish I had written them? No. Do I envy her, no.
Oddly I envy Gaiman more who appears to achieve success with relatively little effort. Prolific and graceful, charming, and kind...he seems to sail through life with ease. Emphasis on appears and seems, I have no way of knowing if this is true. He only shows us the lovelies. But I read his work and it's nowhere near the quality of Dunnett or even Tolkien. It doesn't dig into my ribs and soul.
His words are lovely at times, but his characters feel like ciphers mere metaphors for a thematic story told in poetic verse.
Most of the books I've read, I barely remember. Some not at all. Quite a few I've read that I can't remember anything about except that I read them. Others I will remember a few moments here and there. I think my memory of a book may depend on how vividly I've seen the story play out in my head? Or how deeply it resonated with me on some level. I will admit that I remember the novels of Gaiman's that I've read far better than others. I remember Pamela Dean's Tam Lin vividly, and I read it about six years ago? Maybe more? But I can't remember about thirty of the novels I've read in the past year, which I think I enjoyed more. So there's something to be said for that. While, I remember small vague bits and pieces of John M. Ford's The Last Hot Time. If that's the title, can't quite recall even that. While Gaiman's Neverwhere, American Gods, and Ocean at the Land are still fairly clear in my memory.
Still none as clear as say Dorothy Dunnett's Chronicles of Lymond, which I've held onto because I'd like to re-read. Or the Austen novels. Or Herbert's Dune....
I always found it interesting that I forgot the Harry Potter novels soon after I read them. Loved them, forgot them, didn't feel a need to re-read. While...Philip K. Pullman's His Dark Materials seem to reside in my consciousness for eternity. As too, does Harriet the Spy, Witches of Worm, The Hobbit, and the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - White Gold Welder.
I don't know why one story sticks and another does not. I can't remember anything I read by Garcia Marquez -- who I adored. A Hundred Years of Solitude, which I inhaled over the course of a summer in college, and desperately wanted to write my senior thesis on, I can't remember a word of now. It's as if I never read it. But I remember The Great Gatsby, which I read in high school -- granted I wrote an essay on it in high school and watched the Robert Redford film. I did not like The Great Gatsby.
While I had loved A Hundred Years of Solitude. Also, it should be mentioned that I can remember American Psycho, which I despised, but not one syllable of A Hundred Years...why?
My memory makes no sense to me.
Eh, this wasn't supposed to be about that. But it is. Hmm.
3. Finished Sins of the Wicked Duke -- the book about the down-on-her luck six foot maid posing as a footman in a Duke's residence. I was disappointed by it. The first half of the book is quite good. The second half...sort of derails into "oh I want her so much, I can't control myself" and "oh I want him so much, I can't resist his advances" and I'm rolling my eyes and wanting to kick the writer and editors of the thing. Genre books are notorious for their poor editing. It's as if the editors don't even care...and put all their effort into the literary efforts. (Note - the literary efforts don't require as much editing...or shouldn't.)
Instead of building on the relationships between the leads and the supporting characters, along with the whole woman posing as a footman and then a valet...which is a big deal for a footman, the writer went the erotic route. The least interesting and most cliche path.
I was horribly disappointed in it.
That said, I did like the overall theme which is about letting bygones be bygones. Or forgiving in order to move on with your own life and not let the past destroy you. Both characters need to let go of past transgressions in order to live a happy life. I sort of liked that bit. And got something from the book. Also it is an easy book to read on very noisy subways. Last night, a man insisted on playing a video on his phone so everyone on the subway could hear it. And a woman was talking very loudly on her cell next to him. (Subways were far more pleasant before the invention of the smartphone.)