As an unabashed bookworm I am inevitably prone to hold different standards as far as the kind of books I read. Although I embrace recommendations (sometimes it's just hard to keep an open mind while browsing aisles and aisles of the literary universe. As inane as it may sound to warn against judging a book by it's cover, that is exactly what happens.) I always evaluate where that recommendation came from. If you're telling me that The Notebook is your favorite book I'm clearly not going to take anything else you say seriously. However, I have a love/hate kinda thing for chick lit. I guess you could consider it one of my guilty pleasures. I'm not talking Harlequin romances or that torturous drivel from Mr. Sparks, but somewhat decently well-written, clever but not too clever, predictable in it's seeming unpredictability chick lit. Not a romance novel, but a novel in which a strong modern woman overcomes outstanding obstacles and manages to find love while still maintaining her independence. Obviously I recognize the lack of certain redeeming qualities. And it never fulfills my ambitions in an intellectual sense, but sometimes you're looking for something that reads a little easier than Tess D'Ubervilles.
I've learned to curb my love affair with buying books as I get older, so I got a library card. And I only allow myself to go into bookstores when I'm absolutely poor. As snobby as I get about library books, I still force myself to do the sensible thing. I try not to think about the lack of that fresh paper smell or the thought of how many unknown individuals have molested those public pages. I pretend not to hear the crinkle of the cellophane-like protective covering or see the mysterious brown splotch on page 173 (is it blood? A-1? chocolate?). Instead I focus on the reading. I focus on the words.
Recently I stopped by the library here in Kailua in the later afternoon after some chores in town. After a few brief minutes of browsing I heard them announce they'd be closing in 10 minutes. WTF? The library closes at 5? What's that about? My library back in MI (forever known as the greatest library in the world) closed at 8 or 9. I know banks that stay open later than 5. Also, why hadn't I been informed upon entering? I frantically started perusing the spines of the books. (I'd say I was perusing the titles, but that's not all I take in. The script used and the integrity of the spine also factor in to the book selection. They'll tell you a lot about the book before even picking it up. Now, this is not intentionally done. It's more a subconscious judgment.) I managed to pick two books out, the last one quite spontaneously, just as I heard that the circulation desk was now closed. Closed? I still had 5 minutes and now they claim it's closed without warning? I spotted a lady still left in line so I snuck in hoping they'd accept me as well. And they did.
Unfortunately I could have used a few more minutes for my book selection. The last book I had chosen was not even readable. I tried, I swear, but I couldn't. And then there was the chick lit. It was by the same author as Bridget Jones' Diary (Helen Fielding), so I figured it was a safe bet. Not that BJD is Pulitzer worthy, but at least you know what you're working with. While it fell under the readable category, it was painful. Word of wise to aspiring novelists out there, try not to make your antagonist irritating as shit. Also, while character development flaws may occur, try not to have them conflict with major themes of the book. For instance, the heroine was known as being paranoid to the nth degree, like carrying a hatpin on her at all times to defend against assailants, yet despite her "overactive imagination" she didn't hesitate one second before taking a swig from a bottle of tequila given to her by recent acquaintances on a remote island in the middle of the Pacific. Really? I'm not the most paranoid individual and I wouldn't dare. Just dumb. I'm not going to say Fielding is riding on her BJD success. Actually, I'm not even sure of the chronological order of her books, but I expected more. While there is little argument that Bridget wasn't aggravating in her own way, she still maintained a level of lovableness. While I wanted to strangle her, it was merely to awaken herself to her own idiocy, not to cause death. Oh well, perhaps I should embark on an actual piece of literature next time. It will be a welcome change.
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