nothing like snuggling up and reading a book

I have made two really awesome conclusions tonight.

Conslusion one: I need to buy another blanket. I've always loved the one we have on our bed. It's the perfect amount of coziness and simplicity, but at this time of year, I'm exhausted by dragging it's coziness back and forth to the couch. I've resisted buying another one thus far because I just don't use it the other half of the year, but I think after this evening I am giving in...

Conclusion two: No more buying books for me until I actually finish at least three of the novels I have hiding in the closet. Don't ask me how I've accumulated this many books in Hawaii, especially considering I don't have a bookshelf, but I can't possibly consider getting more without eliminating at least a few. Some of them are buys and some I've just plain accumulated, but at this point, I need to pare it down a bit before I can indulge at Barnes and Noble anymore (I still mourn the loss the of Borders...). For the most part, it just requires finishing something I've already started, but I'll man up either way.

lady chatterly's lover

My next literary conquest? D.H. Lawrence.

I found myself helpless in Barnes and Noble last week, mainly because I justified any purchases as a reward for having such a productive day off.

In addition to purchasing the memoir of a witty North Carolinian living in NYC (I Totally Meant to Do That), I also thought it about time to venture into some real literature. Thankfully, the more classical literature is fairly cheap. I suppose either because 1)the classics are produced in mass quantities or 2)the authors are no longer alive to care about dividends.



I'm a chapter in and I have zero previous knowledge, but I just knew that it had been banned in the US and UK for years since it's 1928 publication. So there's obvious reasons for interest. Obviously obscenity standards were stricter back then, but still...why ban it?

is it my "overactive imagination" or did this book just suck???

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.

les mis

Among other literary interests, I discovered this evening that I possibly want to undertake Les Miserables.



Where this came from, I don't know. I have strayed from the classics in the last few years. Perhaps I was scarred from the multiple times I was assigned A Tale of Two Cities. (I believe it was a total of three times, and I don't believe I actually ever finished it.) I also have expanded my interests since I graduated. Nonfiction, memoirs, biographies...nothing is safe from my grasp.

Obviously we've all heard of the musical version, but I just feel as though I need a challenge. Maybe this is it. Or maybe I'll change my mind. My to-read list is long enough as it is.

my name is nuwanda

Given the economic status of today, figuring out how to find a fulfilling and profitable career is showing to be quite the dilemma for a lot of my educated friends. Many of them resort to a job outside their degree in order to pay bills. They're unhappy. Their intellectual potential is left untapped. I happen to be one of these individuals. Teaching wasn't possible in Michigan. An English major can be useful if you know the right people, but also vague if you don't. Scholastic achievement doesn't factor in as much as it used to when you're dealing with competition that has connections. This is old news.

One of my favorite movies is Dead Poet's Society.



Before I actually saw it, I never gave the title much thought. I don't know why. The title should have naturally appealed to me. When I finally viewed it, I fell in love. It invokes every reason I became an English major. Although it's obviously a movie, and therefore fictional, the passion that is displayed by so many characters is exactly what I have experienced so many times. It can be real.

I have had the privilege of being academically capable of excelling in every area of curriculum throughout my education. Perhaps I'm spoiled. I could have been a physical therapist (although not a doctor, I don't think I was ever equipped with the necessary patience or tenacity) like I started out to be, but the passion was never there. Chemistry isn't inspiring, at least not to me. Words, literature, English, language, music, humor, romance, passion...that is what life is made of.

These are my inclinations. And they always have been. However, these inclinations don't exactly draw the job offers or the moulah. So here lies the dilemma. I could be John Keating. I could be Mr. Brandt. It's not the money that necessarily appeals to me. Surely I have made that clear. I only wish to be able to pay my rent and live within my means while still being able to tolerate what I do for a living. My means are not that complicated. If I knew the opportunities were there, if I knew I could live up to my own expectations, I would do it in a second.