Or so I hope. I just registered with Goodreads today, a site that allows you to log and track the books you're reading. Their tag line is "It's what your friends are reading!" Not sure about that, but hang on, it gets better. Like Twitter, you can start following other users. The bonus here is that you can get recommendations for books to read from them and share your favorites.
I'm going to be perfectly frank with you. I have a baby in the house so not much reading is getting done. Unless you count Green Eggs and Ham, that book is getting plenty of play. This is my plan: sign up and feel inspired to actually sit down and read. Or the flip side: remember that I have a burgeoning list of to-read books and want to check them off the list. Let's face it, checking things off lists is pretty awesome. So I'll check in with Goodreads, my reading parole officer, tell her (I don't know why she's a her, she just is, okay?) how good I've been doing, getting my chapters done, not caving in and turning on the TV. And she'll pat me on the head and let me continue to roam the streets without an ankle bracelet.
I love the site design so much I keep finding excuses to go back and browse around some more. It's like Barnes and Noble but without that weird stalkery guy following you around. Okay, he probably is, but he's less noticeable. The only downside is that I just joined so I have, like, no friends recommending books. It's sad. So come join Goodreads, befriend me, and tell me what I should be reading!
I don't know when it started, probably in my junior high drafting class. Something about those drafting tables and T-squares and the wonderful smell of the saw dust from woodworking class. I'd sit down at that drafting table, take up my rectangular pencil, and just feel a wave of calm wash over me. The residual? I now suffer from a blueprint fetish. All those intricate, perfect intersections and cryptic symbols just get to me. Don't you just love the resoluteness of it? This goes here and that goes there. Symmetrical, articulate beauty where everything has a place and a purpose.
My husband is working on the new LAPD headquarters right now and brought home some prints to work on. He even has special stencils! SPECIAL STENCILS!
I can't be the only person with such an arbitrary, seemingly random turn on, can I?
Robert Wilson was back at LA Opera AGAIN, doing his same, tired, played-out pantomime Butterfly, AGAIN. Just a thought, if you don't give Butterfly any props and she kills herself with an invisible samurai sword, it leaves a lot to the imagination. Did she eat some bad sushi? Is she doing the worm?
The highlight of the evening was the scrim getting stuck.
Coming to a bookflap near you! Maybe. OK, probably not but I have a pic already ready already.
Well today is November 1st: the day looming on my horizon, filling me with dread and panic. No, not 3 days until election day, it's NaNoWriMo kickoff day! NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. You basically sign up and attempt to write a 50,000-page (or more) novel in 30 days. It's like an ultramarathon, but for nerds who don't like sunlight. I've been seriously debating about doing it for the past few weeks? months? It feels like years but I know it can't be.
Part of me feels ready. I mean, I even have the pissed-off, scornful writer look nailed:
So 50,000 words breaks down to about 1666 words a day. Do you need more proof that Satan's hand is at work in this scheme? But 1666 seems like a plausible, doable amount, right? Just for kicks (cough*rather than actually committing to it by signing up), I thought I'd do a trial run today and just type and type and see where my word count went. I'm a transcriptionist by trade so the typing SPEED part isn't really a problem, it's the, um, the contenty part that I'm more worried about. So here's what happened:
It will be titled The Purpose of Being Extremely Beautiful After Sunset. I was looking through the Costco Connections magazine (true story) and I took chunks out of all the titles on the Book page and I fashioned it, ala Frankenstein, so it's awesomesauce already. Seeing as how I already have a title, it simply has to just start flowing now. I can feel it. Oh, on second thought maybe that’s just lunch. How hard can writing 1666 words a day be? How many words a day do I waste on Twitter? It has to be several hundred at least, maybe a thousand, if you combine the written and the erased tweets. "But wait, I don’t even LIKE novels. Isn’t that like a surgeon who hates blood? Maybe that's a prerequisite to being a novel writer? A fiction writer who loathes fiction is pretty silly. New novels, I must correct myself here, I hate new novels. I don’t mild old, crusty tomes from the library. In fact, I particularly adore the well-worn classics with mystery scraps and notes tucked in between the pages and highlighted phrases, turned down corners. I love a book that looks handled, misused even, gives it that human touch. It says “I’ve been read on the toilet, I’ve been read by someone whose naked.” Who is? Whose? See I shouldn’t even have access to Word, let alone write a damn novel if I can’t figure that kind of crap out. Who was? Gah!
So what to write, what to write? I know! I’ll go ask the rubber ducky, just like that insufferable cheerful yoga woman on the Internet says to do. (I walk into the bathroom and peer around for one of the baby’s duckies.)
“Come here you fat bastard and tell me what to write about.” The little yellow duck stares at me mutely. I speak deliberately slow and loud, like you’d talk to a foreigner or an old person. “I don’t know what to write about. What is a good topic for a novel?” He smiles broadly at me, saying nothing. His blank smile of happiness is beginning to appear ironically mocking. “A NOVEL. Do ducks have novels? A book with made-up characters, has a plot, sometimes good …” Still nothing. “Fuck a duck! I’m SO not awfully fond of you.” As I throw him back into the tub, hard, he emits a squeak on impact. “Oh sure, now you’re all chatty. You had your chance to help me but you blew it so guess what, now you’re getting the cold shoulder, just like everyone else in this house does. You think because you’re made in China you’re above the law of the land? Hell no.”
At which point I begin I turn my back on arguing with an inanimate object, and begin arguing with the voice in my head. Tonight the part of Voice 1 will be played by my arch rival bitch nemesis, Contrastina:
Voice 1: Think, think, think. Okay hypothetically, if you even liked to read novels, what kind of novel would you like to read? Voice 2: Well it would have to have sex, great clothes, betrayal, abject sadness, laugh-out-loud funny, and maybe a twist at the end? Did I mention sex? Okay that’s good, that would be good…. Voice 1: Well you’re supposed to write about what you know. I'm not so sure you know enough about any of that to make a book. So what DO you know? Voice 2: Hmm, I know about babies … kind of, and medical stuff … sort of, and relationships … kind of/sort of. Voice 1: Wow, you’re really inspiring there, don’t go crazy from excitement. Maybe if you can’t even formulate a broad idea, novel author is a bit of a stretch for you at this point. Or should I say “It’s a bit novel?” Ahahaha! Voice 2: Shut up voice in my head, you’re worse than the fucking mime duck! Voice 1: You know if you fill it with characters from real life they’ll totally know you’re talking about them, right? Voice 2: Well I can always just alter them, can’t I? A few name changes? Sex changes? They’ll be none the wiser. Voice 1: You can try it and see if you alienate key people. It’s a gamble but you seem crazy that way. Voice 2: Maybe they deserve to be alienated? Hey wait, I can make YOU, the voice in my head, a whole nother character, so piss off. I can have your character killed. I can give your character bad skin and an overbite. Ever thought about that?
Silence. The line goes dead. Oh noes, I killed the voice in my head! Who is (definitely a who is right there) going to write my novel for me now?! Ducky? Where are ya lil buddy? What I said before, I didn't mean it.
