84, Charing Cross Road

It is with a great sense of satisfaction that I hold in my hand the paperback I just finished reading. I know it's a small book, and a quick read. Furthermore, I had to read it for a class- but Heaven knows that there have been plenty of books that I've had to read for classes that I only "kinda" read and then supplemented with the film version.

I like to read- I don't know why I don't spend more time doing it. I used to read all the time as a kid and a preteen. Sometimes I think it would have been nice to have taken two years off from college and done nothing but go to the library and raid it. I'd read from all different kinds of genres and sections; I'd check out all different kinds of music too- go through every classical CD on the shelf, listen to every Beatles song ever recorded- wade through the whiney saxophone jazz to get to the really good stuff. I'd bring home old movies, and I'd write every day. And from the books I'd bring home I'd teach myself history, art, and gardening.

I almost feel strangely guilty these days when I think about reading a book that I just want to read. I feel like there's something else I probably should be doing instead. And when I actually do take a rest from school assignments and work, I find myself dosing off after a few pages. I curl up with the book, start to read, put the book down-just for a minute- and two hours later I wake up. Sigh.

About the book I read today: I've always wondered if I was some kind of freak in the English Department because I'm not a real big fiction reader. I love kid's books and young adult novels. I'm a big fan of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries and Jane Austen's writings. But I've never opened the cover of a Harry Potter book, for example (unless it was the back cover to scan the barcode and check it in). I've read a lot of fiction "Classics" in my literature classes, but most of them I read and never think about again. Right now I'm doing "The Grapes of Wrath" -- and I'll admit it, I'm getting bored. Even though Steinbeck went to a great deal of trouble and research in writing this book, his characters aren't that real to me; I don't really sympathize too strongly with his crass Joad family. And the detail- although it's amazing well-written - has lost its thrill for me. Get on with it, already! The book I just finished, however, I'm sure I will read again, and actually think about it in my life. "84, Charing Cross Road" by Helene Hanff. What a great read. The book is a series of letters between an American writer (Helene) and a British bookseller, Frank Doel. I think Helene describes my real problem with popular fiction in one of her letters, "I never can get interested in things that didn't happen to people who never lived."

Fact is stranger than fiction anyway. And less predictable. Generally speaking, I'm a much better writer of stories based on life. Maybe because it interests me more. Adult fiction just isn't as good as children's fiction, or young adult fiction; it's far less imaginative too. Adult fiction usually can fit in one of three categories: sappy/sleazy romance, violent/gory murder, or elf-infested fantasy. No wonder I'm not wild about it. Ah, well. Enough for now. I just had to celebrate "The Finishing of The Book" if nothing else to remember how good it feels to do it.

In the Beginning...

As an English major, I am pursing a degree in a department that perhaps has the distinction of boasting graduates who can produce more baloney in oral or written form, than graduates in any other field of study. Don't get me wrong, I love English. But I also understand how ridiculous people in my area can be. There is nothing worse than the agony of sitting in an upper-division English class, listening to some brown-nosing student go on about the apparent symbolism in the novel you are reading.

"The yellow tie," they will begin to explain, "represents the regrets that hang about his neck for his lost childhood." English students and professors are notorious for finding the "deeper meanings" in a text, that may or may not actually exsist. The freshman student will be sitting in one of these classes and start to question their adequacy, terrified, thoughts will come to their head like, "Am I just plain stupid? I never would have seen that in this book- maybe I don't belong at the University- the yellow tie stands for what? I wonder if that will be on the Final."

The student who is making the comment- if they buy into it, and like making up that kind of rubbish, will probably pursue the college teaching route (someday I may eat crow for that). If however, you thoughtfully reach the conclusion that this is balderdash, your writing career looks bright. Then college-age students across the country can read your book and overanalyze the symbolism, hidden motivations of characters, the obvious Oedipus complex in your leading man, and the political agenda you, the author, were trying to push.

Ah yes, it's a great major- and if anyone ever says it isn't, at least you can effectively use clever language and five-dollar words to develop a clear arguement with a strong thesis supported by at least three main points!