I need to get a wii U
Colorado was Wally Lamb’s The Hour I First Believed. And I read it forever ago. This road trip from home has been stalling since I went back to school and got a second job. I will finish though! The next book I had to order online. Couldn’t find it anywhere in a used bookstore and it’s out of print, I think.
I reviewed the book on Goodreads but not well. I’ve been quite lazy. I will say for this book that it was perfect to read in public. It’s a rather large book and I live in a town riddled with cat-callers who think that they are showering women with compliments. However, while reading this book I walked around my neighborhood and men said “good evening” and held doors for me. Maybe they treated me nicely because I was displaying signs of literacy. Maybe they were afraid I would hit them over the head with a hefty novel. I’m not sure. Anyway, I hate to hate on a book that was well researched and was about PTSD and Columbine. I mean, that’s ambitious stuff. I found though that the MC was annoying. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed how much I didn’t like him if it hadn’t been so long, but alas, it was so long.
This is what I wrote on Goodreads: ”
|“That was at least 400 pages longer than it needed to be. Economy, Wally, economy. It was alright, but for a 700 plus page time investment, I’m going to need more than alright.”|
California…I’ll keep this short because it’s quite a negative review and I don’t like to be negative. Or maybe I do like to be negative and that is why I have to strive to be otherwise.
So I hear that Inherent Vice is Thomas Pynchon’s most accessible work. I’m not surprised; the guy has his own et of Wiki page, I’m glad then, that I chose this as my first and last little road trip into his brand of morally bankrupt insanity, I don’t think that I was the target audience for this book, and not just because I’m not fond of detective stories. When I read works that are a explicit a this one, I wonder why I don’t just stick to YA lit for the rest of eternity. I’m sad though, because I really wanted to like Pynchon. Gravity’s Rainbow was on my “to read” list.
Speaking of that list. It’s getting out of control. I’ve read 48 books o far this year. Only 6 have been off of this American lit tour list. That’s right. I’ve already read Colorado too. I’m just a terrible updater. Also, I can’t get my hands on a copy of The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit for Connecticut just yet, so I’ve skipped all the way and started Wisconsin. So far, I’m loving The Art of Fielding. I’m telling you this now because I don’t want you to get the impression that I hate everything I read. However, in my next post, I don’t have a lot of high praise for Wally Lamb.
A good 5 AM read. What else do you ask yourself at 5AM?
I was speaking at a local high school about writing. Afterward, a girl came up to me with a notebook of handwritten poems. She showed them to me shyly and asked,
“Are they good enough?”
I didn’t need to read them to know that they were good enough. She was fifteen. She had a dream. While her friends were playing violent video games and getting pregnant, she was writing poetry. That’s good enough for me.
“They are wonderful,” I said.
I am not sure we were talking about the same thing.
It’s a big question for a writer: am I good enough?
Am I good enough to get published? To get reviewed? To win an award? To make money? To come out in hardcover? To move people to tears? To win the respect of my older brother who said I would never make it?
I advise English majors. Every so…
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I’ve not read any Murakami at all, but I love this blog post.
ac·a·dem·ic: adjective a-kə-ˈde-mik having no practical importance; not involving or relating to anything real or practical.
Currently, I have three seniors on track to certify as secondary English teachers doing extended field experiences in local schools—one is placed in an eighth-grade ELA class and another is teaching college-bound students in a high school.
While observing at the middle school, I arrived early one day while the full-time teacher was finishing a discussion of Walter Dean Myers’s Monster. The teacher had to cut the read aloud short, and one student begged for him to continue reading. The teacher asked for the books to be passed forward, prompting that same student to ask to hold on to his copy so he could keep reading (the teacher arranged for the student to retrieve a copy later, by the way).
In the high school class, the teacher-to-be has been teaching poetry by…
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I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
“Among my associates, there were no takers.”- Maya Angelou on finding a boyfriend.
I loved this book. It was like poetry. Maybe I loved it more because I found a recording of Maya Angelou, herself reading it. I loved especially her descriptions of her brother, Bailey. There were sections, such as this section, that I thought should be read in middle school classrooms. Then there were other sections that I wasn’t so sure about but I guess it would be okay because I read The House on Mango Street in the eighth grade without any issue as to the content. Well, that’s not entirely true. I read the rape scene out loud to the entire class without knowing the girl had been raped. Sure, I knew something bad had happened. I knew they hurt her and I knew they touched her in inappropriate ways but I read it to the class like I was reading a new list of vocabulary words. I didn’t pause or stop or anything. For some reason, it weirded the teacher out. She asked me to stay after class. When she asked me if I understood what I read I said yes. I thought I’d be in trouble or she’d think me stupid if I said otherwise but as she talked to me I realized that more happened to the girl than I’d originally assumed. Anyway, that book comes later in my vicarious journey.
I found that I related well to the young Maya, which was refreshing since I’ve been reading so much YA lit recently for a class and I cannot relate to any of the characters in the books on the syllabus. Gemma from Smack is hopelessly stupid and obnoxious. Devon Davenport from After seems like a character that could not possibly exist although I laud the author’s good intentions. Infanticide, especially by distraught young mothers is a confusing topic that someone needs to shed some light on. Maya was a real character though. I know there’s a bit of an advantage here in that she’s also autobiographical but she was so heartbreakingly honest about her faults that it was impossible not to love her and relate to her. She was certainly a thousand times more courageous that I could ever be but I knew all to well her not so altruistic quest to be “good” and her insecurities that she allowed to pollute her notions of good and evil. The writing was vulnerable and that’s what made it real and alluring.
My only complaint would be that it ended so abruptly and that it ended at all.
Next on the list is California with Inherent Vice. I’m not super psyched about this one so who knows when I’ll get around to it with all the other YA and Gothic reading on my list. Also, I’ve committed myself to reading David Copperfield. I do not remember quite why but I shook hands on it on a subway platform in Mexico City. So, it must have been of the utmost importance to the development of my character. With all of that though. I’m beginning to question whether or not I will make it in 4.16 years. Things were looking well in January, but now, as March draws to a close, I’ve only finished with the “A” states. Maybe I won’t go in order. Maybe the next letter will not be “C”. I don’t want to read Inherent Vice right now. I suppose I could jump to “W” then jump back to “C” and end somewhere in the middle. That actually sounds good. I’d be quite content with Reservation Blues. I like Sherman Alexie and I’ve been meaning to get to this one. I just recently read his YA novel The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. I didn’t find it as good as his adult stuff. I don’t know why Flight isn’t considered YA but it was pretty amazing. I liked it better. Reservation Blues has been on my list for awhile. I do feel like going out of order might be cheating so I’ll leave it up to fate, and my library’s pathetic collection. I’ll see which one they have after work today. I have no reason to believe they’ll have both because well, it’s a terrible library but they just might have one.
I’m not really sure Why I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings counted as Arkansas. A great deal of it was not set there. Oh well. Perhaps that’s all Arkansas really has in the way of literature set there. That was a challenge Arkansas.
“Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”- Maya Angelou describing her mother
I’m way behind. I finished the Arizona book before 2014 and I’m just now getting around to saying something about it. I can tell that the author didn’t do his research on Catholicism or synesthesia, so I can only assume that his research on borders and drug cartels is also sub par. It was violent raunchy and crass. Can I say I was just grossed out? Because a lot of the time I was just grossed out, and not by the gore which there was some but by the middle-aged sex scene in a Marian Shrine. I guess it shouldn’t matter that they were middle-aged because that’s ageism or whatever but it did. I think I expected some reverence or at least some decorum from people of that age.
A lot of necessary Spanish was not translated. Some of it was but if he meant to write this book to be read by people who speak English you’ve got to translate other languages. If I hadn’t been reading on a Kindle there’s a lot I wouldn’t have been able to look up, as I do not have a Spanish-English dictionary tied to my waist. I get that the story jumping back and forth was clever due to the border issue. Honestly though, Tolstoy is a great enough writer to do that and hold my interest. I’ve completely lost interest in Caputo’s characters the moment I leave them and I don’t care if I ever come back to them again. The main guy, whose name escapes me (that says something maybe it was Gil) is barely a character at all. I’m supposed to sympathize with him throughout the story but getting to know him is like surviving on plain graham crackers. The guy’s got less personality than Qui Gon Jin did in the prequitrilogy. (Can we start calling it that?) The guy goes fairly quickly from being somewhat sad to suicidal to going out hunting to having sex with a cowgirl. I just wasn’t following it and frankly I didn’t believe it. I didn’t feel any of his feelings. You could say that I couldn’t understand the loss he’d gone through (from the beginning the reader knows that his wife died in the 9-11 attack) and that seems like a fair thing to say. I can’t imagine the emotions that would ensue after losing someone in a terrorist attack. However, I started reading “The Goldfinch” (even though it’s not on the list..I needed a break) and Donna Tartt is doing her best to make me understand exactly how it feels. The MC’s feelings of loss in Tartt’s writing are thick and palpable. It’s more than a bit depressing. Caputo makes me understand none of it. The storyline worked well. Things came together in a more or less clever resolution that made sense and even made a statement about the far reaching consequences of sin and revenge, but after reading that shrine sex scene, I’ve completely lost any respect I might have otherwise mustered up for this novel. I simply could not care about the fates of any of the characters.
Next on the list is Arkansas. That is “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou. The library did not have a print copy, which feels like a travesty but I’ve been listening to it instead of reading it because it’s actually read by Miss Angelou herself. Her prose is rich like poetry and I feel like it’s meant to be heard anyway, besides how can you understand a work better than by letting the author read it to you in their own voice and perhaps more importantly, in their own cadence.