Whenever I decide to take a break from blogging, I would aim to make my last post a good one. Instead, I leave you with a picture of Michael Dudikoff. Unforgivable. Despicable.
But I’ve got a legitimate alibi for my 5-day hiatus: I was reading… and that’s all I wanted to do. This week was unusual. Ordinarily, I try to limit my library excursions to one trip a week (don’t want to seem too nerdy), but this week, I ventured out twice in a three day interval. I began the week with a big stack of novels of which I completed only one book and abandoned the rest. That’s a typical situation; for every book that I do read from beginning to end, I abandon five for various reasons (pretentious writing, slow pace, annoying characters, etc…). Since it dawned on me somewhere in college that life is too short to read bad literature, I no longer feel obliged to read on if I’m not captivated by the first 50 pages. So actually reading a book to completion is kind of like an American Idol audition in which I shuffle through all the bad ones before I find a handful of good ones.
After I completed my one ‘good book’ of the week— Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson—I began to get antsy for something else to read. Faced with the bleak prospect of a day without a book, I had to make a second trip to the library and bought home the following:
1. Witch Child by Celia Rees
2. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
3. Peaches by Jodi Lynn Anderson
4. Anne of Avonlea by Lucy Maud Montgomery
5. Looking for Alaska by John Green
I’ve finished Witch Child (Wonderful! Expect a review or something like a review to come…) and am currently in the middle of The Book Thief (I’m lovin’ this one too).
I know what you’re thinking: I raided the YA section. YA novels are all I’ve felt like reading lately. As recently as last month, I’ve developed an immense respect for YA authors in that they work just as hard as the more celebrated literary authors but get about half the recognition and none of the applause. I’ve discovered that I’m more likely to read a YA novel to completion than an adult novel. I guess I miss books in which the language is invisible and the story takes over. As of late, I’ve been rather frustrated by the sheer amount of novels with such ornate language that the language itself becomes an elephant in the room. You can’t help but notice it and its very conspicuousness hinders the story. There’s something beautiful about a simple sentence and saying what you really mean.
I could write an entire essay on my opinions of good books vs. bad books, good writing vs. god awful writing, etc… But I’ll spare you, for now…