Published! "Mother's Love"

I've made it my goal to get my work published. I've been working hard compiling and organizing my writing, which includes poetry, prose, and creative non-fiction.

I am so pleased to announce that one of my pieces has been published through Lacuna Loft's blog. I know I've mentioned this organization before, and I will keep on linking and mentioning it as it has become a very important part of my life.

Anyway, I've been submitting my work for a few weeks now, across various platforms, and I am very proud to say that the first piece to be published is a personal essay called Mother's Love.

Please take a look and share with your friends and your family.

Hopefully soon I'll have more published works to share!

Original Creative Piece: Sometimes

Sometimes, there are so many words inside of my head, I feel like I might explode. I have poems, and stories, vivid memories and hazy images, all scrambling to escape.

Sometimes, those words hit my soul.

Ocean.

Water.

Waves.

Salt.

Floating. Adrift. Endless.

Sometimes, I write about the sea

Sometimes, I don't know how to say what I want to say.

Honest? Hurtful? Unfiltered? Blunt? Brutal?

Softened? Eased? Semi-true?

I don't know where my inspiration comes from. My Rockstar Neurosurgeon has been inside my head. Has he met my Muse? Does he know where the ideas hide? Where they develop? How they are born?

Sometimes, the words burn inside of me. An inferno of rage. A conflagration consuming me from deep inside.

Hot.

Hateful.

Unkind.

The worst parts, burned beyond ugliness. Too charred to share.

Sometimes, the thoughts fly out of my head. Too jumbled, bursting forth like starlings flying together and apart as if of one mind. Flying is better than falling. Few things are better than flying. Flying is freedom. Falling is inevitable. Falling is fate, for all of us, eventually.

Sometimes, the words are the most important thing in the world.

Sometimes, they are just words.

Fave Quote of the Book: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Amazon link:

One of the twentieth century's enduring works, One Hundred Years of Solitude is a widely beloved and acclaimed novel known throughout the world and the ultimate achievement in a Nobel Prize-winning career.

The novel tells the story of the rise and fall of the mythical town of Macondo through the history of the Buendía family. Rich and brilliant, it is a chronicle of life, death, and the tragicomedy of humankind. In the beautiful, ridiculous, and tawdry story of the Buendía family, one sees all of humanity, just as in the history, myths, growth, and decay of Macondo, one sees all of Latin America.

Love and lust, war and revolution, riches and poverty, youth and senility, the variety of life, the endlessness of death, the search for peace and truth -- these universal themes dominate the novel. Alternately reverential and comical, One Hundred Years of Solitude weaves the political, personal, and spiritual to bring a new consciousness to storytelling. Translated into dozens of languages, this stunning work is no less than an account of the history of the human race.

I've read this book before, and only recently finished it. I don't know if I struggled with it because my brains have been poked and prodded, or because my memory sucks, or because this is just a tough book, but it takes place over the course of a literal hundred years, and many of the characters have the same names across generations. Aureliano Buendía and the 17 (literally 17) other Aurelianos over the years made this book a challenge for me this time around, but even though I found it challenging, I loved it. Gabriel García Marquez is the king of magical realism, and he gives the reader no chance to figure out which way is up before someone inexplicably floats away, someone else goes blind and nobody notices, and for no discernible reason, it rains for more than four years.

The version I read was translated by Gregory Rabassa, and he did an incredible job of keeping the lyrical prose and the poetry embedded in the plot with chapters that enveloped me in beautiful words and sentences like a warm blanket.

My favorite quote from this book, when a group of men are traveling through a dense jungle:

"The men on the expedition felt overwhelmed by their most ancient memories in that paradise of dampness and silence, going back to before original sin . . . For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief" (Garcia Marquez 11).

A universe of grief. My God, how beautiful is that?

I imagine the all-encompassing silence in this dense jungle. I remember the days after my diagnosis. After the sobbing, after the hysterics, the panic and fear. The stillness in the house. I felt like I was silently drowning in my sorrow. Shattered to pieces, scattered all over the floor. Days merged into nights, and still I cried until I was all dried up inside.

The men in this chapter are overwhelmed by ancient memories, and I was overwhelmed with ancient traumas from my youth rising to the surface unexpectedly. Old hurts mixed with the new, perhaps as a reminder we are made of all the pieces of our pasts, whether we like it or not. They say that the present is a gift, but if I may be so crude, sometimes, it is a shitty gift, the kind where you paste on a fake smile and hope nobody notices the disappointment in your eyes.

This universe of grief still overwhelms me. I mourn the many things I have lost, from the piece of bone in my skull to the ability to actively engage in large groups of people without debilitating anxiety. I grieve for all of these lost things, but none of that grief can be expressed as beautifully as GGM did. Read this book. It is beautiful and it is weird, and it is worth every page.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Adams!

Today is Douglas Adams' birthday!

You may or may not remember, but The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is my favorite book.

When I am feeling sad, or unsettled, lost, or just not right, I can pick up this book and open it to literally any page and start reading. It doesn't matter where I end up, it's always a good part of the story.

I am very pleased to say that recently, The Husband started reading this book. Now, bear in mind, this book, which is very important to me, is almost 800 pages long. I know that The Husband must like me at least a little, because it is quite a commitment to read someone else's favorite 800-page book. Meanwhile, every few nights, I glance over at his kindle and read over his shoulder for a few minutes. I can't say if he will love this book as much as I do, but I can say that it makes me feel even more loved that he is reading this special story for me. The occasional snicker I hear while he is reading fills my heart with even more love for this book AND this man.

I've had some people posit to me that this book is not actually very well-written. I ignore those people. Yes, I do teach Composition and occasionally Literature at the community college, but that doesn't mean that I am restricted to only reading capital-L Literature. I don't care if this book is not Literature. This story fills my heart, and any opportunity I have to share it brings more love and laughter to my life.

Dearest Husband of mine, I only hope that as you continue working your way through this monster of a book, that you continue having fun with it. That's really the point, right?

So, that's it. I bow my heavily-scarred head to you, Mr. Adams, and thank you for all of the joy, past, present, and future, your story has brought to my life. Happy birthday!

Fave Quote of the Book: So Long and Thanks for All the Fish

 My favorite book (counting it as one because I have it as one complete and ultimate anthology) is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I own at least 2 and possibly as many as 6 different copies/versions. There's the copy I read:

 But there is also the leather-bound copy with gilded edges. The paperback radio-script. The movie. The BBC miniseries (on Prime). All twelve episodes of the radio play. And most recently, this:

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams

Amazon Link

Now, why would I need a copy of just book 4 of the trilogy?

Before I answer that, let me tell you a story. Back before The Husband was The Husband, he worked at a bookstore. Dangerous place to get a paycheck if you are me, but luckily (I suppose) I did not work at that bookstore. But oh how I loved that bookstore. And I found out that people who work at these type of bookstores have access to things that I never dreamed of. Rare books. Databases. Dealers.

One day, the not-yet-husband gave me a gift. I don't remember if it was a Christmas gift, or a birthday gift, or a just-because gift, but this gift was a very effective love letter to me. He got me a very rare signed first edition of a book by one of my favorite authors (Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman). When he explained to me what he went through to get this book for me, that was one (of the many) moments that I knew this wonderful man loved me.


Over the years, I have acquired quite a few signed books, as gifts from friends, from The Husband, as lucky finds. It is important that you know that signed books are not for reading. They are for admiring.

What that means is that for every book of which I have a signed copy, I have a reading copy. We don't just go pawing signed books. We look with our eyes, but never touch with our hands.

Now, prepare yourselves. This is gonna get mushy.

I know that every signed book I've gotten from The Husband has been a love letter to me. He knows exactly the way to my heart. My love letter to him is in sharing my favorite books with him. He doesn't have to love them the way that I do, but getting a peek into these beloved books gives him a peek into my soul. Sometimes I feel like this is not enough, but those books make me who I am. Understanding my favorite books means he understands me.

My favorite quote from this specific book (but not from the complete series) is from Wonko the Sane:


Fave quote:
“[T]he reason I call myself by my childhood name is to remind myself that a scientist must also be absolutely like a child. If he sees a thing, he must say that he sees it, whether it was what he thought he was going to see or not. See first, think later, then test. But always see first. Otherwise you will only see what you were expecting” (Adams 587; emphasis added).

Now, I am no scientist (too much math involved) but I love this. Always see first.

When I saw this scribble on the front page of So Long and Thanks for All the Fish, I don't know what I was expecting, but what I saw was yet another love letter from The Husband. I've always wanted something signed by Douglas Adams, but because he died almost 20 years ago, finding and verifying items with his signature is decidedly more difficult than finding signed Neil Gaimans, of which I have three signed items.

Have I mentioned how much I love The Husband? Not just because he knows my love language is books, but because he knows which books, which means he knows me. He sees me.

Fave Quote of the Book: The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

Amazon link:

In Margaret Atwood’s dystopian future, environmental disasters and declining birthrates have led to a Second American Civil War. The result is the rise of the Republic of Gilead, a totalitarian regime that enforces rigid social roles and enslaves the few remaining fertile women. Offred is one of these, a Handmaid bound to produce children for one of Gilead’s commanders. Deprived of her husband, her child, her freedom, and even her own name, Offred clings to her memories and her will to survive. At once a scathing satire, an ominous warning, and a tour de force of narrative suspense, The Handmaid’s Tale is a modern classic.

I've taught this novel in the classroom. The experience of teaching this novel was made even more interesting because this book is easily in my top 10 favorite books of all time. Point of interest: I collect signed books. I've always wanted a signed copy of this book, and interestingly, when I mentioned this in class in the fall of 2017, I failed to be entirely clear with my intent. At the end of that semester, I received a gift from three students: a signed copy of the book.

Let me clarify. This book is not signed by Margaret Atwood. Instead, it was signed by those three students.

"Mrs. Blank,
Coming into college, the impression we all were under was that all college professors sucked and we would be miserable, especially in English. Over the past semester, you have not only been one of the coolest teachers we've had in high school and in college, but you've been one of the best. You've taught us so much but at the same time, we've had a lot of fun. I know myself, Student B, and Student C have been a handful and we appreciate you dealing with all our crap. You said you wanted a signed copy of this book so we went out and got you one. See you around campus, Student A, Student B, and Student C"

The class these boys were in was one that affected me deeply. It was my third year teaching, and this was one of the first classes in my short experience where I discovered that the dynamics of a classroom can make it feel like only a classroom, or the dynamics can make it feel like a real community. This was a class of very smart students with very bright futures, and we laughed, but we also had some very serious conversations. I won't say that this specific group of students was my favorite class I've ever taught, but they sure came close. It was because of these students that I realized that teaching did not have to be painful. I learned as much from those students as I hope they learned from me.

Without further ado, my favorite quote from this book, when the protagonist is speaking privately and illicitly with her Commander in his office: He tells her that the Republic of Gilead is better than what they lived with before. "Better?" The protagonist asks. "How can he think this is better?":

"Better never means better for everyone, he says. It always means worse, for some" (Atwood 211).

This is something that I hadn't thought much about, in general, or specific to this story; nonetheless, when I first read this, I underlined it as something to contemplate. Is this always true? It feels like it is a universal truth, but I am not sure. Is this what life is about: a zero-sum game where some win and some lose?

Those special students of mine expected to be miserable in my class. (Why do so many people hate English class?).

I was able to show them that my class could be better than what they expected, but I am sure, over the years, that there have been enough students whom I was unable to reach.

Even in a book that I have read easily a dozen times, I am still able to share those glimpses of magic, those moments when the world between the pages grabs at you and refuses to let go.

Fave Quote of the Book: Disobedience by Naomi Alderman

Disobedience by Naomi Alderman

Amazon link:

When a young photographer living in New York learns that her estranged father, a well-respected rabbi, has died, she can no longer run away from the truth, and soon sets out for the Orthodox Jewish community in London where she grew up.

Back for the first time in years, Ronit can feel the disapproving eyes of the community. Especially those of her beloved cousin, Dovid, her father’s favorite student and now an admired rabbi himself, and Esti, who was once her only ally in youthful rebelliousness. Now Esti is married to Dovid, and Ronit is shocked by how different they both seem, and how much greater the gulf between them is.

But when old flames reignite and the shocking truth about Ronit and Esti’s relationship is revealed, the past and present converge in this award-winning and critically acclaimed novel about the universality of love and faith, and the strength and sacrifice it takes to fight for what you believe in—even when it means disobedience.

I read this book in one sitting two Christmases ago, before all of this happened. The Husband and I were locked away in a cabin in the middle of the woods with no cell phone signal, no television, and barely enough internet for it to be worth it.

It was wonderful. We spent four days off the grid. I read five or six books in that time. We sat by the fireplace and listened to Frank Sinatra and other jazzy favorites of ours. I really couldn't ask for a better Christmas.

So, without further ado, my favorite quote from this book:

"All things, when measured in spans of years, seem simple. But human lives do not occur in years but slowly, day by day. A year may be easy, but its days are hard indeed" (Alderman 222).

Just a little over a year ago, I put a bookmark* on this page because even then I knew I would want to revisit these sentences. How could I have known how viscerally that quote would hit me today? The true gut punch here is that 2019 was arguably one of the most difficult years of my entire life for a variety of reasons. So many of my days in 2019 involved physical, emotional, spiritual suffering, and I did not know how to get through it. There is a quote attributed to Winston Churchill which some quick Googling tells me is probably misattributed to him, but the quote is still quite relevant: "If you are going through hell, keep going."

Those who know me well know that my stubbornness and spite have gotten me through some truly difficult experiences. For that, I blame inertia. A *me* in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by some outside force. I may not be the fastest in the race, or the smartest in the class, but my stubbornness has carried me along with good strong inertia.

Each day that was oh so difficult last year, regardless of the reason why, was punctuated by a semicolon; this may be a pause in the sentence, but tomorrow I will start again, spiting and stubborning my way through the day. And before I know it, 2019 is over, and we are into a new year (and new deductible, if you feel inclined to donate). I have a feeling that this year will be difficult, but you know what? I've made it through lots of difficult days, which add up to lots of difficult years. Day by day, we carry on.

So it goes.

*A random scrap of paper; bookmarks are for quitters.

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Fin)

I am finally and unfortunately finished with this story. This is the kind of story that I wish I could start again and read it for the first time again. Immediately upon finishing this story, I realized that I would need to rearrange my top 10 favorite books, because this Book of Lost Things was firmly in the top 5. At the ending of this beautiful book, David returns to the land that is not quite like our own to find that it continues to reveal surprises.

"[A] woman appeared. She had dark hair and green eyes. In her arms she held a baby boy, barely out of the womb, who clutched at her blouse as she walked, for a lifetime was but a moment in that place, and each man dreams his own heaven. And in the darkness David closed his eyes, as all that was lost was found again" (Connolly 338-9).

Damn you, John Connolly, for writing a book that brought actual tears to my eyes! It has been quite a long time since a book has made me cry, and every time I re-read these last few sentences, I feel that tingle, as if I were cutting onions.

I don't know if everyone fears death, but I do know that there are only two innate fears that every human is born with: falling, and loud noises (the "acoustic startle reflex"). Do I fear death?

Sometimes.

Sometimes it terrifies the hell out of me. One thing that I struggle with is the unknown (as I am sure is common for many of us). Death being the ultimate unknown is terrifying. But occasionally, every once in a long while, I will find a moment of peace. Was I afraid of being born? What, fundamentally, is the difference?

Unanswerable questions.

Back to The Book of Lost Things: a death like David's seems almost unfair. No pain. No trauma. Just the final literal steps in a journey, only to be greeted by those whom he had loved and lost and found again.

If death is like this, there is nothing to fear. There is nothing but joy and love at the end of the journey. We could spend a lifetime regretting the things we may or may not have done, but regret is meaningless in the end. Regardless of what you do or do not believe in, and regardless of your faith or lack thereof, save the regrets. Instead, spread joy and love where you can.

So.

Instead of regrets, I will try to cherish my memories and my mistakes. Those mistakes have made me who I am today. In the end, I can only hope that sharing joy and love will balance out any mistakes I have made.

Anubis casting judgment in S1 Ep3 of American Gods

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Penultimate)

Towards the end of this story, David has grown old. He married and was widowed. He wrote his story in the book that I hold in my hand now, and he called it The Book of Lost Things. As he did in his childhood, he can hear the books in his room speaking to him; however, unlike his time as a child, he is no longer afraid of the voices.

"[I]n the deepest, darkest hours of the night, David would lie awake and listen. The books had started whispering again, yet he felt no fear. They spoke softly, offering words of comfort and grace" (Connolly 337).

My entire journey with this diagnosis has been one of learning to give myself grace. We are all our own worst critics, and I will be the first to admit that I am no peach, but I have learned the hard way that I need to be more forgiving of myself. I mess things up. I forget things. I drop food on the floor. I trip over nothing, and lose my balance like a drunk sailor even in the stability of my own house. Grace has been a difficult gift to give myself.

Meanwhile, I have more books than I will ever have time to read, The Husband built me three heavy-duty bookshelves with approximately 75 feet of shelf space total, and yet I still have books in my Amazon cart that I plan to order soon.

There was a time when I feared the future. I always said that life is too short for bad books, and I was afraid of there coming a time when I couldn't escape into the worlds contained within those hallowed pages. After brain surgery, I couldn't read; not that I was illiterate, but that I was incapable of maintaining the focus necessary for reading. After my diagnosis, I had an existential crisis. What was the point of reading stories, beautiful, engrossing, dreamlike stories, if there is an expiration date stamped on my brain?

I didn't want to die in the middle of reading a book. I didn't want to leave a story unfinished.

It has taken a lot of time, and a lot of meditation for me to realize that the only thing I can do is keep on keeping on. Inertia is my friend here. I have found myself able to lose myself in books once again (ha! Get it?). I have escaped into worlds unknown and worlds intimately familiar, like old friends .

I'm still interacting with the idea of giving myself grace. But after that hiatus from reading immediately after my surgery, I am so grateful that I can lose myself in the countless worlds that surround me in the pages of my treasured books. Truth be told, like David in this book, I find comfort in being surrounded by my books. They are my oldest friends, my truest family, my beloveds.

This may seem callous to my friends, my family, or The Husband, but everyone who knows me knows that I am who I am because of these books. The book that inspired me to apply to Clemson University (The Hot Zone by Richard Preston). The book that inspired me to teach (The Grass is Singing by Doris Lessing). The book that inevitably brought me to tears when I needed a good cathartic cry session (The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger). The books that inspired tattoos (The Traveler by John Twelve Hawks, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, The Sandman Series by Neil Gaiman). I have found inspiration and comfort within the pages of these books. I have found how to mend a broken heart, and how to love, truly love. I have learned about myself, and other people. My own culture and those unknown to me. My mind and my heart. My fears and my passions. So much still to learn.

I am surrounded by my cherished books, and they offer me comfort and grace.

New Series: Fave Quote of the Book

So.

I have an idea:

I don't know if it's a good idea, but I don't care, I'm gonna do it anyway.

I've been reading pretty voraciously for my entire life. This diagnosis has slowed down my reading speed, but not my appetite. I am currently simul-reading two books (one fiction, one non-fiction). As soon as I finish one of them, I'll start on the next. I can simul-read up to three books at a time, but they have to be in different genres, otherwise my brains hurt.

Anyway, I'm telling you all of this for a reason. I have really enjoyed blogging about the books I've been reading, but the reality is that I'm reading them much faster than I am blogging about them. The two that are currently in action (The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly and The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers) will be completed as usual, with updates every couple of days for both of the books. I estimate I have just over a week's worth of posts scheduled and ready to post before I finish with these two books.

In the meantime, because I am reading faster than I am writing (more accurately, I am spending more time reading than I do writing), I want to introduce a new series of posts. Instead of full and in-depth book reviews and discussions, I will choose my favorite single quote from a book and talk about why it is my favorite. I don't know yet if there will be a theme, but at the very least I will provide title and author, image of the book cover, and link to Amazon.

So yeah, things are going to change a little around here. The frequency of posts may decrease. I will still update about my diagnosis when I feel it is appropriate, but if there is no update, it is pretty safe to assume that no news is good news.

So, book lovers and bibliophiles alike, strap in, put on your helmets, and brace yourselves: we are in for an interesting ride!

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Fear of Death)

In this story, David gets pulled into a world not quite like ours, and while traveling this world, he meets various people and creatures, some good, some evil.

One of those people is Roland, a soldier. David is traveling to find the king of this land not quite like ours, and Roland is traveling to find Raphael, his friend and "the blood in [Roland's] veins, the sweat on [his] brow." Without him, Roland says that he is less than he once was, and he fears Raphael may be dead (Connolly 207). David asks Roland if he is afraid of dying in his quest to find Raphael (Connolly 207). Roland responds:

"'I am afraid of the pain of dying . . . I have been wounded before, once so badly that it was feared I would not survive. I can recall the agony of it, and I don't wish to endure it again. But I feared more the death of others. I did not want to lose them, and I worried about them while they were alive. Sometimes, I think that I concerned myself so much with the possibility of their loss that I never truly took pleasure in the fact of their existence'" (Connolly 207).

I have had to think about the so-called bus that could hit me tomorrow, but through this, I have been far more worried about the bus that could hit The Husband next week, that could hit my sisters next month, that could take away those whom I love and cherish. This terrible diagnosis has forced me to contemplate death with far more depth and detail than I would prefer.

The interesting part of this is that the more I think about death, the less afraid I am, for myself. Death is a universal truth. While, hopefully, it is obvious that I am in no rush to meet him, and I would be so pleased if he could pass me by, that is childish fantasy. I don't want to say that I am not afraid, but less afraid as a result of this choice to contemplate him.

Even now, I am far more terrified of losing those whom I love. I am a master worrier, and yes, I can and will worry myself to pieces if I haven't heard from Baby Sister in several days, or if The Husband takes an unusually long time to get home. So I can fully understand Roland's take on death. We are all dying (hopefully slowly). This story speaks to what I think may be a common experience for many of us. The fear of losing someone else hurts far more than the fear of losing myself. At this point, I've come as close as I can to accepting my diagnosis. I don't like it, but it is what it is.

Today is the 6-month cancerversary of my diagnosis. This diagnosis changed my life. I felt so much loss. Like I could no longer keep a grasp on the life most extraordinary I used to have with The Husband. The thing is, after six months, I've figured some stuff out. Yes, we still worry. Those bills won't pay for themselves. The GoFundMe has stalled out and we aren't sure how to get it rolling again. 

I don't remember the last time I cried for myself. I don't know if I need to worry about that. It seems like I am reminded of my condition in different ways. The tremor in my hand. The trouble sleeping. The weird cold flashes (anti-menopause?). The unpredictable appetite. The handful of pills I have to take every day. The constant and never-ending fatigue. The constant and never-ending co-pays.


I worry constantly. But The Husband is there to hold my hand and comfort me. I am lucky to have the opportunity to take pleasure in the fact of his existence, for I know that I could not have made it this far without him.

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Intro)

I recently finished this book that I had been simul-reading with The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers, and I need each and every one of you to get your hands on a copy and read it immediately: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly.

Amazon describes it as such:

"High in his attic bedroom, twelve-year-old David mourns the death of his mother. He is angry and alone, with only the books on his shelf for company. But those books have begun to whisper to him in the darkness, and as he takes refuge in his imagination, he finds that reality and fantasy have begun to meld. While his family falls apart around him, David is violently propelled into a land that is a strange reflection of his own world, populated by heroes and monsters, and ruled over by a faded king who keeps his secrets in a mysterious book... The Book of Lost Things."

When I started reading this book, I was immediately devastated and immediately hooked.

"Once upon a time—for that is how all stories should begin—there was a boy who lost his mother. He had, in truth, been losing her for a very long time" (Connolly 1).

If this isn't a gut punch of an opening, I don't know what is. It grabbed me by the heart and squeezed, refusing to let me go. This is a story that could not be ignored or set aside.

—

From https://www.thepunctuationguide.com/em-dash.html
© 2019 thepunctuationguide.com

—

From https://www.thepunctuationguide.com/em-dash.html
© 2019 thepunctuationguide.com

The protagonist is 12-year-old David, and his mother is dying of some unnamed illness.

"Before she became ill, David's mother would often tell him that stories were alive. They weren't alive in the way that people were alive, or even dogs or cats. People were alive whether you chose to notice them or not, while dogs tended to make you notice them if they decided that you weren't paying them enough attention. Cats, meanwhile, were very good at pretending people didn't exist at all when it suited them" (Connolly 3).

Okay. Excellent description of people, dogs, and cats. But stories... I am intrigued.

"Stories were different, though: they came alive in the telling.[. . .] Once someone started to read them, they could begin to change. They could take root in the imagination, and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read, David's mother would whisper. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life" (Connolly 3).

Three pages in, and already I feel that this book isn't just a book. It is already coming to life in my hands, in my mind. It is grasping at my soul, and I am simultaneously losing myself in the ink on the pages while finding my secret truth buried in between the lines.

This was recommended to me by one of my favorite people, and I swear that she recommended it because she knew I needed this book. It fits perfectly into the types of fiction that I prefer, bordering somewhere between science fiction and fantasy, straddling the line of a dark fairy tale that brings adults back to their days of reading YA fiction. There are stories that we read that keep reality crystal clear right in front of us. Personally, I prefer to read stories that pull reality just beyond the reach of my fingertips, tugging at the veil of my imagination. It is in these stories that I am able to escape, and what is the point of reading fiction, especially science fiction and fantasy, if you can't escape into worlds unknown and unexplored?

I have a few more things to say about this, but right now, I want you to order this book, request it from the library, download it to your Kindle, whatever. Get your hands on this book!

Books: The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers (Part 1)

I'm currently simul-reading a couple of different books, but I want to talk about one that I am in the middle of right now.

Amazon has this to say:

The Power of Myth launched an extraordinary resurgence of interest in Joseph Campbell and his work. [ . . . ] With Bill Moyers, one of America’s most prominent journalists, as his thoughtful and engaging interviewer, The Power of Myth touches on subjects from modern marriage to virgin births, from Jesus to John Lennon, offering a brilliant combination of intelligence and wit.

This extraordinary book reveals how the themes and symbols of ancient narratives continue to bring meaning to birth, death, love, and war. 

This is a book that has sat on my bookshelves for years, and for some reason, when I finished When Things Fall Apart by the Venerable Pema Chodron, The Power of Myth reached out and grabbed me. I've been reading a fair number of philosophical or faith-based books, and at this point, I felt like it was time to change it up a little. This book touches on so many different topics, and I felt like I needed a book that took a different approach. This book is written in a bit of an unusual format compared to the other books I've discussed in the last six months.

In this one, Bill Moyers is interviewing Joseph Campbell. This long-form interview covers much of Campbell's works, but is particularly interesting because Moyers does not always agree with Campbell; in fact, they hash out some points of dissent over the course of the interview, further developing their own and each other's ideas.

As I have been on this journey of illness and self-discovery, weakness and epiphanies that have surprised me over and over again, I've realized many things about myself.

I am not always kind to myself. I have flaws that I'd prefer not to admit to, although I am sure that many of you have been witness to one or many of them. I have reserves of strength that reach deeper than I ever expected. I am even more stubborn than I ever thought I could be. People are complex. I am complex.

In an early part of the interview, Campbell says,

"the only way you can describe a human being truly is by describing his imperfections. The perfect human being is uninteresting—the Buddha who leaves the world, you know. It is the imperfections of life that are lovable. And when the writer sends a dart of the true word, it hurts. But it goes with love. This is what [Thomas] Mann called 'erotic irony,' the love for that which you are killing with your cruel, analytical word" (Campbell and Moyers 3).

The flaws in life are what make life interesting, right? It is too common for people to try to gloss over the faults in our friends, our family, ourselves. Think of the last funeral you went to: I have been blessed; for me, it was 23 years ago. People spoke so kindly of the dead. You know, and I know, that we should not speak ill of the dead, right? I felt so uncomfortable speaking so kindly of the dead and erasing the essence of who this person was. Of course, that is not to say that this person had no positive qualities, but ignoring those flaws swept away that which made this person so important, so loved, so missed. Ignoring those flaws distorted my memories, even as I knew that people were merely trying to be kind. 

But what did it mean that we, collectively, could not be honest with ourselves and each other about the true essence of this person? Why did we work so hard to pretend to ourselves and each other that there were only and exclusively good things to say about this person?


Moyers posits that

"what human beings have in common is revealed in myths. Myths are stories of our search through the ages for truth, for meaning, for significance. We all need to tell our story and to understand our story. We all need to understand death and to cope with death, and we all need help in our passages from birth to life and then to death. We need for life to signify, to touch the eternal, to understand the mysterious, to find out who we are" (Campbell and Moyers 4).

Anyone who knows me at all knows that my favorite book is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I love it so much that I have a tattoo inspired from the book. In this book, among other things, they are trying to find the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything. The search for meaning appears to be a universal truth, contained within the pages of a British comedy trilogy and the pages within this more academic book about myth.

Something that I've always known about myself is that I love stories. I don't think that this makes me unique; stories tie us together, keep us together, bind us to each other. I love books, movies, tv shows, any medium that tells a story. This is part of what brought me to teaching at the community college. There is so much tucked away within the stories we read, the stories we tell each other, and it is far too easy to feel separated from each other when we are allowed to forget the universality of these stories.

I miss teaching. One of the best parts of teaching, for me, is getting to see the look of recognition on a student's face as they realize that this or that experience is not unique to their own life. I have interacted with so many students who feel alone in their experiences, singled out, on their own. Outcast, out of place, rejected. Having the opportunity to build connections and community with my students through shared stories has been the single most fulfilling part of my life. Finding shared meaning is so rewarding.