Keeping Creativity Alive

It's been a struggle, remembering how to write prose (even in the most straightforward form) when you've spent the last eight months editing, reading, and sometimes even writing purposefully uninspired political material. It's hard to find time to read, and even harder to read something filling and challenging, when all I really want is a simple novel to devour. All I want to do in my career is transition into writing, but when I sit down to do it I can barely remember how. Shouldn't my sentences be shorter, clearer, less complex? One thought per sentence, state your accomplishments and move on. Except, I'm not running for office. I'm not running at all... I'm sitting still, getting stagnant.

I wanted to write a post on keeping creativity alive, but I don't know the first thing. Stay tuned for more details.

E-Readers

I'm not going to lie to you. Sometimes, I get the pangs. The little flicker of jealousy when I see that girl reading her Kindle on the treadmill, so easily, while I'm flailing to keep my book open to the right page. I think about the convenience, when I pack for a trip, and realized I packed so many books I forgot to leave space for clothes. I get it, okay. E-readers are pretty fucking cool.

But I refuse to want one. And every time I come up with a new reason for why books are so much better, my decision remains even more solid.

1. I own so many books that I haven't read yet.

2. I like supporting bookstores (especially used bookstore or small, clearly struggling ones. Fight the good fight!).

3. I want people to see what I'm reading and be intimidated by my intelligence (I don't bring my trashy reads into public).

4. I want to judge other people based on what they're reading.

5. Books are the best gift. A gift card for an e-book does not count. I want to dictate what my friends read.

6. It's really satisfying to come to the end of a long book. You don't get the visual satisfaction when it's all virtual.

7. What would I put on my shelves?????

Stuck

I've been in a serious reading rut lately. I haven't even been able to get myself to write a review of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which is one of the best books I've read in a long time--oh yeah, and I finished it over a month ago.

I spent a few weeks slogging through The Alchemist, but the transparent life messages have been a little too much for me to handle right now. I'm sure The Alchemist doubles as a self-help book for a lot of people trying to figure out what they want to do with their lives, but reading it just made me nervous.

So finally, a few nights ago in a surrender to bad fiction, I picked up a Sookie Stackhouse novel and was propelled through the pages in the way that only truly terrible writing can move you. Reading one of those books is like eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's; you're humiliated and know that it wasn't good for you, but you can't stop yourself.

I'm hoping that I start caring about real books again once this one is done.

Into the Wild

Into the Wild carried me through most of the summer in terms of reading material as well as brain food. Maybe it took me so long to read because of Krauker's style, heavily nonfiction with arduous descriptions, but I think it mostly took so long because I felt the subject material literally weighing me down on more than one occasion. I was attracted to reading Into the Wild because I was feeling claustrophobic in my newfound suburban, 9-5 life, but it gave me the painful urge to take off and run away. The realization that I couldn't survive a week living on the road and in nature, let alone two years like Chris McCandless did, only made it worse. This was a great book, but I'm not sure it would have been as meaningful to me had I read it at another point in my life.

Flaming Iguanas

I kind of loved this book. On one day, I opted for an hour and a half metro ride over driving just to give myself the time to read. It was kind of like feminist mind-porn--two girls riding cross country on motorcycles? You don't really get any more women's studies fantasy than that plot. I couldn't really separate the author from the narrator, but I didn't mind that so much. I'd be hesitant to recommend this book to most people, but if you're in the mood for some man hating goodness, this is perfect.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

So I realize that it's been about 6 months since my last post... but in my defense, I haven't done much reading since then. That being said, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is the best book I've read in the last year, at least. I loved the elements of surrealism, Oscar's lovable and infuriating desperation, and maybe most of all, Junot Diaz's footnotes, which were snarky and informative at once.

The Pillowman

This is a disturbing story done well. I read The Pillowman in about a day, opting to sit on a bench and fly through Act 2 rather than meet friends at a bar. This play simultaneously gave me chills and heartache and made me feel disgusted, all in the best ways that fiction can accomplish.