an appendix to the damaged particle

The idea occurred to me while shopping at the B&N…I saw a shelf of Nicholas Sparks books while trying to find Nabokov..BOTH of them were in the LITERATURE AND FICTION section.

I thought, “how can Sparks and Nabokov be in the same section at the bookstore? Sparks can’t touch Nabokov’s hem”

[thinking now though, Sparks could probably BUY Nabokov’s whole wardrobe. Sparks is a multi-million bestseller…and Nabokov couldn’t even aspire to being a full-time professor at university for most of his life]

But thoughts like this take on a life of their own. I have been finishing Glory by Nabokov…since I’d only read Lolita before. This book filled me with hope, because it was good, but not anywhere near as good as Lolita , which means that he did not spring out of God fullly formed as the master author. SO, that means that I will probably have a chance of being a better writer too.

Which led me to think again of how long it takes to write a damn book. And how short of a time it takes to read a book. I am going on vacation for 11 days, and I worry that I will run out of book. And that CAN”T HAPPEN. I MUST have enough book to last me….I am a book addict, like a drug addict. A drug addict, when she runs out of her drug of choice, will take anything…even sniff glue. I don’t want to my addiction to drag me down into such degradation, but I have been known to read the phone book when nothing else is available. I can’t let that happen.

So I am a monstrous reader, devouring the feast that took so long to prepare. Books that took their crafters years of heart and soul wringing to write, and even more lifebeats to gain the wisdom to be able to start the writing– these I devour callously and insatiably.

And I do feel sad that I read so fast now. And I approach each new book with eagerness, but still knowing that I am going to have a changed thing after, that the expectation is not going to be the reality.

“you are seriously weird”

After thinking it over, and going through the my five year anniversary of my blog, it occurred to me that I’m never, ever going to have a money-making blog.

I’m just not like other people. And MOST people are not going to be interested in the unadulterated contents of my head.

They are going to want recipes for homemade popcorn. And who can blame them?

But that means that I should not worry about my hitcount. It’s just never going to get too high, no way around it. So that means my blog has a different purpose. After thinking about it, I think that it should be what it started out to be. A scrapbook of my thoughts. And an exercise book for writing, just to keep in the habit of stringing words together one after the other.

My blog entries are not all good. Some of them are crap. But then again, there have been a few jewels that I am really proud of. And others that are like elixirs of larger ideas, that I can remember and use while puzzling over bigger ideas.

So, THAT means I should not ever worry about the weirdness of an idea. It’s okay to be weird; it’s my blog and I can weird if I want to.