Write to Face the Monster

Ever notice that it is easier to write when you are in a gloomy mood? The words fall out of your fingertips and onto the page without much effort. Your head is so clouded with thoughts that writing seems like the only way to clear the fog. With each key stroke, with each click-click, with each character, you feel your load lighten.

Your mind starts to clear. Thoughts are more coherent. If you pay enough attention, you can sift through the remaining haze to uncover what is really bothering you. In that moment, you find peace.

Peace. Not because you have solved the problem. Not because the problem is trivial. The sense of calm comes from knowing what issue you need to address—knowing that piece of information means that half the struggle is over.

It is easier to face a monster when you know what to look for.

The Austen Genre

Oh wow, I have not created a post for quite some time. What can I say, I had a lapse of laziness.

Work has been the same. Organize those books! I have spent the last week working in the Fiction & Literature section. Rows, upon rows of books in this section. Working my way through the shelves, I found myself reading the back of several different books each day. The strange thing is that I have found a trove of books that I want to read but never would have know about if it was not my job to sort through them all.

I tell ya, bookstore or library work is such a treat for book lovers. Not only do I get to sort through countless titles, but I occasionally get free books. Score! One of the freebies that I picked up was a novel written with Jane Austen lovers in mind. Did you know that there is an entire sub-genre of novels whose authors are devoted to recreating, continuing, and building on the timeless pieces created by Jane Austen?

Lovely. I am an Austen fan. I reread Pride and Prejudice almost every year. What can I say, I love to escape into the world Miss Austen created–though I am not one of those women who longs for a Mr. Darcy. =D

So, since I am in the Austen mood, I have decided to try and work my way through each of Miss Austen’s completed novels. I even used my bookseller discount to get a super cheap book that contains seven of Miss Austen’s novels.

My recent purchase reminded me of a scene in the film adaptation of The Jane Austen Book Club. In this scene, the sole male in the book club is under the impression that Miss Austen’s novels are a series. Silly boy [hit minutes 7.38-8.50].

Man, I am a dork. Oh well, happy reading to me

Lady Gresham: What is she doing?
Mr. Wisley: Writing.
Lady Gresham: Can anything be done about it?
- about Jane Austen in the movie Becoming Jane

Death of a Mass Market Novel

I leave the distribution center, boxed up with fellow novels. In the back of a truck-trailer, we make our way along the highways. For days, we wait in anticipation. Some of us are hardcover. Some of us are softcover. No matter what the thickness, each of us is eager to be opened.

Finally, we reach the store. The back of the truck-trailer eases open. I can feel the warmth of the sun seeping in through the cardboard box. A noisy machine eases the box out of the truck. With a thud, the box is placed on cold concrete.

There is chattering. Voices. My pages shiver at the sound of metal slicing across the top of the box. *Please don’t tear me.*  With a snap, the top flaps of the box are pulled back. Warm, fresh air rushes in around my pages. I shudder with excitement.

It is time. A pair of hands reaches in the box and abruptly pulls me and some companions into the open air. It is a warehouse. There are tables, carts, and books everywhere. *Thwap*. The hands slam me onto a table.

Another pair of hands starts to sort us into piles. Some of us are pasted with icons: 20% off, Buy 2 Get 1, etc. I am not labeled, just stacked onto another book. The hands press into my cover and grab me and the books below me. Across the floor we go.

Now I am on a cart. I am being rolled out into a brightly lit room. The room is large! There is music! It smells like cookies!

*Squeak, squeak, squeak.* The cart rolls to a stop in front of a tall structure with shelves. I shift on the cart as books around me are picked up by yet another set of hands and placed onto a shelf. It is my turn. *Clunk.* The metal beneath me is cold. My cover is facing outward, I can not see anything behind be or next to me. In front of me, there is another structure with shelves. Books line those shelves too.

For weeks, I sit on the shelf. Every now and then, someone picks me up… only to set me down again. The Books around me are picked up too but they are then carried away. Where are they going? Then, I am picked up again. Only this time, I leave the shelf. *Clunk.* I am placed onto what looks like a cart.

*Squeak, squeak, squeak.* Again, the cart rolls away from the shelves and back into the warehouse.

I feel cold. Something in the room makes me uncomfortable. There are less books with me this time. *Tear.* Oh my gosh! What is that sound? *Rip.* What is going on? Is everyone ok? *Tear.* I am scared.

A pair of hands picks me up. What is going on? Why is my cover being held so closely to the spine? I feel woozy. *Tear.* Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Where is my cover? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? HELP! HELP! SOMEONE IS DENUDING THE BOOKS!

*Thwap.* Naked and cold, I am thrown into a box under a table. Where are they taking me next? Where ever it is, I do not think it is good because it is a place where I no longer need a cover to identify myself from the other novels.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

Day one of my employment at a major bookstore and I am tearing covers off of unwanted books that are bound for a recycling plant. It is sad, really. As much as I love books, it is heartbreaking to have to send a box of coverless books to their doom.

Hamster Tale

It was an ordinary day at the courthouse. Some might say it was even down-right dull. No one could have suspected what would take place on those palatial court steps before the day was out.

Harry knew what he was there for, but he couldn’t help but feel lost. Surrounded by the lawyers and the people, he could feel his fur rising. His eyes were bobbing around mercilessly in his head. His paws were clinched in anguish. The two-legged kind have always made him feel squeamish.

Slowly, Harry made his way up the courthouse steps and towards the wooden doors. As he reached his trembling paw towards the doorhandle, the doors crashed open and out rolled a dirty grey cat wearing cowboy boots. Harry stood rooted in place next to the doors. As he looked down towards the grey cat, he recognized the boots; boots he’d seen in his nightmares a hundred times. It was the defendant.

Squirrelly little Harry did not know what to do. Harry had been told that the defendant would not be able to get within ten yards of him. Yet, here the cat-in-boots is, mere feet from Harry’s furry little body. Harry’s insides began to turn. Everything he had dreaded about was beginning to unfold on the steps of the system that swore to protect Harry.

Harry’s dad had warned him. Harry’s dad knew that hamsters needed to be cautious. But on a sunny May day earlier that year Harry’s dad was not so vigilant.

——

While grazing for crumbs in an alley behind a pizzeria, Harry’s dad came across the grey cat in cowboy boots. Alone, in a place where no one could see, the cat-in-boots knew what he wanted to do with the hamster. Slowly, the cat sauntered up to Harry’s dad who was now frozen stiff from fear. Clickety, clickety, went the cowboy boots. Harry’s dad stood silent, paws clinched, eyes buzzing about uncontrollably. As the cat moved closer, his claws began to protrude from his greedy paws. With one fowl swoop, the cat swept up Harry’s dad and shoved him in his feline snout. Gulp.

——

On the courthouse steps, Harry stared at the grey cat-in-boots and Harry knew that he had to act. The cat was upright again, gazing longingly at little Harry. This situation was different, and Harry knew it. He needed to act fast. As the cat-in-boots sauntered towards Harry, an idea flashed through Harry’s mind. Quickly Harry scurried down the court house stairs with the cat-in-boots in hot pursuit. Out into the street traffic, Harry darted to and fro. Left, then right, between cars, under cars, the game of hamster and cat unfolded.

With one final dart in front of a yellow taxi, Harry scurried back to the court house stairs. Harry heard his tracker screech and meow. The smell of car breaks met Harry’s nostrils as he turned from the stairs to view the scene. Shocked by what he saw, Harry clasped his paws to his mouth…