Tuesday, August 31, 2010

A good book

Last time I posted, I said I was the one without issues, but since then I have developed at least two, although one was resolved by a trip to the doctor this morning.

It was quite the indignity, but there you have it. It's over now, gone, snipped off with the assurance that it is 99.99% likely not to be cancer. Off to the lab with it, and all I have to do is go home and change a bandaid a few times. Whew.

Did you ever notice how true the old adage is, "It never rains, it only pours..." ?

Emotional avalanches are sweeping me away right now. What I would like, what I would truly love, would be to lose myself completely in a Really Good Book.

There is an utter dearth of Really Good Books out there. They are all about sex, first of all. Most of them are written by women. Although I would like to be an author, one of the things that seems to continually stop me is my memory of being a small girl at the Anoka Public Library, seeking a good book, and automatically putting back on the shelf anything written by a woman. I was too little to have learned this from anything other than my own experience with books. The books by men were just always better. Nowadays that is even more true, because not only are about 90% of books written by women, 99% of the books written by women are written by avid feminists. If there is anything I can't stand it's a book written by an unapologetic feminist who is acutely aware of herself in every way except the way she comes across to people who realize (not think, realize) that her position is flawed from the outset.

But this is not a post to lambaste feminists. I have many moments when I share sympathies with them, at any rate, so it would be hypocritical for me to act as though I thought I were better than they are. Many of them are very kind and real and generous and honestly trying to help each other. I just don't like their writing. Ever. I don't like rock music, either, and I recognize that this is a matter of taste, although it feels in my bones like a matter of morality.

There are some women writers I liked. I liked Lucy Maud Montgomery, Madeleine L'Engle, and particularly (and perhaps surprisingly) Maud Hart Lovelace.

I am having a terrible time reigning myself in today. I think it is because of the Tremendous Effort I am making not to think about or address certain other subjects that are bothering me, refusing to box up nicely into compartments in my subconscious. Very little of what I have written so far even reflects what is in my heart. My words above are like the flash of the camera that comes before the real flash, so that just as the picture is taken, you open your eyes and take the brunt of the piercing light directly against your retinas.

A good book is what I need. One written by a man, preferably British, ideally Christian. It should have beautiful scenes written in the English countryside, and cozy Christmases, an intricate plot with much suspense and many diverse and complicated characters and twists of events. There should be boarding schools and princesses, secrets from the past and delectable feasts. The noble characters should display their bold hearts and strength of character that spreads to strength of body, fighting battles against a seemingly invincible enemy and winning because it is simply right that they would. A really good book should have the plot of a Dickens novel, the timing and voice of C.S. Lewis and the poetic pathos of Chaim Potok. It should also have a happy ending... although, the ending must be unpredictable as well as happy.

That's all I want. I guess it's probably too much to ask.

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