“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
I don't do book clubs. I never have. Do you?
I don't like being told what to read. Or to have a deadline to read it by. It feels too much like school. Not that I didn't like school. I was an English major and read some fantastic novels, short stories, poems and plays over those years. Some I've since re-read, because I didn't feel like I got to enjoy them the first time around. I'd also have to go out and see people, which is not always something I want to do.
I was talking with a few people recently and they were discussing their book clubs. I mentioned that I don't belong to one and they were surprised, as they know I'm an avid reader. I told them the reasons why. They nodded, but provided a few different, convincing arguments as to why they found their book clubs enjoyable:
- They read books they normally wouldn't, which I appreciate, I love discovering new books.
- By listening to others, they gain a new perspective on a book, sometimes making them like it more than they did previously. I can definitely see that, though I've had the opposite be true too.
- They don't always finish the book. While finishing is preferable, it's not always necessary and the people they meet with have never made them feel bad for not finishing. That's great, but I know I'd put pressure on myself and then feel guilty if it didn't get done (even if I didn't like it).
- There's [often] wine. Well, right there, might be the most convincing argument of all.
After we talked about the book clubs (among other things), it left me wondering, should I look at joining one? One of the women there, about my age, with children, maybe next time I see here, I'll ask about her book club. Maybe I could just ask other ladies I know? I'm sure I could look online. Then again, maybe I will just stick to blogging about books. I'd love to know what other people think of book clubs. I'm still undecided.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Sunday, July 3, 2016
This week was the last meeting of my writing group until September. It's always a little sad when this happens. However, the organizers have pointed out that when they did hold the group in the summer, numbers were practically non-existent, as summer madness ensues. Vacation plans, barbecues, dinners, outdoor activities. They feel, and I agree, that the two month break is nice with all the summer obligations.
During the group, I wrote a bit for my novel, which was nice. We talked a bit about book clubs, which got me thinking, and that's always nice too.
Below is a bit a wrote in response to a prompt, a combination of drawing a tight spiral and a Rumi poem. As always, it is totally rough and unedited, except for maybe spelling.
I pressed my toes into the wet sand. Usually, I hate the feeling of something between my toes, but this, this was good. It was cool on the surface and warmer as my feet sank deeper. I wiggled and pushed, letting myself slip slowly beneath the surface. The wet sand glided up the top of my feet, touching my ankles as a soft wave rolled across the beach. I watched as it receded, back into the salty ocean.
The grains tickled, but I didn’t want to move. I stared out at the blue of the water, reflecting the perfect clear blue of the sky. Nothing in front of me except my shadow and the foam-tipped waves of the ocean. Everything was behind me. I could feel the heat of the sun on the back of my neck, the back of my legs. If I paid attention, I could hear the voices of the others. Not many, but a few people who said they were like me, who needed to come to the beach in the middle of the afternoon.
I didn’t want to think about why the beach wasn’t more crowded. It was a hot, cloudless afternoon. It was just me and a handful of people. I wished I was alone, but I also wished I wasn’t.