Meandering Thoughts (#16)

This was a stormy day at the beach.
There is something about the sea that calls to me.
Yet, I have no desire to sail upon it.
Instead, I admire its terrifying beauty from its shores. 

For those who did not notice, I skipped last Sunday's blog post. For those who did spot it, my apologies. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, and, in order to celebrate, my family rented a house on the beach . The view was beautiful, and there was much merriment. Although there was plenty of time to accomplish personal goals, I put them aside. Except journaling, which I did daily. After a ten hour drive home on Saturday, I began preparations for the Christmas season. While it would be easier for me to skip this week of blogging, I decided against it. My routines have been ignored long enough. It is time to reinstate them.

On Friday night, the eve before our long drive home, I did something worthwhile for myself. After packing personal items and cleaning up the kitchen, I changed into my pajamas and sat down on the couch. In front of me were the three books I had packed, certain I would read--at least on of them--each day. By that night, not a single one had even been opened. A part of me had decided this could not stand, so I sat there determined to read at least one chapter from each book. 

Well, the top one in the pile was Robin McKinley's The Blue Sword. Without knowing it, I had read it's prequal, The Hero and the Crown, which I had enjoyed. But that was years ago, and I was determined to read another book by the same author. While it is not bad, The Blue Sword is not great, either. It is a fantasy novel full of cliches, but then, so are many others. However, I want to finish all three-hundred pages (short for this genre). On that Friday night, I sat down and read a chapter, then I put it on the bottom of the pile.

The next book, at nine-hundred and forty-eight pages, is a tome. It is also fantasy, but within a mythical ancient Chinese setting. And it is full of cliches, including the chosen one trope. After just a single chapter, a dozen important characters have been introduced, all with names that are foreign to me. It has been slow going. In fact, that night, I gave up after reading the first three pages of chapter two. Sigh.

Before proceeding to the third book in my pile, I chose an outsider to read next. These beach rentals tend to have novels lying around. In my experience, most have been summer reads: easy to understand plots that move along quickly. Not my cup of tea. But this time, the title captured my attention. Valhalla Rising. It was written by a Clive Cussler. whom I knew nothing about. It is also the name of a strange, but intriguing, film I had watched years ago, and still haunts my thoughts to this day. Curious, I picked it up, and read the first two chapters. It turned out that both were more like prefaces, taking place centuries before the main plot. They were fast reads, full of cliches. Then I read the first three paragraphs of the main story, which caused me to close it up and put it back on the shelf. Sigh.

Look, there are some genres of fiction and styles of writing that just will not interest me, or flat out turn me off. We all have our standards. This book did not meet it. I would explain myself, but this post is already too long, and I have yet to touch on the third book.

So, whenever I travel, I try to include books that I have read and enjoyed thoroughly, but are also fast reads. Yes, the Lord of the Rings is one of them, especially the first book. In fact, I bought the Kindle version, so I can whittle away the hours while flying.  Any of the books in the Chronicles of Narnia series, too. The Last Unicorn is a close third in this list. But I found a new one, though, I will never be able to read it in public, because it always makes me cry.

In at least in six different places across the plot.

It is Katie DiCamillo's The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. It is very short--I can read it within an hour. But it is deep and moving. That night, between the poor lighting and the emotional scenes, I had to stop, in order to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. And it felt so good. Not just the emotional impact, but also the delivery. DiCamillo writes with a brevity that slices easily, but in a language that cuts deeply. I am envious.

Even her six-paragraph coda at the end of the book had me in tears.

Sigh. Maybe some day I will write such a powerful, meaningful work of fiction.

For now, I will keep sucking at writing my own story about two dolls. 

(A Monster Calls, by Patrick Ness, is another great short piece of fiction that I find inspiring.)