Winnie's Reading - A History
I've been wondering how so many horrendous accidents have occurred to create such a weird, pointless Winnie.
A major part of my life has been reading. Books are the perfect excuse not to see people when they pass by, and a great explanation for being distracted as I cross the street and get hit by a car. :)
Books are a wonderful refuge. I remember reading Terry Brooks, Piers Anthony, Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel, and others in my younger, more foolish days when I actually went by author rather than work. I've grown wiser.
And I can't, unfortunately, forget the hundreds of romance novels. What got me started on this destructive downhill course of useless sex-oriented toilet paper? My good sense had Gone With the Wind. Ha! What an imbecile I am. In my immature little third-grade mind, I thought the whole genre must contain such treasures. And it's not as though librarians were exactly helpful in pointing them out to me.
"Are you checking this out for your mom?" peers down at me.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like Frindle?" tries to steer me to the children's section.
"No." I try in vain to see over the counter (this hasn't changed). "I would like to read Hannibal Lecter."
How I wish I was a child genius. Alas, it takes no brains to understand money, sex, and drugs. If I had tried, I wouldn't have been able to comprehend a word of The Federalist Papers. The first layer of understanding could be peeled away like the skin of a tangerine. The next few were a bit harder, kind of like attacking a pineapple with a plastic spoon.
I will never forget my 5th grade teacher's expression when she remarked on my reading The Clan of the Cave Bear series, saying that she was reading them too. I blinked my oblivious little eyes and shuddered, thinking about my teacher reading some of the more risqué parts. Of course, it never entered my mind that she might be a little iffy about her student reading them too.
Then one day I had an epiphany. I was wasting my life. I had to recover, and quickly. So I gobbled through piles of classics. Stupid. One can't "gobble" through classics, but I sure tried. That's a horrible reason to read. Needless to say, I didn't enjoy them the way I should have.
I gave up and started reading whatever I wanted. It's almost as though I went on a crash diet and then realized I would rather be overweight and happy than thin and suffering. Fan fiction began to strangle my life. I gained a few more pounds, then was struck again with enlightenment.
I realized I could make "smart choices" and still like what I read (ate). Everything in moderation. :) I slip in non-fiction every few selections, between history/biography/memoir, and fiction.
I've fallen off lately, though. I need to get back on track!
The most immersing kind of story for me includes fighting (preferably a skilled, controlled kind without too much blood, gore, or broken bones), sex (I hate pornographic descriptions, though - the idea of sex can be very powerful in what it does to people, and I'm interested in that), character development (I like to see the characters undergo change like a pot of dough turned into a pie), and perhaps some supernatural forces (magic as long as it doesn't make things too convenient). As much as I mock melodrama, I actually like it sometimes. Shakespeare writes nothing but melodrama.
Blech...but I need the story to have a point in order to enjoy it. That's surprisingly rare, especially since the above requirements appeal to a sensation-crowd.
Well, duh. And I'm a spectator.
A major part of my life has been reading. Books are the perfect excuse not to see people when they pass by, and a great explanation for being distracted as I cross the street and get hit by a car. :)
Books are a wonderful refuge. I remember reading Terry Brooks, Piers Anthony, Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel, and others in my younger, more foolish days when I actually went by author rather than work. I've grown wiser.
And I can't, unfortunately, forget the hundreds of romance novels. What got me started on this destructive downhill course of useless sex-oriented toilet paper? My good sense had Gone With the Wind. Ha! What an imbecile I am. In my immature little third-grade mind, I thought the whole genre must contain such treasures. And it's not as though librarians were exactly helpful in pointing them out to me.
"Are you checking this out for your mom?" peers down at me.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like Frindle?" tries to steer me to the children's section.
"No." I try in vain to see over the counter (this hasn't changed). "I would like to read Hannibal Lecter."
How I wish I was a child genius. Alas, it takes no brains to understand money, sex, and drugs. If I had tried, I wouldn't have been able to comprehend a word of The Federalist Papers. The first layer of understanding could be peeled away like the skin of a tangerine. The next few were a bit harder, kind of like attacking a pineapple with a plastic spoon.
I will never forget my 5th grade teacher's expression when she remarked on my reading The Clan of the Cave Bear series, saying that she was reading them too. I blinked my oblivious little eyes and shuddered, thinking about my teacher reading some of the more risqué parts. Of course, it never entered my mind that she might be a little iffy about her student reading them too.
Then one day I had an epiphany. I was wasting my life. I had to recover, and quickly. So I gobbled through piles of classics. Stupid. One can't "gobble" through classics, but I sure tried. That's a horrible reason to read. Needless to say, I didn't enjoy them the way I should have.
I gave up and started reading whatever I wanted. It's almost as though I went on a crash diet and then realized I would rather be overweight and happy than thin and suffering. Fan fiction began to strangle my life. I gained a few more pounds, then was struck again with enlightenment.
I realized I could make "smart choices" and still like what I read (ate). Everything in moderation. :) I slip in non-fiction every few selections, between history/biography/memoir, and fiction.
I've fallen off lately, though. I need to get back on track!
The most immersing kind of story for me includes fighting (preferably a skilled, controlled kind without too much blood, gore, or broken bones), sex (I hate pornographic descriptions, though - the idea of sex can be very powerful in what it does to people, and I'm interested in that), character development (I like to see the characters undergo change like a pot of dough turned into a pie), and perhaps some supernatural forces (magic as long as it doesn't make things too convenient). As much as I mock melodrama, I actually like it sometimes. Shakespeare writes nothing but melodrama.
Blech...but I need the story to have a point in order to enjoy it. That's surprisingly rare, especially since the above requirements appeal to a sensation-crowd.
Well, duh. And I'm a spectator.
why must you make me feel so inferior? yeesh.
Posted by
joy...! |
11:34 AM
That could never happen, Joy. :) I assure you that I've only retained the absolutely most useless things.
~Winnie
Posted by
ceterumcenseo |
11:43 AM