A new leaf?

There once was a man named Eric Blair. He was a Briton and was very unhappy with his life, in fact no one ever really thought he'd make anything of himself. Unsure of where he was headed and with no direction or ambition to speak of, young Blair decided that he would join the Indian Imperial Police (remember, India was ruled by Great Britain then.) After retiring from the Indian Imperial Police - which he hated - Blair went back to his family's home in England and locked himself in his room.

Barely anyone saw him for the span of a year.

By years end, he emerged from his room declaring that he wanted to be a writer and would then go on to write some of the best English literature by the name of George Orwell.

I've been lounging around in my room this week... I think I want to write. I don't really need anything to be published, I doubt I ever will. But I think I want to write fiction. I want to write about people. I want to write stories of redemption. I want to write tragedies. I want to hear the *tlak, tlak, tlak* of my keyboard. I just want to create.

I've gotten four books on writing this week. Books on how to build plots, how to set up scenes, how to write dialogue and create characters. I am reading this weeks novel "Less than Zero" with new eyes. I never understood how much work went into the book, and how real fictional characters must become before they can be put on a page.

I was reading an interview with the author of "Pop Salvation," Lance Reynald. He created a whole playlist or soundtrack for his novel. How brilliant! I looked over the list and I kid you not, though no songs were mentioned, I heard each song throughout the book! I'm learning about character profiles and how much you have to know your character to get him right. I have to know every little detail such as his favorite smell, is he a dog or cat person? lefty or right handed? even though I may never write a single sentence about his favorite smell being play-doh and crayons, I must know this to make him real. He must be a real person to me if I am ever to convey him in a real way. I stand amazed.

I was having a discussion with a friend of mine about words. I love words. I love how some words sound. I love how some words just fit perfectly. Like behoove. I love the word behoove. Its a perfect word. I could say:

"It would be to my benefit if I took physics this year, instead of the next"

or

I could say: "It would behoove me to take physics this year, instead of the next"

Perfect word.

she said I have a writer's mind. I also like the word snarky and aloof. They sound just like what they are. lets see if anything good comes out of this little foray into writing?

Thoughts on Pop Salvation by Lance Reynald

I was kind of in a frisky mood the other night. I love books, and typically I know which ones I want to read. I either know of them because they are classics like 1984 and Atlas Shrugged or perhaps from notoriety and fanfare like the DaVinci Code. But its safe to say that I usually know the plot line of the books I am going to read before I purchase them. 

In any case, I was in a frisky mood. I wanted to go into Barnes and Noble and pick up a book I'd never heard of and get lost in a story. I wanted to meet someone new and have them hold my hand and guide me through a story worth hearing. I wanted to fall into a story rather than intentionally show up. I knew it would be fiction and I didn't want a period piece. (I'm still working through Les Miserables, and wanted to at least return to the familiarity of the 20th century.)

Then I came across a hot pink cover in a sea of mauve, browns, and burgundies. The book went by the title of Pop Salvation and claimed to be a coming of age story set in the 1980's. Not too much information, I just knew its a fictional coming of age story set in the 1980's. It was also 239 pages and didn't seem too intimidating. This would do for today. (Just in case, I also picked up a biography on Golda Meir in case my little foray into obscure literature proved fruitless.) 

I got lost in the book from its first chapter. Written in first person omniscient, I almost lost sight of the book and the words in front of me. Rather it was more like I was sitting in a room with a stranger and we just happened to pick up a conversation. He was telling me of his childhood and growing up. I almost sensed the inflections of his voice as he would pause to reach back and grab another memory. 

His name was Caleb Watson a Texas boy who moved to Washington D.C. with his father at the age of 12. Extraordinarily gifted but also ostracized by his classmates. His only friend a teacher who helps him with enunciation to get rid of his southern drawl. On a field trip He comes across an Andy Warhol painting of Marilyn Monroe's lips and is mesmerized by the sheer beauty in it. His teacher recognizes this and suggests to Caleb's father to enroll him in an art school for the summer. There he learns technique as well as comes in contact with other artistic outcasts like himself and learns how to be different with a purpose. He begins to bleach his hair and emulate his icon, Andy Warhol in speech and dress. 

His father and teachers become concerned at his non-conformity. Not wanting to be bothered with the actual task of parenting, his father places young Caleb in therapy in hopes the therapist will straighten him out. This is all just the beginning of the book. I could recount the plot but then I might as well just transcribe the book onto this blog. 

Caleb turns out to be gay (or at least bi-sexual.) I thought it was crafty of the publishers to hide that fact from me until I was well into the book. I typically don't make a habit of reading gay fiction. Mainly because it is more often than not mislabeled fiction, when in reality its erotica. Secondly because in this day and age gay characters seem too politicized. People make a gay character not because it adds to a story but because it makes a social/political statement. Personally, I don't enjoy homosexuality being rammed down my throat (if I may put it so bluntly.) 

But this was different. Caleb was gay, not because the author wanted him to be gay to make a statement, but because thats what Caleb was. It was the only way Caleb could have been in this story. He was the complete outcast. It wasn't a story about a gay kid. It was a story about a kid who happened to be gay. Under these circumstances I could stand to keep reading it. 

Caleb radiates an innocence and naivete about him. Through the book he is constantly taken advantage of by those who should have protected him. Either through the neglect of his father, or the misguiding of his elders. He suffers though his teen years what few suffer in a lifetime. In one chapter he walks the city streets and says "I was one of those people you ran into and wondered, what had he been before he gave up?"

That line stuck out to me, because throughout the whole book I wondered What might he have been had life turned out different? what would life had been like if his father paid him attention. What would his life had been like if he never met that transvestite? or perhaps if he'd never been exposed to drugs? what would his life had been like if people affirmed him when he was Caleb rather than when he pretended to be Andy Warhol?

Nearing the end of the book I commented to my roommates "I understand the pop in the book but I'm still waiting for the salvation part." Thankfully, Reynald does wrap the book up at the end with almost a sigh of relief. Perhaps a bit hurried in some regard but more than adequate. His pain is not resolved, but finally Caleb finds strength to stand on his own again and face the world. But it is not without the loss of a few friends and loved ones along the way. 

I'd give this book 4 stars (out of five.) because though I thoroughly enjoyed it and got lost in the story, I reserve the fifth star for books of consequence. Books like 1984 or Atlas Shrugged which are not just stories about people, but are stories about societies. This book was a great story about a person, and it was worth every penny. I loved it. I read it in one day, but at the end of the day I put the book on my shelf and reminisce on what a great story that was and go to sleep. 

The League of the Unemployed

Its been slow. I know. Perhaps I will have more time to update my blog now that I am unemployed and make sense of these seemingly random revolutions around the sun. 

For one, yes I have now joined the league of the unemployed. Hopefully its a stint that won't last for too long, but one can never tell. It just wasn't working out at my job. I am unsure as to whether God lead me there, (I always thought He did) but I am thoroughly convinced He orchestrated my being let go. I needed to resign but my pride would not let me do so. I thank my boss for letting me go, firing me when I didn't have the strength to quit. Perhaps I'll be angrier when I have to skip a meal and my lights are turned off... but I still love my boss. Most of all, I am looking forward to being friends rather than co-workers.