Trying to write to an author, depiction of sedated Violet

Dear Ms. Schappell,

It’s a funny thing, really.  When I ordered your first published book of shorts stories, Use Me for the teeny tiny library where I was director, I thought little of it.  I remember its cover, mostly grey with red lettering.  It’s title reminded me of maybe something written by Jennifer Belle who write for a teen putting herself through college by turning tricks.  I thought your book was of this ilk, sassy, a sort of literary series of sex tales, not erotica, but a hipper, edgier Carrie Bradshaw.

This past summer, I was reading book reviews and noticed you have a new book out Blueprints for a better Girl.  I remembered your forgotten, shelved book.  Though I could see Use Me on a shelf, second to the top, towards the left on a second antique mahogany shelf, I could not check to be sure, as I had since resigned my position there. While I waited for Blueprints, instead of checking on the copy Use Me, I ordered your fist, published book electronically, though Amazon.   Several beats after my kindle received it from the vast cloud, I read like Gary Paulsen instructs, like a wolf eats. I read like a lonely, homely man fucks, and I read like a teen bathes in sunlight while she nods off next to an electric blue swimming pool.  I read like my life was ending any moment.

I have few friends in the real world.  On good days, I describe myself as “misunderstood.”  On worse days I am indeed the stranger.  And not in a Bruce Springsteen way, the Camus way, the lame kind

This is an example of me writing while under the influence of a sedative, too many sedatives, in fact.  I am so sick of my deep, deep need to escape. Fuck it all.  I have never taken a true "doll" by the way, only the major benzos they pass out these days to whatever lameasfuck chick needs 'em.  Klonopin, ativan, the general eraser of all that is good.  Eraser of any fucking memory ever.

Today I am withdrawn, dizzy, and feel like I will never do anything. 

I am scared.  I do not know if I am going to move back in officially with Mr. Z’s father.  My home that I am renting smells of mildew and it sucks.  Mr. Z’s father’s apartment is too small.  And I am not working.  My money is running out.  And I am completely exhausted all of the time, depression has crept back in and I fully think it is here to stay this time.

I am looking out the slider and I am also looking at the cat looking out the slider.  WE have about 65 K coming in between the two of us.  Why do we live in such a slum? I love Mr. Z's cat though.  Fuck, I am outta my mind today.  Will I make it back to the other side?

I want to lose at least fifteen pounds.  And I want to work.  And I need to finish my master's degree.  Bu all I can do is sit on the fucking couch.  DEPRESSION.  

Erica Jong on Writing

I've never read Erica Jog, but always wanted to.  A.N.  and K.F.S. told me to read Fear of Flying.  My mother had it in our house growing up in our boing little college town.  This book, along with Summerhill and The Beans of Egypt Maine seemed to make an impression on her.  I was never encouraged to read it.  By the time I could have been seen reading it around the house without getting in trouble, I figured it was second wave feminist crap.  I am not sure if I still feel this way now.  I feel like women younger than me, hip women in their twenties are reading this.  Maybe it is making a come back?  I should read something by her.  Here is some writing advice that I've just pirated from her first chapter of  Seducing the De, mon:

1. Have faith-- not cynicism.
2. Take your mind off of publication. 
3. Dare to dream.
4. Write for joy.
5. Get the reader to turn the page.
6. Forget politics (let your real politics shine through.)
7. Forget intellect.
8. Forget ego.
9. Be a beginner.
10. Accept change.
11. Don't think your mind needs altering.
12. Don't expect approval for telling the truth.

I want to comment on this advice, but I have a migraine earlier today.  Thus, I am totally fucking beat.  I am also unable to put down the second Suzanne Collins novel for any longer than ten minutes.  

To Read, To Read, To Read

I am not sure how to chronicle the books I've read in the distant past, the past, books I am reading currently, and the books I am thinking about reading.  I have only started to take this blog seriously very recently.  Though this is all a very trite, rough drafty-y, not even a rough draft-y, silly free write kinda blog, I am thinking about its actual contents more often, especially when I am walking at night.  And at some point I may even want to promote it. Really, it is a journal, a journal to get the cobwebs out of my screwy brain.  And most things written here are of the most cliche like, um, like ever.

Today, I just finished The Bitch Posse, by Martha O'Connor.  The story was almost great.  What was great: I could not put the book down.  What was sort of great, but not really: It was kind of like reading Jennifer Weiner, but if Jennifer Weiner had more edge.  The book and its reviews promise you that it is not chick lit, but in my opinion, it is.  I've seen the book various times; however, I thought it would be boring and poorly written.  Some of the writing is almost lyrical in parts.  But mostly, it seems like a sort of smart teenager wrote it.  And there was a lot of cliche writing in it, mostly the descriptions of the girls' thinking and feelings.  But these descriptions in many ways should be cliche, as they are from a teen perspective, and I think teens often see the world in a very cliche sort of way, as their life experience cannot bring them to the lucidity a more jaded adult would own. A reading blog convinced me to read this book.  Write after reading her blog, I ordered the book on the old man's kindle account.    Here is the link to the blog's mini essay/review about the book, and how it shaped her life, particularly her reading life.  http://booklush.com/2011/09/29/books-that-made-me-the-bitch-posse/
I am not overly in love with her blog yet, but I found an online magazine she writes for, and love this. Here is the magazine: http://literarydilettantes.com/

The book's cover is compelling:

It's author, Martha O'Connor, has another book I might want to try: http://www.amazon.com/Bitch-Goddess-Notebook-Martha-OConnor/dp/0752867393/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1317834845&sr=1-3   .   It is called the Bitch Goddess Notebook.  It is not really chick lit, the book I have not yet read and the aforementioned novel, but teenage girl lit.  Lacking depth, particularly in its desperate attempt at depth.  Is a teen girl a chick yet?  Maybe she is. Pre chick lit.  Almost a chick lit.  Almost a chick chick lit.  

Here are other books I am looking forward to reading.  Or, books that I might read the first chapters of, and then will make my decision about reading.  I have already created a partial list several entris ago, when I chronicle my reading for 2011.  I might repeat some title; I am not going to worry about overlaps.  I got some of these titles while doing subject searches of psychological fiction and teen girls.  

• The new Jeffrey Euginides book, The Marriage Plot which comes out in about a week
• The Sisters Brothers, Patrick DeWitt (I loathe westerns, but it is for the b. group, ick!)
• Man Stealing for Fat Girls
• The Girl from Charnelle
• Normal Girl
• Serious Girls (Book about two outsides in a boarding school setting)
• Stop the Girl
• Hello Life
• Foxfire (The J.C. Oates girl gang book.)
• Stone Garden (boarding school setting)
• Golden Grove, Francine Prose
• The Perfect Age, Heather Skyler
• When You Reach Me, Rebecca Stead
• Alice Hoffman's new book.  Though I  worry it is more Red Garden-y than the Red Garden itself was.  I need another Story sisters novel.  The Dove Keepers.
• The book that I think is British that has the word flowers in it.  The setting is group home.  It is on my FB page, as it a recommendation. 

I will add author's names later, or maybe I won't.  I just can't really open a novelist account, as I still use the library password the was the library's where I got fucking fired.  (Library directed equals total cunt fucking douche, btw.)

Another time, I will write about my short career as a librarian.  This is obviously part of the reason my blog is called what it is called. It is also a feeling I had so often as a young girl, teen, young adult, forever hiding living at the library, and then leaving after nightfall, flooded with excitement at all the new author's I had discovered.  Ready to face the word with my amazing ability to disappear, to become invisible because I knew I could read forever, my life away.  

Return from the Ramble

From the other day...digging it outta hiding... 


I have spent countless hours thinking about my addiction, AA, Alanon, sometimes GFD Coda (yeah, I went their outta decided loneliness in my early twenties, pathetic, much?), and the like.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I think I need to fix my thinking elsewhere.  Plus, I have been spending much of my time on a blog--that used to be linked here.  I am really creeped out by its some of its members right now and one of it s moderators.  -http://stinkin-thinkin.com/.  


This blog is a place for ppl to meet up to discuss the dangers and stupidity of the 12 step ideology.  A few weeks ago I was pretty frustrated with several community members over there, one in particular.  I decided to leave the blog, but then went back in a sort of obsessive, without my own permission kind of way.  


My other irritation over at ST was this: an obviously mentally ill woman was on there trying to get some suport.  She seemed kinda borderline, nuts really.  But I could relate to being in that state.  I felt like some women over on the blog were kinda shitty about it.  And then she got kicked off the blog.  Though I love ftg I do not always agree with her and her inability to undermine the rigidity of the other moderator.

I do think spending my energy there takes up energy.  I need my energy to parent, find a teaching job, and deal with the mess that is my life.  And I want to get back to writing.  All I am doing now is commenting on blogs, FBing like a moron, and writing these stoopid stream of consciousness journal type entries.  Snoozefest.  But I do not wanna put myself down too much here.  Right now I still have to pass a teaching test.  Then I need to present my work to the dean of my college.  Fuck.  I just wanna curl up in a ball and read the books I want to read.  I am very low functioning right now.  And also, to make things super fucking stressful, my relationship is so on the rocks that i feel like I am having PTSD panic episodes all the time.  

Also, my son is now in middle school.  I have not truly melted down over this as of yet; however, I feel struck.  I feel like a deer in the headlights.  Heartbroken.  Like it is a sort of crisis.  The world is moving by, passing me by, too quickly.  I feel like everything will end soon.  I feel like if I ignore my life and do not strive for joy, I will also not feel the pain that is inevitable.  The raising is hard, but the letting go is impossible.  I feel like mothering has been the most astounding thing I will ever do.  It is why I am here.  But I also feel like it is the hardest thing.  And I feel like it is one hell of a lonely job.  Moms often compete, we same to rarely cooperate or support.  I was told by the mother of some chubby kids this week to give my son a protein shake.  As I write this, the anger is returning.  Man, who did she think she was doing this? I do not wanna get into what I said, but man, it threw me.  I know my kid is perfect; I was not worried about that.  But I was concerned  I was putting out a vibe that ppl can treat me like shit.  And this woman is so fucking ridiculously housebound in her overly controlled relationship.  She has a permanent, metaphoric, ugly as fuck diaper bag slug over her shoulder.  I would rather not talk to anyone right now, anyone that is in the tiny, boring as fuck , little town.  I hate its conservatism, its reliance on football for entertainment, and its general nit-wit-ism.  I hate the Lands End way ppl dress.  And mostly, fuckitall, And the mom community, well fuck... I am so sick of it, as this mentioned aspect of the mom community where I live seems so rampant with this diaper bag douche baggedness.  

Books that Have Saved My Life

I have never had a ton of friends, other than that time in middle school when I was popular for a tiny spell. Oh, and there was that time in fourth grade when the mean girls demanded everyone vote for class president and I won. I was one of the only authentically nice kids. I get bored and lonely in my isolation at times. Sometimes I think that if I hated reading I may not be alive.

Here is another list.

1. Lullabies for Little Criminals, Heather O’Neil

This is a book about “Baby” and her junky (junkie) father, Jules. Reading this book was like reading Seventeen magazine and instead of seeing cheesy girls buying lame prom dresses, you see these smart, street girls learning how to score heroin, become prostitutes and then, transcend this bad scene and escape into an almost fairy tale ending. This book created my obsession with the idea of an alphabet book for street kids. And it gave me a literary father.

2. Flowers in the Attic, VC Andrews

This is not a joke. If it weren’t for Catherine, Christopher, and the creepy savior of a doctor who wants to “have his way” w/ Catherine while she’s still in high school, I’m not sure I would have developed a reading addiction. These books, and others of their ilk, were all I read during middle school.

2. The Color Purple, Alice Walker

This was the first book I ever read (at age seventeen) that made/helped me believe in a God of my own understanding. Later, I realized that "believing in a God of my own undrstanding" was a term created by the 12 step cult, AA. I will say now that this is the first book that truly modeled for me how one can beleive in God, but that it does not have to be the creepy Jesus type God that never appealed to me.

3. Practical Magic, Alice Hoffman

I read this while I was doped out on painkillers after having my son. I still gain great comfort from the notion of a sisterhood/coven of mothers giving babies bottles filled with Dr. Pepper.

4. Squandering the Blue, Kate Braverman

These short stories taught me that the best fiction writers are also poets. One story about a single mother struggling with alcoholism gave me these lines (about her addiction) which I have remembered for almost twenty years: “It is the blue that knows you. It knows where you live. And it is never going to forget.” Interestingly, though I still love these lines, I know now that this characer was stuck in the AA cult and did not know it, nor did the author who created her. Later, the auther described in anther book, Small Craft Warnings, the inauthenticity of people the AA.

5. The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton

“Stay gold, Ponyboy.” I think I used to say this in middle school. I should start saying it again.

6. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger

I believe that this world is divided into two parts: those who have read and loved this book with their whole hearts, and then the other people. The idea of that poem-covered baseball glove still astounds me.

7. Let Evening Come, Jane Kenyon

This book made me realize that poetry is often the same thing as prayer.

8. The Beans of Egypt, Maine, Carolyn Chute

This was the first book I remembering my parents talking about in an in depth way. I snuck parts of it. Reading it later inspired a summer long research project funded by UNH on rural poverty and its depictions in literature. I heart Ruben Bean.

9. Bastard out of Carolina, Dorothy Allison

A book that helped me understand that not all mothers are willing to take a bullet for their daughter; Allison helped me out of this scary emotional isolation.

10. A Wrinkle in Time, Madeline L’Engle

This whole story—and the very notion of “tesseracting”--is astronomically cool. However, here is why I love this book: whenever I feel grouchy about having small boobs, or being kinda mousy, blah blah blah, I remember that Meg Murphy was not popular or pretty. Yet, she totally rocked and she rocked hard.

11. A-Z Picture Book, Gyo Fujikawa

There are so many alphabet books; this is the best one. And I am almost certain that this was the book that ushered me into the world of reading.

12. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee

…Because every time I reread why it is a sin to kill a mocking bird, I still cry.

13. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer

I love that all Oskar wanted to do was take a sad song and make it better, even though he just did not know how.

14. The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner

This book blew my mind. “Caddy held me…she smelled like trees.”

15. Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk

This book made me think that my freak-showish-ness was somehow cool which is always a super great feeling.

16. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, Judy Blume

As a young girl, I escaped from an afternoon filled with mean girls, went home, sat on my bed, and read this book cover to cover. I still feel like Margaret is my literary twin, as her birthday, like mine, is March 8th.