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Change of plans, and Devon will be coming up this weekend rather than me going down this week (and I'll visit Corvallis over my birthday, instead). Trying to plan the trip down needed more brain than I had to offer, so when Devon suggested this alternative I jumped at it. I think it's the better option: more recuperation time for me, I won't be away from my hot pad and back massager and foam roller and body pillow while still trying to resolve these back issues, and I'll spend a bit longer with the cat before leaving her for a few days. I hope for another weekend like the last, except that this time we'll be marathoning Alice: Madness Returns.
In preparation for Devon coming instead of me going, I'm sending him on errands to pick up documents and books. I'm putting things on hold at the library, so that he can just waltz in and grab them from shelves, and then use the self-checkout and my borrowed card and no one need be the wiser (except you).
And it seems that my hold list this time around consists almost entirely of idfic. I'm loading up on books about incest, there's even a romance novel on here but please don't tell anyone and anyway it's Georgette Heyer and I hear she's different, and, ah, there are unusually intimate relationships galore.
Prince of Darkness and The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane were part of my attempt to find books similar to Practical Magic the film—and what I discovered instead (and again) is that I can't read "light" books. I can't put aside technical issues like competent writing or artistic issues like narrative voice for the sake of a beach read of a book, something interesting and simple and fun. I can't put aside my standards; I can't stop being a critic. This isn't an issue I have with other media, which is one of the reasons I love Practical Magic so much as a film: I can put aside standards and pretensions for a two hour movie or a forty-five minute episode and have fun as result—I can watch low-effort brain candy and love it without reservation (and I often do). But Hoffman's original book? It just make me wish I were reading something better, the whole way through.
Perhaps it's that books are about six hours of nearly undivided time. Perhaps it's that I've spent significant time and energy refining my tastes and responses as a reader. Perhaps it's that mediocre writing is more grating (speaking generally or personally) than mediocre execution in other media. Perhaps it's that criticism has become such an integral part of my reading experience that while I'll admit I'm a universal critic, I can't see past criticism where books are concerned. Whatever it is I really need to learn to leave "fun" books alone—because they're fun for no one when I read them: not me, the disappointed reader; not others, the fans watching their favorites get ragged on by someone that just can't see them for what they are.
But then I put together a hold list with one book about incest, one book about implied incest, one book about bizarre and intense romance, one book that's just about bizarre romance, and I have this moment where I go: Huh, I do have "fun" reads—by my definition. I can't often put aside competent writing and narrative voice—instead I demand them, I want lush romantic gothic writing, rich visuals and a touch of stylization if you please. I don't care an awful lot about plot, although it can be nice; what I want is unique, twisted, unusually intense character interaction: tortured romance, please and thank you; taboos, too, however subtle or bold. Some of these are "good" by some sort of objective measure (probably influenced by the emotional resonance and depth achieved in their strange relationships, and by the balance between art and indulgence in their style); some are not. All of them sweep by id up in both arms and dance a pretty waltz with it, and I swoon. I want that. I don't want a book I can float through: I want a book I can engage with, even if that sometimes means that all we're doing is fluttering our lashes at one another.
Like Maledicte. Lost Souls. The Likeness. The Secret History. Those are my om nom delicious candy books—but for me, true in a metaphor as it is in life, the candy is often a solid bar of 85% dark chocolate, rich and bitter and perhaps a bit pretentious, but delightfully so.
In preparation for Devon coming instead of me going, I'm sending him on errands to pick up documents and books. I'm putting things on hold at the library, so that he can just waltz in and grab them from shelves, and then use the self-checkout and my borrowed card and no one need be the wiser (except you).
And it seems that my hold list this time around consists almost entirely of idfic. I'm loading up on books about incest, there's even a romance novel on here but please don't tell anyone and anyway it's Georgette Heyer and I hear she's different, and, ah, there are unusually intimate relationships galore.
Prince of Darkness and The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane were part of my attempt to find books similar to Practical Magic the film—and what I discovered instead (and again) is that I can't read "light" books. I can't put aside technical issues like competent writing or artistic issues like narrative voice for the sake of a beach read of a book, something interesting and simple and fun. I can't put aside my standards; I can't stop being a critic. This isn't an issue I have with other media, which is one of the reasons I love Practical Magic so much as a film: I can put aside standards and pretensions for a two hour movie or a forty-five minute episode and have fun as result—I can watch low-effort brain candy and love it without reservation (and I often do). But Hoffman's original book? It just make me wish I were reading something better, the whole way through.
Perhaps it's that books are about six hours of nearly undivided time. Perhaps it's that I've spent significant time and energy refining my tastes and responses as a reader. Perhaps it's that mediocre writing is more grating (speaking generally or personally) than mediocre execution in other media. Perhaps it's that criticism has become such an integral part of my reading experience that while I'll admit I'm a universal critic, I can't see past criticism where books are concerned. Whatever it is I really need to learn to leave "fun" books alone—because they're fun for no one when I read them: not me, the disappointed reader; not others, the fans watching their favorites get ragged on by someone that just can't see them for what they are.
But then I put together a hold list with one book about incest, one book about implied incest, one book about bizarre and intense romance, one book that's just about bizarre romance, and I have this moment where I go: Huh, I do have "fun" reads—by my definition. I can't often put aside competent writing and narrative voice—instead I demand them, I want lush romantic gothic writing, rich visuals and a touch of stylization if you please. I don't care an awful lot about plot, although it can be nice; what I want is unique, twisted, unusually intense character interaction: tortured romance, please and thank you; taboos, too, however subtle or bold. Some of these are "good" by some sort of objective measure (probably influenced by the emotional resonance and depth achieved in their strange relationships, and by the balance between art and indulgence in their style); some are not. All of them sweep by id up in both arms and dance a pretty waltz with it, and I swoon. I want that. I don't want a book I can float through: I want a book I can engage with, even if that sometimes means that all we're doing is fluttering our lashes at one another.
Like Maledicte. Lost Souls. The Likeness. The Secret History. Those are my om nom delicious candy books—but for me, true in a metaphor as it is in life, the candy is often a solid bar of 85% dark chocolate, rich and bitter and perhaps a bit pretentious, but delightfully so.
