Not All Who Wander Are Lost
As the long lists went up for Book Blogger Appreciation Week, I’ve gotten a chance to really check out some blogs that I usually don’t venture over to. It turns out that there are some really fascinating things out there. Well, ok, not “turns out”; I knew that there were. I think that I often think that I have such a strange and varied taste in books that I tend to write off other readers in my literary escapades and have applied my failures in my “real life” to my trepidations among the blogging community. It took me a long time to feel comfortable enough to actually leave comments on other bloggers’ posts and it’s taken me even longer (nearly two years) to actually leave comments of substance on any old blog that I choose. Yes, like with opinions and more than two words and everything.
I think that my biggest fear in all of this comes from a perceived constant rejection in that previously referred to “real life”. I feel like in the Match.com of readers, I seriously suck at connecting. Sometimes I feel like a snob and sometimes I feel like a teeny bopper. Sometimes I think I’m just plain old weird. While this last part is probably true (emphasis on “true”, ignore the “probably”), I think I’ve managed, over the years to come up with why I just don’t feel like I fit in.
Things that put me in a the “reading snob” category:
I don’t like memoirs or celebrity tell-alls unless they are written by Ernest Hemingway and called A Moveable Feast.
I didn’t like The Help or The DaVinci Code but have enjoyed better written pieces on racism and/or creepy European art fetishes.
I read, watch and understand Shakespeare. I make jokes and reference songs that allude to things like Hamlet and Julius Caesar but do not think that this is weird.
I expect seriously good quality when reading children’s books and YA novels. This I blame on my parents and will ruthlessly inflict on my children.
Vampires give me the gosh darn creeps. Period.
I consider Orwell and Bradbury “YA Dystopian Lit”.
I can and do use “existentialist” and “transcendentalist” in what I consider to be relatively normal, everyday conversation.
Things that put me in the “teeny bopper” category:
I do enjoy well-written and purposeful YA Dystopian fiction.
Werewolves do not creep me out as much as vampires, most likely because I have always lived with at least one dog but have never snuggled on the couch with a bat. Poor suckers (literally) never had a chance.
The Giver is in my list of top ten books of all time.
I find Libba Bray absolutely hysterical and would love to marry her if we were not both already taken. I also do not think this is creepy. (Is it creepy? Ok, it’s creepy. Sorry.)
I do, in fact, “give a darn” about who casting powers place in The Hunger Games. Oh, and I’m still pissed that they turned it into a movie. (see: Things That Put Me In The “Reading Snob” Category)
My staff, at school, is currently in possession of about half of my personal library and know that I will probably come up as a positive source of almost any teen-related book published in the last five years. (Guilty as charged.)
I initially picked up Sartre’s Age of Reason because of The O.C. Season Four. Please don’t tell anyone this. It will totally destroy my street cred.
Things that put me in the “weird” category:
You really need more things than what you have?
Any way, why the strange, mildly self-deprecating, sort of self-righteous post? As I look through others’ blogs. I sometimes gather that I have no theme. Other people seem to have reading direction or focuses. Do all of my strange rules or preferences leave me with a wide open span of unlimited reading opportunity or do they just put me completely out of the running for my reading or blogging to ever amount to anything concrete? I honestly have no idea. All I know is that I’m going to keep reading and I’m going to keep writing. Maybe I’ll find my way or my niche or maybe I won’t. As my mommy used to say, “the future’s not ours alone to see”.