fiddle*sticks

Because Everyone is Entitled to My Opinion

In Which She Can’t Choose a Book July 31, 2007

Filed under: Reading is Good For Your Brain — violin3679 @ 3:41 pm

I am the absolute worst at picking out a book. I confess, I am 100% guilty of judging a book by it’s cover. I think I’m partially undiagnosed ADD, so sitting and reading the first bit of a book does me no good, because I’m not really paying any attention to what I’m reading. All I’m thinking is yeah…yeah…ok…whatever…maybe this cute green one will be better. Or the pink one under that…or, ooh maybe if I get a chai latte I’ll be inspired. Maybe I’ll read something uber-intellectual, philosophy, or OOH yeah, don’t they sell Yoga mats here? BENJAMIN BUNNY!

I need some gingko-biloba or something.

I ended up leaving the book store with a receipt organizer and a blank notebook. Got to the car and realized I CAN’T READ THIS.

So. If anyone has any suggestions, I am all ears. Clearly I can’t make this decision on my own.

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Composting October 27, 2006

Filed under: Reading is Good For Your Brain — violin3679 @ 3:02 pm

So this is why I haven’t posted for the last week…

‘Life is compost.’

I blinked.

‘You think that a strange thing to say, but it’s true. All my life and all my experience, the events that have befallen me, the people I have known, all my memories, dreams, fantasies, everything I have ever read, all of that has been chucked into the compost heap where over time it has rotted down to a dark, rich, organic mulch. The process of cellular breakdown makes it unrecognizable. Other people call it the imagination. I think of it as a compost heap. Every so often I take an idea, plant it in the compost, and wait. It feeds on that black stuff that used to be a life, takes its energy for its own. It germinates. Takes root. Produces shoots. And so on and so forth, until one fine day I have a story, or a novel.’

I nodded, liking the analogy.

‘Readers,’ continued Miss Winter, ‘are fools. They believe all writing is autobiographical. And so it is, but not in the way they think. The writer’s life needs time to rot away before it can be used to nourish a work of fiction. It must be allowed to decay. That’s why I couldn’t have journalists and biographers rummaging around in my past, retrieving bits and pieces of it, preserving it in their words. To write my books I needed my past left in peace, for time to do its work.’

From Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale