Narc
So I will write here just to brain-hear myself talk. Because sometimes that is the best way to convince myself of my thoughts. To believe they are sound or vast or really dumb.
I'm in the middle of reading a really put-together book by that author I was lamenting earlier. It's really good in the way that I want to have someone squee over the skills with me. I have read bits out loud to Wesley. That almost always helps, but in a totally incorrect way. He tends to look at me like I'm crazy or raise an eyebrow when I say after reading a bit, "Don't you think that's excellent?" He reads the weirdest, most boring shit sometimes. I couldn't get through the first chapter of Dracula and he ate that shit up. It's not just boring, it's dusty. He told me The Lord of the Rings was boring! WHAT? Seriously, I almost questioned the foundation of our marriage when he referred to the hobbits as midgets.
So, bouncing my squee off him doesn't work. It does, however, lead to me joke with him about his lack of style in books, and him to joke with me about my overly dramatic reading choices. We have a laugh and I am no longer in the grips of the book. No longer desperate for communion on its beauty. For a time.
It does sneak back upon me, though, especially if the book is good enough to tyrannize my thoughts long after I've set it down. And this book does. I think the ones that do it to me the most are those that build characters that seem like extreme versions of my daydream self. Or the self I would like to be.
It leaves me here, thinking about the beauty of the book, and the rash and violent beauty of its characters, and wondering if I'll ever drive a 1973 Camero.
If I ever see Maggie Stiefvater, I will most likely avoid eye contact and act like she doesn't exist. She's moving up to Jack White status. I don't want to ruin it.
I'm in the middle of reading a really put-together book by that author I was lamenting earlier. It's really good in the way that I want to have someone squee over the skills with me. I have read bits out loud to Wesley. That almost always helps, but in a totally incorrect way. He tends to look at me like I'm crazy or raise an eyebrow when I say after reading a bit, "Don't you think that's excellent?" He reads the weirdest, most boring shit sometimes. I couldn't get through the first chapter of Dracula and he ate that shit up. It's not just boring, it's dusty. He told me The Lord of the Rings was boring! WHAT? Seriously, I almost questioned the foundation of our marriage when he referred to the hobbits as midgets.
So, bouncing my squee off him doesn't work. It does, however, lead to me joke with him about his lack of style in books, and him to joke with me about my overly dramatic reading choices. We have a laugh and I am no longer in the grips of the book. No longer desperate for communion on its beauty. For a time.
It does sneak back upon me, though, especially if the book is good enough to tyrannize my thoughts long after I've set it down. And this book does. I think the ones that do it to me the most are those that build characters that seem like extreme versions of my daydream self. Or the self I would like to be.
It leaves me here, thinking about the beauty of the book, and the rash and violent beauty of its characters, and wondering if I'll ever drive a 1973 Camero.
If I ever see Maggie Stiefvater, I will most likely avoid eye contact and act like she doesn't exist. She's moving up to Jack White status. I don't want to ruin it.