On Books, Prisoners, my father and a fuckload of dragons.
ahah you know what? I don't think I'll ever stop loving Anne McCaffery books. The ones she wrote before her dumbass son stuck his head in and went WHEE LETS MAKE THIS MOAR BLATANTLY SUEISH IF THATS EVEN POSSIBLE.
I started reading them just before I went to live with my dad. I wasn't in a good place, there. I wasn't in a good place at dad's either, at least for the first half a year. Meeting Tangerinedreams changed that drastically, but for a while there the only solace I had was in books. My mum sent me up about ten Pern books, because she loves me. She knew that I wanted to read them and she was more than willing to feed my habit. I've still got a majority of them in my book shelf, and I can't make myself throw them out. Even though they're basically literary hamburgers.
I wanted a world that was fantastic. It was the perfect blend of science fiction and fantasy, for me. I wanted to believe that there was a place where giant dragons fought an enemy and saved the world with a little help from their human friends. The idea of searching fascinated me, and how the gender roles switched. I was so happy when one of the prequel books came out and girls! were impressing all sorts of colours, not just golds. I used to daydream that I was a brown rider, and that one day I would get to have my shot at saving the world.
I've got a bit of a story to tell about those books, though. Mum sent them up to me to read, in a big care package. My dad got a hold of it before me and "hid" the books, telling me that when I'd done my chores/gotten good grades/didn't embarass him in front of his church friends/became not myself anymore that he would give them to me one by one. I found out fairly fucking quickly where he was hiding them and once I finished one, I would just go take the other. And when it looked like he was going to find out (because he'd never given me one yet) I took them all and hid them myself. He did the same thing with some of my other books too. I have a bad habit of reading in the loo. And I'd sit up in bed too, and he'd abduct those books (Joanna Bertin's Dragonlord series, of which the third one has never been published waaaah) and place them, open, under his mattress. I'm surprised the books even survived. I'd go rescue them after a bit (once I figured out where they were) but seriously.
I read a book that I keep trying to find now (no such luck and don't wanna pay fourty bucks for amazon shipping plz) called Last Train to Alcatraz by Leon 'whitey' Thompson. It belonged to a family friend, and my stepmother let me borrow it. It's about the last man to be released from alcatraz with no parole before the place shut down. He wrote a second book, On the Merry-go-round or something like that, which I haven't been able to find either. It wasn't what got me started on true crime stories but it did give me more of a shove in that direction. But after I'd read that I picked up a Hell's Angels book and THATS when dad decided to step in. Obviously his daughter wasn't allowed to read books like that, ever. They were too adult for a fifteen year old. His life, so hard.
I've got a couple of other Father=/=Books related stories, if anyone else wants to hear them. But yeah.
Long story short, I still like Anne McCaffery even if she is a crazy bitch neener neener
I started reading them just before I went to live with my dad. I wasn't in a good place, there. I wasn't in a good place at dad's either, at least for the first half a year. Meeting Tangerinedreams changed that drastically, but for a while there the only solace I had was in books. My mum sent me up about ten Pern books, because she loves me. She knew that I wanted to read them and she was more than willing to feed my habit. I've still got a majority of them in my book shelf, and I can't make myself throw them out. Even though they're basically literary hamburgers.
I wanted a world that was fantastic. It was the perfect blend of science fiction and fantasy, for me. I wanted to believe that there was a place where giant dragons fought an enemy and saved the world with a little help from their human friends. The idea of searching fascinated me, and how the gender roles switched. I was so happy when one of the prequel books came out and girls! were impressing all sorts of colours, not just golds. I used to daydream that I was a brown rider, and that one day I would get to have my shot at saving the world.
I've got a bit of a story to tell about those books, though. Mum sent them up to me to read, in a big care package. My dad got a hold of it before me and "hid" the books, telling me that when I'd done my chores/gotten good grades/didn't embarass him in front of his church friends/became not myself anymore that he would give them to me one by one. I found out fairly fucking quickly where he was hiding them and once I finished one, I would just go take the other. And when it looked like he was going to find out (because he'd never given me one yet) I took them all and hid them myself. He did the same thing with some of my other books too. I have a bad habit of reading in the loo. And I'd sit up in bed too, and he'd abduct those books (Joanna Bertin's Dragonlord series, of which the third one has never been published waaaah) and place them, open, under his mattress. I'm surprised the books even survived. I'd go rescue them after a bit (once I figured out where they were) but seriously.
I read a book that I keep trying to find now (no such luck and don't wanna pay fourty bucks for amazon shipping plz) called Last Train to Alcatraz by Leon 'whitey' Thompson. It belonged to a family friend, and my stepmother let me borrow it. It's about the last man to be released from alcatraz with no parole before the place shut down. He wrote a second book, On the Merry-go-round or something like that, which I haven't been able to find either. It wasn't what got me started on true crime stories but it did give me more of a shove in that direction. But after I'd read that I picked up a Hell's Angels book and THATS when dad decided to step in. Obviously his daughter wasn't allowed to read books like that, ever. They were too adult for a fifteen year old. His life, so hard.
I've got a couple of other Father=/=Books related stories, if anyone else wants to hear them. But yeah.
Long story short, I still like Anne McCaffery even if she is a crazy bitch neener neener