What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Coelho

The depths of my brother's closet of books produced The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho for my reading pleasure the past couple days. It was ... interesting. I'm not sure there's a lot to say about it, actually.


It's a philosophical book in the same way that The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery (one of my all-time favorites - I actually carry a copy of it in my purse at all times) is a philosophical book. Both take place in Africa, now that I think about it.

Now, I've only read Coelho's book once, and I've read The Little Prince countless number of times, but I still think there is more to The Little Prince than there is to The Alchemist. I might be wrong. Maybe more will show up if I read it again (which I'm not planning on doing anytime soon). In comparison, The Alchemist was heavy-handed; there was little to no subtlety about its message. I'm sure some people like that. I've learned, however, that I'm a reader (and writer) who enjoys digging for deeper meaning and ideas instead of having them handed to me. I want to ask my own questions and find my own answers in the text, something The Alchemist did not seem to encourage. Not only was I not invited to ask my own questions, but I was handed answers to those questions the text forced me to ask.

I sound like I'm holding a grudge, don't I? I guess I'm terribly biased in favor of The Little Prince. I'm unrepentant, though. Sorry.

The few times when I did ask my own question, the answer was decidedly shrouded in mysticism. Like when I wondered something so simple as how the wind was talking. Talking wind is a logical jump, something Coelho is asking me to believe simply because I'm in a world of fiction. The problem is that his "Language of the World" is made up of body language and the vibes given off by emotion, and he never explains how understanding that language translates into understanding how to talk to the wind, the desert, or anything else.

But what about the central message, Elizabeth? Surely you can set all this aside in deference to Coelho's message? ... I'll have to think about it. The logical jumps really got in the way for me. I guess I like that the ending circled around, kind of a experience-is-worth-the-trouble message. I did like the mini stories that popped up here and there, so Coelho's at least got that going for him.

Okay, there is one message I got and liked from The Alchemist. I just remembered it. I liked the idea of how the world and fear can get in the way of achieving one's dream, but that we need to move forward anyway.

My dream is to be a published novelist that is read. I've always wanted to write books, ever since I first learned to write. I went to college and am getting a degree that many would consider useless, all because I wanted to study and become a better writer. I started this blog because having a writer's blog makes sense to me in the long run. I'm pursuing my dream. Andrew Carnegie once said that the first third of a person's life should be spent learning, the second part working/earning money, and the third part spending all that money to benefit others. I am not as money-centered as I'm sure Carnegie was, but I love the idea of a life divided into thirds. The only problem is that I don't know when I'll die. Oh, and there's the problem that I love learning and want that third to last my entire life (hopefully not because I die that soon, but because I just never stop learning). I'm in my learning stage right now, and I'm headed in the right direction to achieve my dream. Reader, I hope you are doing likewise.

Cool

This was my first attempt at a poem that is meant to be read aloud. So go ahead and charm the person next to you with your dramatic reading of it. I hope you enjoy it.

Cool

This summer, I learned cool.

I learned it because I hung with someone different from me,

Someone whose father’s job was playing lottery,

Someone who grew up in SoCal but took themselves to Disneyland when they were nineteen

because they were tired of seeing happiness via widescreen,

Someone who looked at me in the Safeway parking lot and asked, “You’re a virgin?”

My response: “Yes. That surprise you?”

This summer, I learned my family is cool,

Cool because we shingled our own roof and had neighbors stopping by with lemonade,

Cool because we all attend my sister’s bedroom floor tea parties,

Cool because we had a masquerade while we were camping,

Cool because us kids would play baseball in the backyard—

Almost enough of us to play, but not quite,

so we’d just use the person on second when we ran out of batters.

I learned that cool isn’t Fonzie like my mom said it is,

And, second-hand from someone who was the stereotype of cool,

I also learned cool isn’t getting drunk and having a one-night stand,

And threesomes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

My professor told me he’s never seen a family that is a team,

That faces life like the Avengers upholding each other’s dreams.

It’s sad that the part of my story that I thought was cliché

Is the part that makes it interesting and intriguing and cool—

It’s that sister who’s moved out and Skypes the younger for her birthday.

They have a Play-Doh sculpting competition judged by Mom.

I learned that cool is knowing the rules to Dominion,

Watching meteor showers while lying on a backyard trampoline,

Wearing a friendship bracelet made by my sister,

Knowing how to roast a marshmallow so it looks like the sunset,

And having the patience to stand up to jerks

Coupled with the self-control to not lash back.

And what’s cool about it all isn’t the glamour or the glory or the gold,

Because that stuff isn’t there.

What’s cool is that the life I was born living

is the one a broken Cinderella somewhere is wishing for,

thinking it’s impossible.

But I’m here to tell you it is possible.

That’s not to say we have it all, though,

Because we don’t.

I borrowed my prom dress,

I used fourth-hand skis,

I spent summers doing work outside,

I wore Wal-Mart to a high school that shopped at designer stores,

Every weekend, I helped take care of my great-grandmother from Germany,

And Ben Franklin became my hero because he thought up the lending library.

This summer I learned that Dorothy was right when she said there’s no place like home,

when she abandoned those ruby shoes

And all the fame from Emerald City.

I learned she was right because this summer, I learned about cool.

And it’s family and home and kickin’ it old school.

On Fiction; also, Lara Vapnyar

As an English major, I've heard about the New Yorker. No, I can't recall ever hearing about it outside of school. My parents don't even get the newspaper, why would they get an upscale literary magazine, if that's what you would call the New Yorker? Anyway, a while back, I decided to take a look at it.

The first complete story I read was Katania by Lara Vapnyar. I started reading it only knowing it was a short story. I didn't know what it would be about, I didn't know the genre, I had no familiarity with the author. I just knew it was probably well-written, since it was in the New Yorker. After a little while of reading, I realized I still didn't know if the story was fiction or nonfiction. As soon as I realized this, I started trying to decide which it was. Then, almost as soon as I started wondering, I decided I did not care if the story was fiction or nonfiction. This was, for me, a first.

I cannot recall ever not being able to tell; then again, I've always entered a story knowing one way or the other. I did make a bad mistake in one of my writing classes this past semester, when a woman was asking us to help her decide whether to workshop one short story or a different one, and I told her to do the first because in the second, I could care less about the female narrator who was talking about a life-threatening illness she had. Turns out the second one was autobiographical nonfiction. Whoops.

It turns out that Katania is fiction, written by a woman who was born Russian. To date, the only stories she has written for the New Yorker have been about Russians. Talk about writing about what you know. I haven't read her other stuff, but the one story was incredibly believable. The details were realistic, precise, and in just the right places. As I said, I couldn't tell if it was fiction or nonfiction. For a short story like that, I really can't think of any praise that could be higher, unless the story has changed my life (but it hasn't, so I can't say that).

This story helped to illustrate to me just how incredible and realistic fiction can be (but hey, who needs completely realistic fiction? Not a requirement!). I have always preferred fiction to nonfiction (unless you count myths or scripture, but I'm setting those aside as being different from your regular nonfiction). If you look at where the American education system is going right now, it looks like I might be in the minority, though. The new Common Core standards specify that students' reading be made up of 70 percent nonfiction and only 30 percent fiction. I'll be honest and say when I first read that, I thought it was an error. I still think it's an error, but the error doesn't lie with the news media.

One of my favorite quotes, something that is on the first page of my OneNote work notebook, is by Albert Einstein: "Logic can get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." In a world that is placing an increasing amount of emphasis on critical thinking skills, imagination is an essential. Someone without imagination would turn out to be Vernon Dursley; or, in the words of Ursula K. Le Guin, "I doubt the imagination can be truly suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant."

The world needs your imagination, whoever you are. Without imagination, progress is halted, because no one will come up with new ideas, new dreams, new possibilities. The impossible will remain impossible. Imagination and critical thinking go hand in hand; nonfiction gives you facts, and fiction invites you to meddle with them.

As far as I can tell, the reasoning behind the government's decision to impose nonfiction on students comes from the idea that students cannot understand textbooks when they finally reach college. I guess they figure that nonfiction is more difficult to read than fiction. It's true that not all fiction is hard to read, but all fiction can be used to discuss issues our society is facing today. Teachers can and should be using fiction to teach ethics, self-development, cultural differences, and whatever else is packed into that story they decide to read with their students (the possibilities are endless, honestly).

My biggest reason for including fiction as a major component of a child's education: For the vast majority of children, reading fiction is more fun and entertaining than reading nonfiction. Learning to enjoy reading leads to a lifetime of reading. A lifetime of reading is a lifetime of not only imagination exercise, but also a lifetime of learning.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Koontz

Welcome to Winter Break, where Elizabeth spends a lot of her time reading. Don't worry; I do other stuff, too. Like re-watch Cinderella (Disney's) because I hadn't done so in years, take the family's dog for a walk (he ate some deer or elk poop today. Not sure if and when I should inform my mother), do my Christmas shopping, play games with my family, and figure out how to use two spatulas to flip a fat quesadilla without losing too much of the inside stuff.

When a book is good, and I have nothing else in particular to do (and when my older brother has been recently bugging me about how I'm not reading as fast as he thinks I should/could be), I can read really fast. Actually, I could read even faster, but when I read in my head, I think each word, just as I would say each word when I read aloud. If I go too fast, I start freaking out because my mind thinks it needs air. I don't actually start hyperventilating, though. It's more like my brain says, "SLOW DOWN, ELIZABETH! I NEED TO TAKE A BREATH!" So I rarely read that fast.

I mention that as my lead-in to the fact that it only took me a day and a half to read Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas. Koontz is a popular writer, so I'm glad I took a look at something he wrote. From what I've heard, Odd Thomas is more comedic than his books usually are, which I don't mind in the least. I love it when a book makes me laugh. This one did once or twice, but mostly the humor wasn't laugh-out-loud funny.

The writing was fine. I could tell Koontz has studied writing. It wasn't anything absolutely brilliant, but his target audience is not looking for brilliant. They want suspense. My older brother (who has been popping up a lot on this blog today) said Odd Thomas was like a comedic horror novel, but I disagree. I think it was dark urban fantasy with comedic undertones. That's my succinct genre-placement of this book. Too bad they don't have that section in the library. I'm not even completely positive it's an actual genre. It definitely isn't one of the traditional ones, that's for sure.

I must say that the ending nearly made me cry. My heart definitely dropped, and I felt sad. So kudos to Koontz for the ending; it was well done.

I'm not really sure what to write about this book, honestly. If you enjoy the genre, you ought to read the book. If you don't like the genre, don't read it. It's as simple as that. Odd Thomas is a book that aims to entertain those who are entertained by that genre.

P.S. - This book is the first in a series about Odd (the main character of Odd Thomas). I haven't read the series, so I can't tell you either way. My bet is that if you enjoy this book, you should think about reading the others. Also: They made a movie out of this book just this year. It's unrated, but I believe the author said it was a great adaptation of the book. The trailer for the movie certainly looked like it followed the book closely.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Sanderson

Here's what happened: This semester, I was in the funny position of not having enough money to buy all my books for school, which meant I couldn't do all my reading homework. Not being able to do my reading homework equated to more downtime. More downtime = more time for reading. So I visited the library. Benjamin Franklin (invented the lending library) is my hero.

I was in the city library, perusing for a book, when I had the idea to text my older brother for a recommendation. He suggested Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson, so that's what I got. My older brother has wonderful taste in books. So I read the first Mistborn book. The only problem with this was that it reminding me how totally awesome it is to read stuff for myself instead of just for homework. Reading is like an addictive drug, and I had to force myself to continue doing my homework instead of just reading for fun. So it was a while before I allowed myself the chance to read the second book. The reason I read the second book was that I got a mild case of pinkeye and put myself under house arrest. It was the middle of my first day stuck inside with little to do when I realized that I would be stuck in there for who knew how long. Not a fun prospect. Solution: I asked a friend to visit the library for me and get the next book. The final book followed that one soon after.

When I started reading Mistborn, I had mixed feelings. On one hand, the writing was good and the characters were fun. On the other hand, practicing magic via swallowing metal was a bit weird. Sanderson is known for his skill in creating original magic systems. This was definitely original . . . and a bit weird. Eventually, I acclimatized to it and was able to enjoy the story.

SPOILER ALERT: When I finished the last book of the trilogy, I was not sure how I felt about it. I mean, the main characters died. That doesn't usually happen. I must admit that I found it funny that I read Mistborn just before I read The Chronicles of Narnia (I'm posting out of order. Deal with it.), and both series ended with the main characters dying. What are the odds? After some reflection, I decided that the ending of Mistborn is actually one of the best story endings I have ever read. I put that in bold just in case someone isn't reading this spoiler, because I still want them to know that. I wonder if it worked. Guess I'll never know. The reason it was one of the best is that it felt real to me. In real life, people die. The hero doesn't always make it, yet people move on and make the best of it. Such a reminder of reality is rarely seen in fantasy, but I thought it fit the story and was brilliantly done.

OKAY, I'M DONE SPOILING THINGS. Jeepers. Anyway, I wanted to mention that I also love how well thought-out this story was. By "well thought-out," I mean that everything just fits. The details, the characters, the storyline, it all goes well together. I couldn't guess what would happen next, but when it did happen, I would instantly see that what happened was correct for the story.

By the way, I have read Elantris since, and Mistborn is definitely its superior. Elantris is good, but I guess Mistborn set a high bar for Sanderson, and Elantris didn't reach that bar. Since E. was his debut novel, I'm not holding it against him.

The one thing I didn't really like about the Sanderson books I have read so far is that his climaxes are too drawn out for my taste. Elantris's climax was around 40 pages long, I believe. I was interested the whole time, but the excitement and adrenaline didn't carry me through like it ought to have done. There just wasn't enough steam for that much climax. It's like with modern movies - these days, movies are usually around three hours, it seems. For me, two hours is a great length for a movie. With three hours, I'm getting restless, ready to turn it off, wondering when it will be over, even though I am still interested in the story. There just isn't enough adrenaline to keep the intensity level that high for that long. For me, anyway. Maybe someone else keeps adrenaline in a drawer and can inject extra when they need it. You never know these days, after all.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Lewis

I am so behind it is mildly embarrassing. I'm contemplating making this blog my New Year's Resolution. We'll see if that happens. I might just make it my resolution to graduate college with my BA and get a job all while keeping my sanity. That's enough of a goal for one person, right?

I have a deep love for C.S. Lewis and have loved him since I first read Mere Christianity. My older brother gave me a copy of the book for Christmas this year, by the way. I was and still am really excited. I love that book. Anyway, if it came down to it, I might say that C.S. Lewis is my favorite author, but you'd have to understand what I mean by that. I absolutely adore Charles Dickens's writing, but the guy had an affair that lasted years, as far as I remember. Not the coolest guy. Jane Austen always promises a wonderful read, but she talked her sister out of marrying the man she loved (again, if I remember right), so that's rather hypocritical. Okay, it's not hypocritical if you only consult Sense and Sensibility, but that book's ending was a major downer. There isn't a contemporary author who has snagged my attention and adoration yet, unless you count Shane Koyczan, but he's not an author. He's a spoken-word poet. So what I'm saying, then, is that I love C.S. Lewis because not only was he a genius, but he also was a good person. I mean, the man personally replied to every letter he got from a child. It can't get much better than that.

I once said C.S. Lewis is one dead person I would be honored to have over for dinner. When my friend responded with something about having a corpse over for dinner, I said I'd still be honored to have it in the room, but would probably want it to stay in the coffin, because I'm pretty sure having a corpse sit next to you at the dinner table would disturb your appetite.

It was with sadness that I stopped being in denial over the fact that I had never read The Chronicles of Narnia, despite my love for Lewis. With some free time on my hands resulting from the end of the semester, I set out to read the entire series. It took me about a week., much less time than I thought it would take. The reasons are twofold: One, before I started reading, I didn't realize they would be such an easy read. Two, my older brother kept bugging me about how slowly I was reading them. There's no motivation quite like trying to escape harassment.

End result: the books only confirmed my adoration of Lewis. They were children's books after the old fashion, like Alice in Wonderland or The Little Prince, where imagination is explored and children are praised for their ability to believe. This being C.S. Lewis, of course, the books had Christian themes. For Christians out there considering reading these books for yourself or to your children, know that they helped to illustrate the love of God like little else I have ever read.

But you don't have to have the Bible memorized, or even read, to get the story. As the poet Jane Hirschfield once told me, a story or poem should be easily comprehensible for anyone reading it, but there could be deeper meaning beneath for those who wish to sit and think about it. The Narnia books are like that.

One other thing I loved about these books was how they were narrated. Reading The Chronicles of Narnia didn't feel like reading a book; rather, it felt like I, as a person instead of an audience, was being told a story. Before this, I hadn't realized there was much of a difference. The difference is that instead of falling headlong into the story and becoming oblivious to the world around me, I felt like the story was being told as if Lewis was sitting in an armchair by the fire, talking as a grandpa would to his grandchildren.

Here are some fun and blatant examples to show what the narrator did that I loved. The parentheses are in the text itself:

"He had no wife and lived in a very large house with a housekeeper called Mrs. Macready and three servants. (Their names were Ivy, Margaret and Betty, but they do not come into the story much.)"

 "The whole crowd of liberated statues surged back into the courtyard. And it was then that someone (Tumnus, I think) first said . . ."

This one came after some dialogue by a beaver:

"This was bad grammar, of course, but that is how beavers talk when they are excited; I mean, in Narnia - in our world, they usually don't talk at all."

His narration was, for me, endearing. Yes, it pulled me out of the story, but it didn't do it so much that it was annoying. I'm sure that Lewis did it on purpose; acknowledgement of the real world and the reader's life actually made the book more believable.