Sorry I’m running late… and that I’ve skipped a couple of weeks of posts. Life has been nutty, and last week—to top things off—my internet crapped out on me. Aaargh. Frazzled Jen, people. I cannot live without my internet.
Anyway, this will be just a short post of random bits… I promise to try to do better next time.
Quick recap of some things with me:
I finally worked up the nerve to post a snippet over at compuserve. (P.S. I’m sorry I haven’t responded or left any comments yet—I will try to get to them very soon.) It freaked me out to no end, but I did it, by George! Whoot!
I’m hoping—HOPING—to participate in the Houseparty, which I believe begins this Friday. It’s a super busy time at work, so if I do make it, it will probably be for just a short while. But I’m definitely going to make an attempt to drag Maddy and Gabe to the soiree.
I went on a ghost tour of my town tonight. It got me in the mood to work on something with a more….paranormal bent. I may have to bust out some BTPM…or even better…the sequel. (g) Definitely the right time of year for it.
I’ve been reading some, when I can. Just finished I AM THE MESSENGER by Markus Zusak. It has THE FUNNIEST opening scene I’ve read in a long time. I couldn’t stop giggling, seriously.
I have just started THE THIRTEENTH TALE by Diane Setterfield. I’m not far enough into it to even say whether I like it (g), but I have to share with you a passage that leapt off the page at me. The main character helps run her father’s bookstore…and this is what she has to say about the books—i.e. the authors—she tends to.
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
It’s so funny. I’ve never thought about books in this light. For me, writing is about the story. About being able to translate a discombobulated jumble of thoughts and ideas onto the page. Breathing life into a world—into characters—that wouldn’t exist otherwise. I write because if I don’t, no one will know them. I write to try to do them justice. Scary, yet fascinating, to think of my books in this new light. That they are in fact a reflection of me as a person – and someday they might help someone to remember and/or discover who I am.
Definitely one to ponder, but…it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?