I Want My Life Back, Holly Black

So, I read this book. It is a book I may or may not have read on my own, but we chose it for book club (yes, we are old ladies who knit and drink tea whilst talking about Jane Austen. You know you’re jealous) and my sisters both told me it was great. I was lured in by promises of epic writing and alternate reality Jace (I don’t know what this means, but I NEVER saw him!) and I began to read. If you're looking for a more descriptive review check this out http://thecornernotes.blogspot.com/

This is what I thought:

(Please be aware, spoilers may be contained in the coming text, you may want to avert your eyes)

White Cat let me down. Yes, it was well written and the plot kept you guessing and the characters were diverting. All in all, an exemplary novel. But I was disappointed by the story.

Nothing good ever happened to a single character in the entirety of the novel. You might find this hard to believe, but it’s true. Chapter after chapter, Cassel (the main character for those who have no idea what I’m talking about) revealed one more horrific thing that had happened to him or that he had done. And there was nothing you could to but watch the train head toward the cliff and pray that somebody would pull the emergency break in time. I kept reading because I was convinced that something good had to happen to SOMEONE, and at the end, Holly Black dangles the coveted carrot in front of you and says ‘Here’s your reward. Enjoy.’

I grabbed the thing with both hands, but upon closer inspection realized that it was rotten and nothing but a dirty trick.

Don’t ask me what I was thinking. I’ve read Holly Black before, I should have known better. The thing is I wanted to be fooled. I wanted to read something that was poetic and thrilling and beautiful and ended well. I was conned.

The thing is, I’m sick of having to choose between reading books that engage you with the writing, but leaving you with a story that makes you want to smash the book into a thousand pieces (literary fiction), or books that have an okay story, okay writing and a happy ending (romance novels or chick lit). I’m tired of people looking down their nose at me because I like Twilight, but if I said Wuthering Heights was my fave, that would be perfectly okay, admirable even.

I read those novels because they are full of love, and I believe in love, mostly because I have to believe in something. But White Cat made me want to believe nothing at all.

I wanted to throw this book at the wall, go hide in my room and cry. Honestly, this book made me feel worse than any book I ever read.

Maybe I missed the whole point of the book and maybe you can help me. But, to me, White Cat was just another portrait of how fucked up everything is and I don’t need that kind of shit.

So, thanks, Holly Black, for giving me absolutely nothing but bad memories. Guess I’ll know better next time.

Novels have ruined me.

Dear Diary,

Today, I watched Pride & Prejudice, the new version, where Darcy tromps across a field, while Elizabeth looks on in raptures. It occurred to me that this is very unlikely to ever happen to me. And no, I don't mean the petticoats and a guy named Darcy. I mean the ethereal, charged, passionate connection between Lizzie and Darcy as the dawn breaks over the misty field. Then I thought of every other romantic book/movie I had ever seen/read and realized that I probably have unrealistic expectations. This made me equal parts sad and angry.

Why have novels built up these standards and fairy tales about love triumphant over misunderstandings and social expectations and family obligations and, yes, sometimes evil? Why does the guy always end up with the girl and they have a emotionally stirring scene in which they both realize they are cracked and stumble over themselves to say they are in love? Where are the novels about how things really are? About a girl who has no romantic prospects and continues this throughout the entirety of the thing? In which everything is broken and their is no snap-your-fingers fix?

It occurs to me that these books do exist; I have just steered well clear of them. Is it better to be blissfully deluded or shockingly disillusioned? I think perhaps the former, and that may be the reason I write: to further cart myself into delusion. So I shall through in my hat for the corruption of todays youth and give your this little thing that I have written. Maybe we can fool each other for just a little while longer.

Hey you. I know you.


You're in every movie I see and every book I read. I swear, you were in that last episode of Vampire Diaries.
You're in ads on the bus bench and in the articles of my local news. I rarely bother, but sometimes I see you in a classified or an opinion piece and I know it's worth it.
You're there when my mother clips coupons and when our basket fills with organic milk and Smart Food, you're there too.
In the spring, you're in the tress (you know, the ones I think are cherry blossoms, but never produce cherries?), when the balmy breeze throws pink petals into my clothes, I feel you there. And when the pink petals turn to red leaves and the balmy breeze turns to brisk wind, I hear you tell me you'll always be here, no matter how the world changes.
When I put on my clothes, I try to pick thing you'd like, which is near impossible, given your revolving tastes. And if i go out, I put on a pretty dress and take special care with my appearance, because I want you to think I'm beautiful.
While I write this, I'm waiting for you. I wait for you every day and every day you keep me waiting. I wait for you like an alcoholic waits for a liver transplant - I know I don't deserve it, but if you showed up, I could turn it all around. I could give up my not-so-wonderful habits and make myself worthy of someone like you. Or I could at least fake it until YOU started seeing ME everywhere.
So I'll keep putting on pretty dresses and I'll keep waiting for you so that one day, I can say 'Hey, you. I know you. You're every sappy song on the radio and every time my lungs turn oxygen into CO2, I'm taking in a little piece of you (because, did you know that we're still breathing the same air as Jesus?).'
So, I guess I'll content myself with that while I wait. Because I want to say 'Hey, you. I know you. Maybe you know me too?'


Maybe it's my own version of middle child syndrome, but I'd like to know that someone is listening to me. Maybe it's too early to ask, but if you want, leave a comment or something.

Bye.

So, I have this addiction...

I don't really know what constitutes as a legit blog, so you're just going to have to bear with me as I muddle though my first couple (trillion (is trillion even a real word?)) posts. But, my sister has a blog and if I could figure out how to put a link in the side bar, I would show it too you. Anywho, she sometimes posts what she's writing, so I thought I would give that a whirl.

This may or may not have occurred to you already, but I'm a writer. I write because the alternative is to slowly dissolve into madness. When I write, I can be anyone, go anywhere. I can be free when I write and that freedom is something, I think, that everyone chases. And I am lucky to grasp that, even just for a moment.

So I think I'll share my little portion of freedom with you.

The willows hang in desolate readiness. They crave the wind like a wallflower craves a partner.
When the wind does come, they play coy, shying this way and that, because a lady must never seem too eager.
Luckily for them both, the wind is not dissuaded by hesitance. 
It redoubles its efforts and the willow is caught up in its fervor
They spin and twirl and glide until the willow is lush with life and dizzy on oxygen. But the wind is heedless of its partner's state, whipping her further and faster while she shrieks in delight.
They are frenzied now, no longer cautious, still achingly graceful, as they writhe and tangle, then slide free and begin again. They are heedless of time and place, of desires that do not include each other and strictures they do not place on themselves.
There is no sound but the screams of the willow as the wind caresses her with such urgency that there is nothing to do but scream.
There is no time, but the time they have left, but they have long since learned to turn seconds into hours and minutes into lifetimes.
The willow is so consumed by sensation, that when the wind is gone as suddenly as he appeared, she feels his absence as a physical blow and hangs defeated in the place she once called home.
Her only consolation as she is suffocated by loneliness is that the wind always returns.
So she will always be waiting.


Obnoxious question time: What did you think? Blog: too long, too short? Am I mildly interesting? Did you like it? What's your favourite colour?

Until next time then.

My name is Rachel. Through out my short life, I have wanted to be called various different names. Each novel I read, each movie I saw, brought on a new phase of “Don’t call me Rachel, call me…”

I think this was mostly influenced by my big sister, who went through the longest time period wanting to be called Molly (I think it had something to do with pirates – or American Girl).

Now that we are older, and the time for name-changing has past, we try to reinvent ourselves in more age appropriate ways. We dye our hair, change our clothes, read new books, write with more confidence (only maybe not) and try to find some kind of vocation that means something to us.

My big sister has flown the coop in search of something not found at home, and I guess it’s my turn to follow in her footsteps, as I have done so many times before. So I guess this blog will chronicle my transition from rebel child to dubiously-qualified adult.

I hope you (even if it’s just you, Alex) will take this ride with me and maybe we’ll come out on the other side a little better off for our trouble.