This Saturday, I finally took the hike I’ve been promising myself since pretty much forever. Hiking is something I claim to love, even though I only go once or twice a year. That really ought to change, don’t you think? I had a great climb up Wildcat Peak in Tilden Park in the early morning, and then spent the late morning winding my way down through the park and avoiding my students, several of whom were out with their families, enjoying the day.
I’m something like six months into this blogging experiment now, and I’m beginning to feel a little ambivalent. When I got started, I had a purpose: keeping a loving long-distance community abreast of our struggle, and giving myself a place to vent, rant, and try to make sense of things.
But these days? Things make a lot more sense. Please don’t misunderstand–I wouldn’t have it any other way. I thank God for every night that I come home to Faramir, make dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. Sans desperation, however, it’s sometimes difficult to find motivation to write. I could write about my job, and sometimes I do, but…I just did that job all day long. I don’t always want to write an essay about it once I get home (the progress reports are finally finished, BTW. I mean the form was finalized and we wrote the damn things). I could write about things we cook, but there’s so many better recipe blogs out there.
Anyway. I’ll keep writing if you keep reading, and you’ll keep reading if I keep writing. I have read a couple of decent books lately, though…
The Children’s Book, by A. S. Byatt. LOVED this. Absolutely riveting. I’ve been meaning to break into A. S. Byatt’s work for some time now, and this gives me confidence to go on. It’s also a great lesson in fiction technique. If you have tons of characters and you don’t know what to do with them…well, without giving too much away, I can tell you that World War I will solve that problem very quickly.
Purge, by Sofi Oksanen. Meh. It certainly held my interest. The translation was mostly smooth and didn’t feel awkward. It definitely made me realize how little I know about the last half-century or so in Eastern Europe (in general, it’s safe to assume that, until I demonstrate otherwise, I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’). What really brought down the book, in my opinion, was the author’s decision to do all the big reveals at the end, suddenly abandoning the narrative in favor of stilted-sounding “official documents.” They weren’t convincingly written and made the carefully-maintained tension fall very flat.
Right now I’m reading The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough. I’ll let you know how it is when I finish it. In eight years (it’s very thick).