Banning Books
Sometimes I'm so out of touch with media that I have no idea what's going on. Like I had no clue it was Banned Book Week until I asked a friend* if she had suggestions on what I should blog about this week. Her suggestion: books that should be banned**.
I wrestled with my conscience, debating whether or not it was fair to bash books, but that lasted all of two seconds. It's natural to have an opinion about the books you read, and just because I don't like a book doesn't mean I don't respect the author. Anyone who writes hundreds of pages and has the tenacity to get it published automatically gets great respect***.
Anyway, I digress.
It's not often I really can't stand a book, but there are a few. So without further ado...
The 2010 list of Books Banned in Kate's World!
4) Catcher in the Rye
I read it in high school and promptly chastised my English teacher for giving us such schlock to read when we could have been reading something great, like Vonnegut. Or Piers Anthony. A book about a whiny boy? Pass!
3) Anything my Malcolm Gladwell.
For the simple reason that he talked smack about genre writers once. Don't like a genre—fine—but don't put down other writers. (See my argument above.)
2) The Giving Tree
A book about a tree that gives so much to a selfish, self-centered boy it ends up a stump? Call me crazy, but that's not the message I'd want to teach a kid. Giving is good, but giving until there's nothing left of you? No thanks.
And lastly...
1) Breaking Dawn
This is where a legion of people gasp and say "What the hell, Kate? The Twilight series rocks!" Meh. The first two books had good parts, but not so I felt compelled to read the third. I read Breaking Dawn in a moment of desperation, when I had no other books at my disposal.
Worst. Book. EVER. At least, in my world.
To be fair, the Jacob section in the middle was quite entertaining, but it was gratuitous and didn't make sense in the context of the plot. And she never did anything with it.
Okay—lay into me now****. Or tell us which books you'd ban, and why. We want to know.
* Thanks, Jen! Your royalty check is in the mail.
**Sorry, AMT. But I did like your suggestion to write about sand. Really.
***Even if the book is about math.
****Just be gentle.
Slow News Day
It's a slow news day, so in the grand tradition of journalism I'm going to write filler. Don't worry—I'll make it interesting filler. With pictures.
But before I get going: a disclaimer. It's going to look like I spent all yesterday (and yesternight) at the beach, but that's not true at all. I spent 67% of my day in a gloomy cave, working. I spent 21% in a car, driving children to and fro. 9% of my time was taken up by eating. The remaining 3%* was spent at the beach.
But the moments I was at the beach were glorious. Yesterday was one of those days you should have been in San Francisco, as evidenced below:
Idyllic, no? Although I thought the surfer was crazy, because just a little while before there was a scary red film to the water. Also, up the beach there was a dead whale and its sun-warmed scent wasn't delicate.
My friends and I had planned a bonfire Monday night. The weather was PERFECT. Seriously perfect. No breeze, no fog, and clear bright moon. Of course we were stoked. We packed up the logs, marshmallows, and flask (duh) and headed to the dunes.
The more industrious ones started digging a small pit for the bonfire. I got the flask out, because I have priorities.
Okay—I know some of you** are going to see the shovel and immediate go there, so I want to reassure the public in general that no dead bodies were involved in last night's activities. Even though it looks like I was fortifying myself before tackling a burial. But don't believe it.
Because look:
Bonfire!
I ate four marshmallows. It may not seem like much to you guys, but I never eat like that. EVER. I had such a sugar rush, I skipped home.
Okay—you're right. Me skipping isn't exactly something unheard of. But last night it was manic skipping. Thank goodness no one was filming.***
* Note to Bradley: I was going to email you to make sure my math was correct, but instead I'm throwing caution to the wind. Deal.
** Cough—JB.
*** So how was the filler? Entertaining, right? Humor me. I promise I'll step it up and be more exciting next week. I'm accepting suggestions on how to do that, BTW. Call me.
The Gate
I was walking with a friend when he suddenly stopped. "Describe that."
I looked to where he was pointing. "What?"
"That." He touched a blue plastic tie attached to a gate. "I want to see how your author eyes see it."
"So this is a test?"
"No, it's curiosity." After a moment of me staring at him, he rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll go first."
This I had to see—or hear, as it were. Crossing my arms, I nodded. "Go ahead."
"The metal gate was rusted," he began without a beat of thought. "Beyond it, there was a door and a sterile looking entrance to a mediocre looking house. On the gate, there was a blue tie." He grinned at me. "Your turn."
Frowning, I looked at the door. I've never been an oral storyteller. Somehow words didn't flow from my mind to my mouth—they went directly to my fingertips. But I'm not one to run away from a challenge, so I went for it. "Every time she saw the blue tie, she thought of him, and it drove her crazy."
"Really?" my friend said.
"Shut up and let me tell my story," I said in my usual sweet way. He made a sign like he was zipping his lips, and when I was I sure he was going to stay quiet, I started again. "Every time she saw the blue tie, she thought of him, and it drove her crazy. She knew he put it there on purpose, so she'd have to think of him. So she'd be reminded of the vivid blue of his eyes, so she'd think of the way he looked at her, like he wanted to strip her clothes and wallow in her body. Right now, she looked at the blue tie as she let herself into her home and thought about the way his hands glided over her. She scowled. She would NOT call him tonight. She'd sworn she was going to play it cool. But her fingers brushed the tie as she closed the gate, and she knew she wouldn't be able to resist."
The sound of waves crashing filled the silence when I stopped talking. My friend and I stared at the tie, not speaking. Then he said, "Have you ever considered being a romance writer? I have a feeling you might be okay at it."
Old Friends
My twenty year high school reunion is around the corner.
Max regaled me with his tales of his recent love life, and as I sat there pondering his woes, he asked, "Are you working right now?"
"I'm always working," I replied. "Are you worried you'll end up in a book?"
He shook his head. "I'm looking forward to it."
Bold man.
The thing about a high school reunion is that it always makes you think about the past—that and people you haven't seen in ages come out of the woodwork.
In fact, I'm in Los Angeles visiting one of these woodwork people. Max and I were good friends in high school. We hung out, and his parents used to even sneak us into this Latin club in San Francisco where we used to lambada (the forbidden dance).
It's been twenty years since I've seen Max. He's the same, and he's different. He still plays soccer and he's still into Duran Duran. His laugh is less carefree, but his smile is still radiates from his heart. He still collects things, the most notable (in my book) being signed soccer jerseys (he has 200) from players he's met (including Beckham* and Ronaldo**).
There is one strange thing. In his home, he has all these fixtures that you'd find in an airport bathroom. Like soap dispensers, and the kind of faucet where you wave your hand in front of the sensor to get water. What's that about? I haven't asked him yet. I'm wondering if I should just continue to theorize, because the real answer will probably disappoint me with its simplicity, right?
Am I going to the reunion? I'm leaning toward no. The people I would have wanted to see again aren't going (with the exception of Max). But who knows?
* Note to Julie: I tried to wrangle a meeting with Beck and Posh but their social schedule and mine didn't mesh. Sorry.
** Note to my sister: I see you wrinkling your nose because you don't like Cristiano Ronaldo. But—dude—you can't deny he's good. Also, I tried to steal Ballack's jersey but Max caught me.