I’ve always found the word “lyrical” interesting. It refers to both literature and music, according to the OED, it means “expressing the writer’s emotions in an imaginative and beautiful way.”
Isn’t it funny, then, how so many songs can be completely and utterly devoted of any sort of lyricism?
Growing up, I was never a huge consumer of music. I listened to it, of course. It just never really moved me the way it seemed to move other people. I’d often hear people proclaim that they had to have music, that they would just die without it and I didn’t get it. I didn’t feel that way at all. I thought people were exaggerating when they went on about how a song or an artist touched them or meant so much to them.
Music was fine. It was just something that was there. I listened to it and, for the most part, forgot about it when I wasn’t listening. This relative indifference to music continued for an embarrassingly lengthy amount of time. Until after I’d graduated college.
A month after I’d graduated college, I began working a mind numbing job at an insurance company. About two or so years after this, I ended up working in a department that handled translations of medical records and whatever other flotsam and jetsam came across our desks. Since I spent all day staring at computer screens and no longer had to talk to our policyholders, I was somewhat bored. I asked a friend what she did to make it through the day.
She listened to Pandora. Continue reading
Last summer, I agreed to house/pet sit for one of my mom’s co-workers while she and her family went on a cruise. I had been doing this for years — they paid me, they were easy going and all it really consisted of was bringing in the mail, putting out the trash, watering some plants and feeding the dogs and cat. Nothing too difficult.
About a day or two towards the end, my computer’s charging cord died and I hadn’t yet purchased a new one. Also, I’d finished reading all the books I brought with me. The daughter had left a book downstairs where she’d finished it before rushing out of the door. I wanted to read, so I picked it up.
It was John Green’s “The Fault in Our Stars”.
I’d heard of John Green, of course – I’d heard that teens were in love with this guy’s work; that he was some kind of Teenage Girl Whisperer. While I was no longer a teenage girl, I figured I’d give it a try.
I really liked it! It wasn’t high literature, but I enjoyed it.
Since I’d liked Hazel and Gus so much, I’d mentally made a note to read the rest of his work too.
I finally got around to that.
So I just finished “Paper Towns” yesterday. I didn’t really like it.
Back in July, I started working on a novel.
My hard driver has crashed twice. TWICE.
I will be re-writing this for the second time.
I haven’t gotten far, about 10,000 words, so it’s not like it’s the end of the world or anything, but this is seriously discouraging.
So. “Bright Lights, Dark Nights” by Stephen Emond.
Can we talk about this? I need to talk about this.
If you’ve not heard of this book, I’ll give you a really short synopsis: The protagonist a white kid named Walter Wilcox meets a black girl, Naomi Mills and they’re basically perfect for each other. It’s all good until his cop dad is accused of racial profiling and then the ish hits the fan.
I’ve been curious about this book since I saw it on NetGalley – I requested a copy a because I was intrigued and dying to read it but was declined. So I went and pre-ordered it because I was just that interested.
I was stoked when I got a text from Amazon on the 11th, telling me my book had been delivered and I devoured. I basically read it anytime I wasn’t sleeping, in the shower or at work. Continue reading