on reading crap novels. and then not.

i have a problem. it seems pretty insurmountable. i've lived with it for years and i doubt i'll ever overcome it. once i start a novel, i am compelled to finish it, no matter how crappy it is. recent cases in point: iain banks' dead air. jennifer egan's a visit from the good squad. anything by hanne vibeke holst (i've recently read dronningeofret and kongemordet (HVH has her finger on the pulse of danish politics, but as a writer is somewhere between dan brown and steig larsson - in other words - mediocre at best).

it's actually rather strange, since what i studied for rather longer than most was literature. so what is it about a crappy novel that makes me unable to stop reading it when i discover it's crap?  why is it that a conscious awareness that life is too short doesn't even make me stop. in fact, i'll stay up late, frantically reading, rushing towards the finish. just to get it over with. why, oh why do i do this when there are so many good books in the world that warrant my attention?

when i think about authors that have truly captured my attention and deserved to be read to the end and then read again with a kind of manic attention, only two come to mind. only two authors have written stories and created worlds so compelling that i felt quite literally sucked into them...a part of the book and the universe it described. books i looked up from and was surprised to find myself in my own home (or on a plane or in a hotel room or in the car or the bathtub). worlds so deep that i felt i lost a little bit of myself there. and i mourned quietly when i was finished with the book and found that i wasn't inhabiting that world at all, except in the pieces of it i indelibly carry with me, because it was so well-written.

so why is it that when books don't do that, don't even come close to that, i still can't put them aside?

maybe it's because it's so seldom it happens.

there's only one dostoevsky and only one murakami. the rest don't even come close.

jetlagged thoughts or talking to myself

how do you maintain professionalism in an awkward situation? how do you educate, without becoming condescending when you've already explained and explained? how not to lose your cool or control?  how do you not care when your tendency is to care too much? and what should you wear?

what about making someone understand when they do not? how is it done? you have explained to no avail. you have written to no avail. and still understanding is but a dim light on the horizon. and that light could be an oncoming train and not the end of the tunnel you desire. do you enter the tunnel or are you already in it?

perhaps achieving a place where i can let go is best for me. letting go of project, of process, of caring. because there are other things i care about...house and home and creativity and child and friends and travel and life. and i am not my job.

life is an endless chain of proving yourself, so i will prove again that i know i what i’m doing (because i do) and the results will speak for themselves. nothing else should be necessary.

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you see, blogging is cheaper than therapy.