Book Recommendation

                You've probably read something by Shirley Jackson, or at least heard of something she wrote.  I read The Lottery a while ago, and it really stuck with me-like that nightmare from when you were two that still haunts you.  I also heard a little of We Have Always Lived in the Castle, and my mother told me what it was about, it's not exactly a cheerful book.  Based on what she writes, I thought Shirley Jackson's life would be serious.  I was wrong. 

                I expected that Shirley Jackson would live alone in an old, dark, dusty house with a never-ending assortment of grim rooms at the end of a dark, twisting road surrounded by bears and wolves.  In that house, most things would be grey, there would be a musty smell in all of the rooms except the kitchen (which would have a burnt smell to it), and the heating wouldn't work very well.  She might have an angry black cat with one eye and a big scar, or a bite taken out of one of its ears.  Perhaps she'd have a guard dog as big as a car with bristling black fur and luminous red eyes and maybe a bark that could be heard for miles.  Even on the brightest days, the sun wouldn't manage to get through the thick trees that surround the house for miles.  If she had children, they would all wear dark clothes and spend their free time chopping heads off of dolls. 

                Yes, she had a black cat and a dog, and she did have children, but they were nothing like I would have imagined.  If anyone would have cut the head off of one of Sally's dolls, she probably would have called them a snick. 

                In Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons, Shirley Jackson writes about her life.  There's everything from when a bat gets into her house to Sally's missing blanket (I really liked that one), and Sally doing magic ("That boy still can't sleep."), and when her children played with water balloons inside the house (also a really good one). 

                My favorite by far was the story of Sally's missing blanket.  They all got sick and each person had with them their favorite drink-both adults had alcohol while the children had apple juice.  Each also had a pillow and their favorite blanket.  They headed off to bed but it wasn't long before Sally and Jannie wanted to sleep in their parents bed.  Their father was sleeping in the guest room to be more comfortable.  So they climbed into bed with their mother and went to sleep.  Eventually, Sally and Jannie were taking up too much space so she collected her drink and blanket and headed off for an unoccupied bed.  Through a series of bed changes for each member of the family nobody had the right pillow, blanket, or drink and Sally's blanket was nowhere to be found. 

                This is not what you would expect from horror writer.  It is funny, engaging, and enjoyable.  I wish there were more.  

Opinions

When I posted the open letter on my blog, it made me less likely to explode and furiously quote Harry Potter at that person.  (Yes, I would quote Harry Potter, and it wouldn't be very nice.) When I wrote the small rant about people looking at me funny when I was spinning, I felt better too.  The little silly things, like the letter to my library books and How To Tell If Your Best Friend Is Supernatural, were nice, and I could write them quickly so I could post at least one thing in each month. 

When I posted those light, carefree things, a lot of my friends said that they were funny, or they emailed with something like, "LOL!  That post was so funny!  You should write another like that."  Sure, when I wrote the open letter I didn't send out an email about how I had a new blog post.  I think I told only a few people, but that was it.  Reactions ran between reading it and relating and reading it and asking for a more happy post next time around.    

The thing is, most of the time I'm very serious.  The kind of serious that started at two when I discussed death for hours before my Great-Grandmother's funeral (and asked my mother to be sure to sit with me when I die) and continues to today when I read slightly depressing books where the description starts with something like "After her parents were killed, (name) feels like she can't go on."  Since I do really like fantasy, there will probably be something with a near death experience and possibly ghosts, vampires, werewolves, or demons.  Think-if this is what I read just because, what do you think my brain is like?  Okay, I'm not depressed or anything, but cute, silly novels that always have a happy ending and, of course, the right girl always ends up with the right boy don't hold my attention.  I have nothing wrong with romance, but if that's all the book is about I'm not going to read it. 

The same can be said for my music.  What I listen to can't exactly be called feel-good music.  Rock?  Yes.  Emo?  I guess.  Grumpy?  You bet.  Yes, I listen to Lenka and Taylor Swift.  Rarely yes, but I do listen to their music sometimes.  More often it's Superchick and Icon for Hire and Flyleaf and Paramore.  Yes the lyrics to Superchick can be upbeat.  Yes, not all Paramore is the kind of angsty that Flyleaf can be.  It's not totally impossible for me to be happy. 

I think I've made my point-the happy posts aren't always an accurate representation of me. 

Sometimes I wish that I didn't send out an email to all of my friends telling them that I have a blog.  That way I could bring it up in conversation sometime and just say, "Hey look at this blog.  I'm not sure who writes it, but it's really cool."  Yeah, I'd be saying that what I write is really good;  Yeah, I'd be praising myself.  But think about it, then I could write anything that I wanted and not worry about offending people.  Of course, my friends are very smart and they could figure out where they were mentioned, then I'd be called out as a liar, but, for a while, I would be free.  For a while. 

Sometimes I wish I didn't tell specific people about my blog because now I can't talk about how they say things that make me want to erase what I've written so far. 

Like when I showed a friend some of my angry poetry.  This isn't the same thing as Stardust or any of the poems I wrote when I started writing poetry.  These are the poems that would leave people with their mouths hanging open if they heard it.  This friend had bugged me until I showed her.  She repeatedly sent me emails urging me to send the file to her.  Finally, I read some to her.  She wanted to hear the grumpiest poem I had.  I didn't read it, because the event it was about was still too fresh in my mind.  She reacted rather poorly to the poem I did read, saying that it was really grumpy.  That made me want to scream.  Why can't you just be happy that I showed you what I wrote?  Only a few people have ever seen these poems, and those few were carefully selected because I thought they wouldn't judge me as much as other people.  That night I wrote a poem called Poetry Is....  It's about how writing poetry hurts and it isn't easy.  Here's a bit of the unedited version. 

Poetry is cutting my heart out of my chest with a dull knife. 
Poetry is selling my soul to make a few pennies. 
Poetry hurts. 
Poetry is letting everything I keep in the darkest pockets of my soul out into the world. 
Writing poetry is opening Pandora's box. 
A Pandora's box made just for me.
So there is no hope at the bottom waiting to buoy up the world.
Poetry is unlocking the misery that feasts on my heart. 
You do not want my pain.
Don't make me share my misery with you. 

Cheerful, isn't it?  Sometimes, in my "poetry diary" I even write little paragraphs to explain why I am disheartened that day.  I even admit that the poems I write sound morbid and morose.  Seriously, who would want to hear this kind of thing.  See the line of the poem that says, "Don't make me share my misery with you"?  That's basically saying "Don't hassle me until I break and read you these poems". 

So, before I get off on a rant about that, let me get to my point so I can at least stay on topic while ranting. 

I'm torn between posting my true opinions on things and continuing to post the light, happy things.  I think I can guess what a lot of people will want, but I also know what I want.  I've always tried to not be self-centered and I've tried not to do what I want just because I want to do it.  I've made a serious effort.  Maybe, like the girl from the open letter and the friend I mentioned above, I'll finally get sick of trying to make everyone happy.  And I do try to make everyone happy.  I just get sick of everyone's expectations sometimes. 

I'm going to try posting this and seeing how it goes over, see if I get angry ranting emails about how selfish I can be, or if I get understanding emails about how I shouldn't feel bad about posting my true feelings toward things.  Or maybe everyone will begin to doubt me when I say that I'm telling the truth.  Maybe they'll think I'm lying.  I mean, if I could pretend to be cheerful, maybe people will think I've pretended about a lot of things.  I mean, people never know. 

So here it is.  My opinion, true and complete without a lie or sarcasm.  I'm going to wait until next week to see the reactions, then I'll reconsider what I said about changing what I post. 

                "Thus I am saved from my own grim self."

                                                                -Holly Black, The Land of Heart's Desire