Villains who aren't villains

I always seem to identify with -- or at least sympathize with -- disagreeable characters in books. Emma Bovary, Hamlet, Hedda Gabler, Holden Caulfield... Not in situation or in severity but in some fundamental feeling of dissatisfaction and offsetting wrongness with our way of life. I suppose one could contribute a lot of this feeling to the act of growing up, since that's when we're all meant to become adults and realize how harsh the world really is -- disillusionment comes with the territory.

I find myself wondering why I sympathize with these characters so strongly and how valid my empathy actually is. Like, how much of my defense of their character is based on the actual text of the novel? How much is it that I simply identify with the character and don't wish to criticize or condemn my own reflected thoughts or actions? I'm currently rereading Madame Bovary not only because I read it a month and a half ago and the details are starting to slip and I need to know if for school but also because I want to know if I'm rationalizing my defense of Emma based on what Flaubert actually writes or if I'm just projecting her situation to suit my own opinions. I overtly despise playing the victim, but I certainly believe that I subconsciously do it all the time. It's good to check myself.

I definitely think it's primarily the personal connection somebody, somewhere has with literature that keeps books alive so long. There's something markedly magnificent that in the fictional world I should identify more with a half-orphaned, vengeful prince from the sixteenth century than a sixteen year old girl living in the U.S. Sometimes I probably do accidentally victimize myself or try to make my life seem more tragic than it actually is, just so I can have a legitimate reason to feel sorry for myself. Still, more often than not, characters who don't fit into their community's definition of "proper" or "moral" or even "sane" have something valuable to say about the state of that community, whether or not we agree and even whether or not the character realizes they're saying it. Maybe that's one of the reasons why the "darker" characters are often the most interesting. I guess the only way to find out is to keep reading.

Haven't done a list in a while, let's do that.

Things I have done today:

• School. Oh. School. If every period were one minute longer it'd be illegal, have I ever told you guys that about my crazy district?
• Ran a mile in 11:28 (which is a middle-of-the-road exertion of my own abilities...)
• Halfheartedly reviewed for the PSAT, even though it is the test that will DETERMINE MY FUTURE, so they would have us believe. I don't believe in cramming, it's a "standardized" test, meaning we should all know these things already, if I stress about it the night before I will most probably do worse, etc.
• Learned that if I do well enough on the PSAT, with my "expected major", I could be sent to Social Sciences Camp in NY over the summer. Cool.
• Rediscovered my love for mozzarella cheese and all that it chooses to be.
• Considered doing a blog post about this book I am reading that is a scathing/utterly misinformed study of the largely scary topic (to adults) of TEENAGERS ON THE INTERNET.
• Realized I am not done with the book and therefore should not be judging it/that I do not have the time at present to construct the sort of response this book deserves.
• Read for fun for the first time in a week or two.
• Blogged and slept and other inevitable near-future-y things.

choosing the labyrinth

I feel like I haven't talk about what's going on with me for a while and for that reason--and also because it's almost midnight and I'm tired--I am going to refresh you all on the happenings of my life.

I just finished rereading Looking for Alaska which I started last week in honour of banned books week. I love John Green. Today, I started The Name of the Star, Maureen Johnson's new novel. So far, it is enjoyable. Next on my list, in no particular order are The Accordionist's Son, As Simple As Snow and Madam Bovary (thanks for the reccomendation, Vita).

I love reading so much. Sometimes it boggles my mind that more people don't read. Like, 1., how would I ever learn things if I didn't read books and also, 2., how would I ever figure out that I'm not the only person in the world who is sometimes afraid and sad and lonely and having a hard time making decisions. I would be so much worse off without books.

Which brings me to my novel. I've been working on it in the past week, not changing much but working up to it. This is partially because I need a project and partially because a friend is reading it, piece by piece. I think I just have to write more. I'm not planning on participating in NaNoWriMo in the traditional way--even though it's SO tempting*--but I may draft my own National Novel Finishing Month. We'll see.
Writing is hard. Rewarding, but difficult.

I've been working a bit. I don't know. Not much is new on that front. Let's move on.

Thanksgiving (I guess I should say Canadian Thanksgiving) is this weekend. Also, Girl Guide cookie selling. I can honestly say I'm more excited for the former. I want to make pumpkin pie and roasted beets.

Speaking of food, I've been kind of healthy lately. Biking a few times a week; eating somewhat balanced meals... which is to say a lot of salad. I think I should start taking some vitamins and get into a consistent exercise routine but apart from that, I feel pretty good. Also, I should have a sleep schedule with some form of regularity. WHY IS IT MIDNIGHT ALREADY?

I tried to get an internship at a local bike shop but it's the offseason and thus not a very good time. I've been playing guitar and, when not playing guitar, lying on my bed listening to music and feeling so much. I am beginning to realize more succinctly the profound impact of music on my life. Every day, I am more grateful for how alive I can feel, just from listening to a song. And it's not just feeling alive, there's also sadness and happiness and brokenness and completeness and connectedness.

Books and music make my life livable. People, too. I shouldn't undervalue people.

I don't know. Sometimes I'm sad and listless and purposeless and full of ennui. I ask myself why I should do anything to justify the fact that I do nothing. And when people ask me what I'm doing with my time or how I am, sometimes I choose to lie because, to quote someone I admire, "the truth resists simplicity." But that's life, right? There's good times and bad times and I choose the labyrinth just like I choose to forgive and I choose to believe it'll get better. And sometimes I'm so incandescently happy and somehow it evens out.

That's probably more than enough for tonight. How are you guys doing?

*I don't know what it is about NaNoWriMo but I have such a good time doing it, even if I'm angsting half the month.

What's that they say about an infinite number of monkeys locked in a room with an infinite amount of typewriters?

I can press keys and form words. Someone is going to read these words. At some point this assurance kind of dropped off into complacency for me, too. I mean, nine posts between us in a 30 day month, guys, we're all better than that, non? It's not that I don't want to do this anymore. Definitely not. When the process of pressing keys and forming words becomes so much of my "job" (aka school), it's not the first thing I turn to for entertainment/expression/relaxation/whatever we started this thingamablog for in the first place. This blog has become--stagnant? Formulaic? A chore? At least, something we can all agree (look, three consecutive posts!), needs to be changed. If the Zombie Apocalypse doesn't come this month, let the Renewed-Blogging-Effort-Revolution commence. I'm in.*

* NEVER MIND the fact that this post was little more than a poorly-organized paragraph.

Motivation?

So I guess I've had writer's block recently. On a blog, of all things.

Lately -- well, for the past several months -- I've been feeling like my two options are either to talk about school -- boring -- or not blog at all -- more boring -- which leads me to wonder why, in some ways, this whole blogging thing was easier in 2009 when I first started. I suppose it wasn't easier, exactly; I put more effort in on a consistent basis and felt more like I had to prove myself, whereas now I'm in a bit of a state of complacency -- I think we all are -- where we know we probably should blog twice a week but if we don't, it's not a big deal, and it will start no feuds or total wars. But I feel that I certainly had more to talk about, in 2009, other than just repeating the same mantra: "I went to school, and everything sucks, and I'm going to sleep now, goodbye."

Maybe it's the addition of a crapton of stress. Maybe being a post-exams second semester senior is a ball of fun, but right now being a senior freaking sucks. It's not just that I have a crapton of work to do or that basically everyone in my school annoys me more and more with every passing day; it's that I have to seriously consider my future... and I don't know how this goes for most other students in my position, but I'm not satisfied with the whole "finish high school and go to college" deal. I've been undergoing some several-month-long crisis of self, of being, where I question not only what I want to do -- wholly undecided -- but why I should do anything at all, and why anyone does anything at all, and feeling like I have to attempt to fit myself into a box of "living in the moment" or "appreciating my time on Earth" or whatever it is that non-religious people tell themselves in order to add meaning to their pragmatically commonplace lives, only trying to live within those perimeters totally does not work for me.

Ahh. There I go again with the complaining. I should probably stop that.

Speaking of audiences, though, it's both a motivator and a -- an opposite-of-a-motivator to know that you will probably appreciate what I am saying to some small degree, even if I am just complaining about my life, because you know me and thus my complaining about my life is marginally more interesting than a total stranger complaining about their life. If another total stranger stumbled into this blog from elsewhere on the internet, would they find my posts very interesting? Probably not, at least not a good portion of them. To a rather large extent, perhaps more so as time goes by, I feel like this blog is a bit of a open letter-writing project between the three of us -- me, Alex, and Rena -- that anyone is welcome to read. On the one hand, it fosters a sort of cozy nook on the internet where I can say pretty much whatever I want, however I want, and somebody will listen and think about it. On the other hand, it provides a bit of a lax standard. Alex, you said that having a built-in (albeit tiny) audience inspires you to put in more effort. I feel that that I've reached the point where it's almost the opposite for me -- I don't feel the need to impress friends, I suppose. I don't say that in a disparaging way -- just that I know that you probably won't hate me if I piece together some bullet-pointed rant about my day and then leave without even checking for spelling. But while I do appreciate the close-knit atmosphere here (god, I sound so cheesy), I do feel bad about not holding myself to a higher standard. I don't feel awful if I miss a few days when I'm meant to post a blog, but I do feel bad when my blog post, once I get around to writing it, is nothing special, nothing worth waiting for. I'm going to change that.

audience

I've been thinking about letters lately. Today, I wrote one and a half because according the Barbara Addler, letters make the word a better place. She said that at the first (and possibly best) Freewrite class this year and continued that writing letters, especially for self proclaimed writers, is a good exercise. If you think about it, letter writing is the art of focusing on your audience and giving them what they want to hear.

Two things have inspired my letter musings. The first is somewhat blatant: I recently received a letter from a friend. The second is a bit farther away from my point: my sister told me that she preferred reading my posts on my personal blog, The Corner Notes.

Her comment struck me as odd, not just because I blog here somewhat regularly but because I hold myself to a slightly higher standard on RP(for the most part). I feel a certain responsibility to give you guys something of merit to read. Knowing that I have two readers locked down is also somewhat encouraging.

And so I started to analyse the differences. Here, I write a bit more opinion-y stuff; there I randomly post poetry. Here, I write as if I'm speaking to the two of you; there, I write as if I'm... talking to myself? No, that's wrong. Talking to the internet? Not really. Talking to my "readers"? I guess but I don't even know who they are because I get very few comments and Google Analytics can only say so much.

I realized, to bring it rather abruptly back around, the difference is audience.

As cool as it is to have other people reading this, the people I'm writing to in my mind are you too, Rena and Vita. Whereas on my other blog I kind of just sporadically publish whatever crazy thing I want, my posts on Raving Persuasions have a few more trends. I won't lie, a lot of the time I'm grasping for topics like a desperate bingo caller pulls numbers out of a revolving bin. But on some level, I stick to topics I think the two of you are interested in. Even when I don't consciously think about it, I'm trying to write what you want to read.

Here's a theory: maybe Rachel prefers my personal blog because this one is almost exclusive. Maybe she enjoys randomness and the audience being a seemingly empty internet. Maybe she just likes the layout better.

It doesn't really matter. I'm not about to randomly change the way I blog. Still, I think it's intriguing to think about audience and the subtle ways we tweak our messages and themes to suit the different people we think we're interfacing with.

I don't even know. Readers, if you're out there?* Do you feel like weighing in on this?


*this is a very Corner Notes-esque thing to say.