Why I Read (AKA Epiphany #2)

If having a blog has done anything for me thus far, it has made me think: about myself, others, my thoughts, passions, beliefs, and how they all intertwine in how it relates to the world. If you couldn’t tell already, one of my greatest passions in life is reading, and it is a part of my life that brings me great joy. However, not all people feel as strongly as I do about reading, and it got me thinking: what is it about reading that makes me love it so much? What ensnares me time and time again, word after word, to the point where it’s like a drug I just can’t quit?

This answer was hard not as much to realize, but to accept and admit. The fact is, I lose myself over and over in stories about other people and places, immersing drowning myself in their mystical, enchanting worlds, because mine is just the opposite. I live an excruciatingly plain life; my grades are good but not perfect, I’m intelligent but by no means a genius; I’m an average dancer, not terrible but not fantastic either; I’m aspiring to be a veterinarian but don’t even know if I have what it takes to get there; I’m pretty enough but not gorgeous of the drop-dead variety; I’m not fat, but I’m sure not skinny either. I’m so in the middle on so many scales that at times it’s infuriating.

I know how I must sound, like some whiny, ungrateful twenty something that hasn’t even lived half her life yet. But God, what I wouldn’t give to be a bad-ass heroine, going on some grand adventure, wielding my sword against the evils of the world, and maybe even finding some romance on the way. I’m not delusional, I know that the worlds and people I read about are purely fictional. But every time I crack open a book and the adventure in contains it strikes some chord in me, buried deep down in the pit of my mediocrity, begging to be strummed in the open air. I know I’ll never fight orcs or save the world from demons  or dark wizards, but I bear the questions:  What have I amounted to during my time in my own world? Who have I touched by simply being me? What will I amount to, what will be my legacy?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate my life in the least. I have an amazing family and friends that keep my life interesting, and I wouldn’t trade them for any new world or crazy adventure. But sometimes, I just need a break from the monotony, a flare in my plain life, and a hope for an adventure-filled future in the real world, and that is why I read.

Hemingway is A Boss

You tell ’em Hemingway

An Epiphany of Sorts…

Naturally, I’m going to start this with a quote, from a book I’ve recently read, Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare. Here goes:

“One must always be careful of books…and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us.”

Eloquently said, Miss Tessa Gray. But I digress.

I have recently been reflecting on what exactly makes a good book (in my opinion), what makes me favor one over another, and I came to a sort of block. Throughout my reflecting I kept reading, throwing myself into new worlds and losing myself in them, hoping to gain insight from characters that never really existed except in my mind and my heart. Then I realized that I’ve really known all along what makes a book matter to me but could never really put into words… That sensation of attachment to characters, their thoughts, feelings, actions, and worlds. It remains quite agonizing, however, how inadequate that description is, how hard it is to put into words just how a great, momentous book makes me feel.

With another quote (shocker) I think Hazel Grace Lancaster from the The Fault In Our Stars has a good take on this idea, saying:

“Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book”

Evangelical Zeal. Is that what that is? After further thought, I have come to a summary of my feelings that still do not do the sensation justice, does not quite grasp the inexplicable impact of a great book and its imprint on the soul itself, but here goes…

You know it’s a great book when you get that indescribable clenching feeling around your heart as you read it, as if it is simultaneously breaking and growing with each word. It is as though the characters’ threads of thought and emotion are entwined with your own, creating an immaculate, delicate embroidery on your heart that ultimately unravels you and leaves you in shambles when you must leave them. A good book never truly leaves you, however, no matter how much times passes between the present and when last you closed it. Ultimately, a good book changes you, for better or for worse;  it breaks you down and builds you up again, leaving an imprint on your soul that alters how you look at the world, and at yourself.

So yes, Tessa Gray, you were right: words do have the power to change you. And yes, Hazel Grace Lancaster, books can in fact shatter your world. Both have happened to me among the pages in which you both reside; you have done it to me yourselves.

The Thing About Endings Is…….

Caution: Mini rant about to take place

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I am very, very picky about how books end, and I’m often left somewhere between mildly unsatisfied to extremely irritated. It’s ridiculous really.

But, if you ask me, there should never be what I call “loose ends” when a book finally comes to a close. Though I’m always a little sad when I’m forced to leave a world I have become so ingrained in, part ways with characters I’ve grown to love and/or hate, their story should end with that final closing of the book (at least until the next time it’s read). I don’t want to sit staring off in to space, wondering what happened to a certain character. If they have been brought into the story, it should have been for a reason and their path should be seen through to the end, not cut off with the rest left to mystery or imagination. I suppose I understand doing it on purpose, in an attempt to create some profound meaning, but at the same time it should be done in such a way that it is almost apparent, neat and seamless, not sloppy and blunt.

At the end of the day, I guess I just need closure when I read a book. Many times, things happen in books that I don’t want to accept, like deaths, loves, etc.; but most often I don’t want the story itself to end. So if I’m going to tear myself away from the world I had been whisked into, it needs to be clean and swift, with no jagged edges nagging at the recesses of my mind, conjuring up my own continuation for characters, pulling them out of the void from which their creator so carelessly threw them in when they wrote them out of the story without a proper goodbye.

 

~End Rant~

Let’s Start at the Beginning

“There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.” 

The name’s Natalie, and I may have a slight quote fetish. Anywho, I’m an avid reader who has always aspired to start weaving her own tales, putting words together in such a way to make others lose themselves in a world of my creation, much like the countless times I have lost myself in the worlds of others. What power words have, that when read on paper transport you to another place, another time. I have had many an idea I wanted to write about, but for some reason, when I tried to put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, the words just wouldn’t come, though I could picture the story, the characters, their world, clearly in my head. My hope in creating this blog is to let the words start flowing through me, getting any random ideas out so that when the time comes, I can put my ideas into coherent words, sentences, paragraphs, and finally a story. So here’s to hoping, I guess.