i heart literature

I've been meaning to sit down and write a decent article, worth submitting to someone.

But, its been mostly being too busy with the small details in life- the cashing of cheques, buying of food, and e-mailing contacts for the arts and peace festival (Nov 7-9. you should go). I'm trying to finish East of Eden, and i'm at the part of the book where every detail of every character begins to drive the story, and realize the difficult themes that come with mr. Steinbeck's writing.

from what i can gather, from my years of reading john Steinbeck, the most interesting and compelling characters are also the most broken. the depth of character comes from unmet expectations, and unrealized dreams. Its kind of an grim outlook on life- realize the despair of the human condition, and fail miserable time and again at trying to find redemption in that.

I'm sure there are other, less complicated, ways to express how Steinbeck's characters are formed, in relation to his view of the world. maybe later. with less commas.

I was thinking about reaching down to pick up the said book, to try and find a good excerpt, but its nowhere near the orange camp chair, outside on my back deck. ok. i'll go find it...

..."It was a deluge of winter in the Salina Valley, wet and wonderful. The rains fell gently and soaked in and did not freshet. The feed was deep in January, and in February the hills were fat with grass and the coats of the cattle looked tight and sleek. In March the soft rains continued, and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sank beneath the ground. Then warmth flooded the valley and the earth burst into bloom-yellow blue and gold."

-east of eden, chapter 25. there are much better excerpts than this... i just couldn't find them.
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I've been meaning to read some Anne Lamott for a heck of a long time. I was walking along one of the library shelves today, trying to waste the last ten minutes of work, and i came across "Travelling Mercies", nesteled between lesser books of dry prose. So i read the first short paragraph, and i was sold -

"My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another. Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then held me up while I grew. Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land, and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear. When I look back at some of these early resting places--the boisterous home of the Catholics, the soft armchair of the Christian Science mom, adoption by ardent Jews--I can see how flimsy and indirect a path they made. Yet each step brought me closer to the verdant pad of faith on which I somehow stay afloat today."

If anyone is considering purchasing a late-birthday gift for me, i think this would be a good choice.

I think that, to re-write the cliche', you are what you read. and what i tend to read is anything but dry- prose that comes out as reflections upon life, from a perspective of a imaginative heart. not that i'm trying to toot my own metaphorical horn or anyhting.

which, actually, leads to a good point. I was listening to an interview of Anne Lamont on the best ever podcast called "the brown sessions" (I insist you download it now! the allure? interviews with Donald Miller, Renee Altson, and Shane Claiborne). In this interview she mentioned how "sometimes writers try too hard to be a writer". and thats me, i'll be quite honest. for the past couple days i picture myself sitting here, outside, writing anything with a pot of coffee sitting beside me.

in other words, i intentionally try and build a mood for myself, so that i can write something good. or, something that i think others will perceive as good. i'll look back on these writings and realize how much of what i do, how i write, is dependent on who i read. if i read sad novels i will write sadly. if i read Anne Lamott, i will probably write very reflectively.

this is the beauty of literature. it reveals a part of yourself that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. when i read the reflective prose style writers i picture myself feeling the same things they have, thinking the same insights they have. the difference is that i don't have words for them. the grace of literature is that for every word we can't picture, someone else will be there to draw it for us (someday i'll thank Anne Lamott, and Madeline L'Engle for this).

So, thats my thought for the day. i'm not sure if any magazine would accept this random string of reflections. they might just send it back, saying "you do not seem to have one distinct discernible thought, or solid idea". so... i'll have to work on that.

(my head is spinning because i am dehydrated, and drinking coffee. boo me).

-Adam
(forgive my use of lower casing. its not intentional at all).