more lit snobbery.

So.....litsnob post #2. Sometimes I am amazed at people today. And maybe this is just me - someone who reads probably way too much - but if you work in a bookstore, especially an independent bookstore, you should probably have a wide knowledge of books, no? Especially important ones? I was in an indie bookstore here (not the one I used to work at), and a girl went up to the counter and asked for "Things Fall Apart." The clerk was like, "Things that fall apart? Who's the author?" The girl corrected the clerk, but didn't know the author. I had to stop myself from saying "Chinua Achebe." Sometimes I am not so controlled and jump in when I hear a person not remember an author. It's like instinct for me. But it's like.....I don't know. If you're making books your life, know your books. Or maybe I just want to own a bookstore and read for the rest of my life.
Of course, there was no helping the lady that came in and - I swear to G-d, this is what she asked - said, "I'm looking for a book...the author usually writes short stories but this is a novel....I can't think of her name." Yeah.

In other news, I'm reading a book that is actually challenging me - David Mitchell's "Cloud Atlas." I've been trying to slog through the first part since the end of April. I just got through it today. The first part, not the book. It's an experimental, mixed-genre book that I'm not sure how I feel about yet. But it's not an easy read, which I appreciate. I have stacks of books surrounding me right now, including an ARC of Zadie Smith's upcoming novel, NW, as well as the collected stories of Flannery O'Connor. Part of me just kinda wants to hole up for the rest of the summer, order in meals and read, read, read.
But then there's the little thing called a thesis I have to think about. Yeah. And the nonfiction book seminar at the J-school in the spring. argh. Exciting stuff, but it also gives me a stomachache just thinking about it.

If G-d's not a tar heel, why is the sky Carolina blue?

Finally, more than halfway through my stay here, I am feeling more at home here in Chapel Hill and starting to write again. Maybe it was a bout of existential anxiety/depression, maybe it was just typical Type-A adjustment time. Whatever it was, i'm glad it is ebbing away. Yesterday was a perfect, "I love Chapel Hill" day. Beautiful clear blue sky, not too hot, etc. I went on campus for a little bit, drove around...as beautiful as Columbia is, UNC's campus....no comparison. But of course, they're very different. Perfect example of why I love it here: I was at Caribou Coffee, and I asked the lady sitting next to me if she could watch my stuff for 5 minutes, as I was just running to the restroom. The place was fairly busy, with students doing work, and she said yes. I went up to the women's restroom door, knocked, and tried to open it. The door wouldn't budge. So I went back, and when I sat down, another girl turned to me and said, "That door tends to stick a lot, it's really hard to open, you might want to try it again." And just as she said that, a guy stood up and pushed the door open and looked over at me. I got up and laughed, and was like, does everyone know about the sticking door? He laughed and said, "Only the regulars."
Or how I was at McIntyre's, and we were all making fun of "50 Shades of Grey," and a customer joined our conversation and mentioned how interesting it was, the differing viewpoints and opinions between the 2nd wave and 3rd wave feminists. Which started a whole new conversation.

I was driving down Franklin St yesterday, remembering the first time I drove down that street, five years ago. Hard to believe that I had no idea how this place would get into my blood.

In other thoughts, there's that whole "book snob" and Steven King thing that went on. If you haven't read it, here's the LA Review of Books piece. This is a salon.com piece, supporting King. Now, full disclosure: I've never read a fiction book by King. The only thing I've read of his is his nonfiction book, "On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft." Which I thought was very good. This debate is exactly what I mean when I say literary versus commercial. This is what I mean when I say Columbia is literary. And while I agree with some points in the LARB piece, like how much of what is published is just really poor writing, I found the article to be really pretentious and obnoxious. I mean, we all have our tastes. This guy loves David Foster Wallace, whom I find to be incredibly pompous. I just didn't see the point in lambasting King and touting his booksnobbery. Who the fuck cares? Read what you want to read. You can't read Great Books all the time. Sometimes you need something light. Sure, we all buy The New Yorker and carry it around, and maybe - maybe - some of us even read it. I know the only time I really read and enjoy it is when Jerome Groopman or Atul Gawande writes something. But I also just as easily love Vogue and US Weekly and Garden & Gun.
Which made me wonder.....as MFA students, are we inherently book snobs? Are we being taught to be so? How does the definition of "literary" evolve, and what writers today are in the midst of changing it?  Why does my program not offer any courses on YA writing or genre writing? (also, side note, why is there a lack of Southern literature/Southern writers? I mean, Hurston, Welty, O'Connor, Faulkner....but that's a whole other blog post). Lots to think about.

Reading: On the Road (The Original Scroll) by Jack Kerouac; The Boy in the Moon by Ian Brown
Listening: The Decemberists, Eisley, Guster, Chris Pureka, Neko Case

growing pains.

So. Slowly.....verrrrrry slowwwlly, my writer's block is getting smaller. I've been pushing up against it and have managed to at least get ink on the page, which is more than I've been able to do most of the summer so far. I have been reading a lot. And good writers read. A lot. (Columbia believes this, too, which is why our reading lists are so crazy). It's taken me a bit to really get settled in, and I think I'm only really starting to get back to "normal" here. Up until now, i've almost felt...out of place, oddly. I've made the boundries of my life here very small, and haven't done many of the things I wanted to. I think I needed to establish a routine and just get back in the groove. I went to an indie bookstore here in Chapel Hill the other day to sell back some books, and the girl there remembered me, that I worked at McIntyre's. (We had gone to dinner with the Random House reps and authors last July and had a wonderful night). She remembered my name and asked how my program was going. I was stunned that she remembered. But that's what happens here. I got into a long conversation with the coffee guy at Weaver Street about the pro-choice buttons on his apron that said "I (heart) Pro-Choice Girls" and "I (heart) Pro-Choice Boys." People remember "regulars" and so forth, and it's just really nice. It makes me feel good that I can walk into Fleet Feet or Weaver St or B&N or Flyleaf, and be remembered and able to have really great conversations. It makes me feel like I belong here. That I have a life. But in several weeks, I am leaving again....and the cycle of adjusting will repeat itself in New York.

For better or worse, I've been feeling very "artist-y" lately. I went to the Bead Store on Monday and made my own version of the Tibetan Prayer Beads, since mine are in NYC. It's kind of like, while you pray or meditate, you hold the beads and roll them. I imagine it's sort of like a rosary? Although I'm not really sure what you do with a rosary. I collaged a composition book, like I used to do, and have just been a bit more...relaxed than I usually am up North. Not as tightly wound.

In other news, does anyone know anything about arthritis? Ever since late April, it's come and gone, this aching in my wrists, where I need to bend them and roll them, almost stretch them. Same with my arms and fingers. I'm sure I look ridiculous flexing and bending my knuckles, but I have to. Is this arthritis? Or simply aging?

Books I've Read Lately 
A Good Hard Look by Ann Napolitano. This is a novel about Flannery O'Connor, the celebrated Southern writer. I've only read her nonfiction, oddly, since she's best known for her fiction, but I loved this book. By the end of it, I was thinking that we would have gotten along well if I'd lived back then.

Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend by Matthew Dicks. This book comes out in August, and is told from the viewpoint of a 5-year old imaginary friend of an 8-year old. The 8 year old sounds like he is autistic, and eventually, he is faced with danger and only his imaginary friend can save him. Wonderful book that really was whimsical and well-written. I think it'll appeal to readers of all ages - older readers will get more out of it.

In my pile: Faery Tale by Signe Pike, A Million Little Pieces by James Frey (yes, THAT book), A Mango-Shaped Space by Wendy Mass....and tons of others. Definitely using this summer time to cram as much as I can into my head, book-wise.

Listening to: The Decemberists, Birdy, Eisley, Neko Case

neverending writer's block.

It's almost mid-way through summer (actually, for me, more than midway), and I have to admit I have been suffering from the worst fucking case of writer's block. Aside from the medical writing for work, I have not really written anything new since classes ended. I wrote 6 pages of complete and utter shit. That's about it. When I go to Starbucks to "write," I pull out my Moleskine (yes, I am that cliche) and pen, write some sentences, scribble them out, chew on my pen cap, stare into space while listening to my iPod, write something more, then cross it out again. I end up closing my notebook and opening up a book instead. So I guess there's a slight upside to all this: I've been reading a lot. Faulkner still remains unfinished, as does Adrian's novel, aaaaand Cloud Atlas.....I admit, I've been reading a lot of YA. Sigh. I don't know. My concentration isn't as good as I'd like it to be right now.

And, ever since going back to gluten-free, pizza is like crack. Everyday, I'm tempted to go on PizzaHut.com and get a thin and crispy pizza with breadsticks. A few times, I've fallen off the wagon, and like any addict, felt sick and remorseful the day after, vowing never to do that again. But it's sooooo good. I actually imagine how the pizza will taste. And smell. It's a bit ridiculous.

Here's to hoping it gets better.