Marcia, Marcia, Marcia

On a lazy Sunday morning, on the first day off I've had in many a day, I find myself sitting on the couch with my laptop on my lap, contemplating my blog. I have an obnoxiously high opinion of my writing, which I can only blame on my professor for my English 101 class I took Freshman year, who, numerous times, stoked my ego about how witty and funny my writing is. Oh, and that whole being a History major thang; my grades were based on term papers, I wrote like it was going out of style, yada-yada-yada. However, as time progresses, I have become a little bit more realistic, I realize that talented writing is only half the battle.

Anyways, this morning as I had my sickly sugary cinnamon bun creamered coffee (Heaven in a mug, I swear to you) in my favorite extra large mug, I was sitting on my back deck (easily my favorite place at home, even if it heats up to rival the surface of the sun on days such as today) reading a book my mother recommended to me, The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I am only 85 pages in on a 500+ novel, and I can't put it down. It's one of the best books I've read in a long time; far better than the usual gunk of chicky-brain-rotting novels I frequently read. Just to clarify: I do not read romance novels, but I do read books that are Sex and the City-esque, written by people like Candace Bushnell, Lauren Weisberger, etc. I read them because I am one of those people who are deeply affected by movies or books they read, and I am a cryer. So if I read a sad book or a scary book, it generally messes with my mood the whole day. I guess I never grew out of that as a kid: separating emotions about real things pertaining to my life or real events in the world, and emotions about fake things. Long story short, it's just easier to maintain my sanity if I read junk, and I'm comfortable admitting that. Judge away, audience of, hm, I'm guessing only Carinne (that little "how many views you've had" info, very telling).

ANYWAYS. The reason I bring up a lengthy discussion of my reading material is because a passage in The Help, not to mention the premise of the novel, is particularity striking. The setting, plot, but more so in any novel I've ever read, the perspective of the characters and their opinions on such events is startling. Even though it is fiction, the emotions and undoubted reality of the scenarios the characters are placed in is truly eye-opening. Books like these are why I want to be a history teacher. Such a poignant perspective of how life was shows not only how far we've come, but reminds us how imperative it is to keep moving forward and learn from the past, and not just drill facts and dates into children's heads and bore them to tears. If you make it real, everyone loves history.

Wow, I'm just hopping from one subject to the next without ever truly getting to the point. The point is, inspired by the passage I just read in The Help, that while I enjoy writing and find the little self-centered stories I write about amusing, it's junk. It's right along the lines of the chicky-brain-rotting novels I digest, with the exception that it's not very funny, try as I might to jest. The second half of the battle of being a very truly exceptional writer is meaning. A clever story about the attack of birds or a trip to New Jersey really does not have a purpose. I also apparently never grew out of my feelings of self-efficacy; I think that what happens to me is vitally important and everyone is as interested in my life as I am. Hell, this blog is dedicated to the things that happen to me as I transition back to living at home and becoming a graduate student. Me me me, is that all I talk about? Apparently so.

So if something I find particularly amusing or worthwhile in my own life to laugh about (tested out on telling the stories to other people in person, just in case), I will still attempt to work on my sense of humor and report the stories. As I work nearly every day and have no money, however, these stories are few and far between. The main reason of this post is that I am going to try and make this blog be more meaningful. More posts on relevant matters. Not necessarily politics or anything, but stuff that is important. I'm not really sure how this will go; writing about important things is not really my forte. It's worth a shot though, right? And worse comes to worst, I realize that I just can't transfer my interest in real or meaningful events via writing and I am a selfish, self-centered girl and I like to read and write about crappy, boring, un-funny events. And that will be how I will live, another ignorant American. God I hope not. PS-please don't think I don't know or care about current events; I try to stay up on important matters, I just rarely talk about them. I'm not sure if that makes me a better citizen or a worse one.

Also, do feel free to judge my writing as poor, my jokes as not very funny, and my opinions in general and about my writing laughably insane.