Books and Pieces: the Wasted World of Written Word

I have come to realize that I can no longer handle listening to other people talk about their favorite books. It is 50 shades of aggravating, watching them as they recommend “good” books to each other, not even knowing about the actual gems that exist in the world of written word.

Before I continue, I would just like to say that this is not a post dedicated to trashing 50 Shades of Gray or any other specific pseudo-literary work. Do I have a deep, resounding hatred for said book? Yes, but the rest of humanity has done that onslaught well enough as it is.

It is not subject matters that I find distasteful. Erotica, BDSM, romance, bastardized mythical creatures and the like are just fine to write about. It is the nature and quality of writing of the mass-produced stories that are problematic for me. Do I enjoy any of the aforementioned topics? No, but that doesn’t mean that I would trash something just because it isn’t to my taste.

The issue at hand is simply that we are awarding ingenuity to works that are remarkably subpar and making them a standard to which budding authors feel they must meet in order to get published and recognized. We are allowing ourselves to believe that there is positivity in mediocrity; We no longer care if our children grow up rejecting books of substance, and continuously applaud them when they pick up anything that isn’t computerized–as if written word of any kind is better than a video game.

Not true.

And more dismal still is that we entertain people who fancy themselves avid readers; who then laud and recommend tawdry creations to others, spreading their disease throughout the land.

But ask them of Seymour Hersh or Kafka. They’ll draw themselves a jolly old blank and look at you as if you yourself are drab. Pick up cooler books, you hag. Up with the times, they’ll say. Don’t read what is dated. Come to our side. We have Twilight 50 Shades of Gray!

You’ll have to kill me, first.

Lest I be considered a snob, I will say, I do not mind an “easy read” so long as it is well-written and at least a little original in some aspect.

However, no matter how much I wish it weren’t so, a book is a book, no matter how shitty.

Much like a person is a person, no matter how shitty.

No…that can’t be right.

Sorry, Seuss.

The Storied Murder of Harlot Jane (Excerpt)

      It was the far east living room in which the company came across a woman whom I have never particularly cared for. She was neither pleasant nor unpleasant; nothing more than the brooding kind of person that sits in silence while others fraternize insincerely with each other. Her aloofness was far from attractive—I am not one to judge a woman by her exterior, but Jane was all but the exception to the rule. Her character was dreadfully indiscernible for me to take it into account in my judgments of her, aesthetics and all, and even as she lay on the rug that would surely have to be replaced due to the disgusting havoc that her body had wreaked on the fabric, my idea of her has not changed. She would not be able to compensate the owner for it, as—well, hell—Jane was dead.
      She was spread haphazardly on the floor, body finding itself in a state even more unattractive than was its usual. Blood had erupted from a wound that ran from under her breast plate, across her abdomen, curling just above the seam of her pants to cross the left half of her waist. I cannot fathom a reason anyone would wear a breast plate, in this day and age.
      Or rather, perhaps one should marvel at why she thought that she were to be in danger at such a tedious affair, and if she feared for her life, what brought her? Masochistic and reckless, she was not.
      No one had been brave enough to shut her eyes, and the large brown saucers that took up a nastily large part of her face were empty. They had once been brown. I suppose that this is what must happen upon death, that the eyes lose their color and fade to black. Nonetheless, it could have been that the lighting in the room distorted many a feature. The blood, however, was vibrant against the soft whiteness beneath her.
      If I were to be honest, I am certain that, regardless of whom it was that took it upon himself to end her life or how feeble his reason was, this woman deserved the end she came to.
      Now, you may find yourself grim about the mouth in rejection of the austerity of my claims, for it is widely believed that no sane person could ever slander a living creature so soon after its decease, but I must say, if Jane abided by no morals in life, then none should be abided by for her in death, either.
      You can rest assured, however, that my narrations, which you are now forced to wholly rely on in order to learn the entirety of the truth, will lack the bias I have toward her. Unsympathetic, perhaps I am. A liar, I have never been.
      Of course, no one would admit to being prone to telling tall tales, but in my case, I assure you that it is true.
      Regardless, you have no choice but to believe me.

Happy Best Day of the Year!

I love Halloween. I cannot express just how much I love this holiday. It isn’t because of the creepy crawlies–though I do enjoy said things very deeply–but because Halloween is an entire month of celebration. For 31 days, it is entirely appropriate to hang lights, and watch horror movies constantly and eat pumpkin pie like it’s nobody’s business. Candy, chocolate and candy corn (a category of food all on its own) are a staple diet, and no one calls you a fat freak for it.

Halloween is interpreted in so many different ways. It’s personal. It can be love of darkness, free candy, creepy stories (real and fake), horror movie madness or just carving up those old jack-o-lanterns.

And words cannot express how sad I am that, as the clock strikes midnight, it will be all over.

It’ll be time for holiday cheer.

And cheer does not include dark, mad, blissfully psychotic entertainment. It will be time for good will toward men and happiness throughout the land. Out goes Jeepers Creepers and in comes The Santa Claus. The lights are blindingly bright and no darkness is anywhere to be found.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the Christmas season, but October will forever have a special place in my heart, for it is the one month in which I can do all of the things I absolutely love doing and no one thinks I’m completely insane for it.

But they’ve all read my writing. It doesn’t change no matter the time of year. What do they expect?

Poor Thanksgiving. No one cares until Black Friday.

Because money.