|Me. And my 11yo parasite twin.|
Most years I don't write every day.
It's okay. It's not like anyone is giving out prizes.
And I don't need any challenges to feel good about, well, taking on a challenge. To prove something to myself. Or to onlookers. Or the paparazzi.
I've passed several traditional mid-life crisis time stamps now without running a gauntlet or taking down the king stag at dawn or having my hair highlighted, and I've come out on the other side just fine. Also, dandy. Even my knees and hips feel good.
I'm okay with leaving the house with an unplucked unibrow. I feel confident, more or less, with my hair parted on either side, in flats or in heels, glasses or contacts, four hours sleep or ten, driving a minivan or riding a bike that needs a bit of oiling and new tires.
I'm all kinds of full of self esteem.
In fact, some people would say I need to be taken down a peg or two.
I am going to write on my blog every day, again, because it's what I do in November. Evidently.
However, this time with a twist. Because, after a few chapters of meandering on about one's precious meanderings, even Augusten Burroughs gets a little "Oh, c'mon now....please. And really."
So, I think that this go around I'll talk about books.
Not necessarily my favorite books. Or books I think you should read.
How about just the books I find in my way around my house. Like, this book:
This book is from Junior year in college. The year I was allowed to pick higher level literature classes on my own, but under the guidance of some bluestocking counselor who evidently thought it was a fine joke to send young women into job interviews dressed as lunatic nymphs and armed with resumes that smelled of laudanum.
In college in 1986, the Pre-Raphaelites were to me, I suppose, what the paranormal romance fad is to young women today. Mysterious. Ethereal. Romantic. Not a little self-absorbed. And a whole lot of bat shit crazy. Damsels in distress and distressing damsels.
As Jan Marsh contends in The Pre-Raphaeilte Sisterhood, the romance and attention surrounding these women tended "both to glorify them, raising them like Hollywood film stars above the level of ordinary mortals into a mythic realm of tragic heroines and fatal sirens, and paradoxically to diminish them, reducing their real, complex, contradictory personalities and lives to flat figures in a fantasy landscape and taking away from them all sense of active life."
I took a few Women's Studies classes about the same time. And I dyed my hair red. I wrote a lot of very un-rhyming poetry, smoked clove cigarettes, and was generally impossible to date. I used the word "mundane" to excess and with great meaning.
I may have memorized entire stanzas of Christina Georgiana Rossetti's Goblin Market.
You know...as a monologue. For theater class.
To which a person could justifiably say "Oh, c'mon now....please. And really."
And aren't you glad?
Good lord...I know I am.