Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Note on a Bookfession: Children's Books & Why I Buy Them


I definitely think about this far more often than I should.


Okay, confession time:
     If I happen to stumble upon a particularly lovely copy of a book I adore, I feel almost obligated to take it home with me, cherish it, and then keep it in pristine condition so I can then pass it down to my children and my children’s children. I also like buying wonderfully illustrated, well-written, and imaginative children’s books for this same purpose. I just can’t help but imagine myself one of these far off days, sitting on some threadbare (and it will be threadbare, I care far too much for things that haven’t the slightest chance in ever making me any substantial amount of money, ever) couch somewhere in a cozy little house with a little boy or girl curled up in my lap as I read to them, and so I just can’t help but feel the need to stockpile now so that I can have a treasure trove of wonder to dip into when it comes time to really use it. I just want my children to grow up with books, to learn to treat them as they would very old friends as they go about finding their way through the world with the benefit of a richly fed imagination to keep them company.
     Ridiculous, I know… But with each passing year I seem to come more and more to terms with my persistently romantic, often overly sentimental nature. Nowadays I do my best to take it in stride, buy the darn book if it isn’t too hideously expensive, smile a little as I put it someplace safe and think in my heart, someday.
     Okay, I promise to stop rambling now.
Love you all,
Torey

Monday, December 19, 2011

A Note on Letter Writing



     A short text or email can only say so much and last so long… Write a letter instead; it is much more easily stowed away in drawers and stolen out again for second, third, and fourth readings. I’ve kept every single one I’ve ever received and have taken great care in the writing of every one I’ve sent… There’s just something more inexplicably personal to the writing of such messages and the reading of another’s handwriting than can ever be found in the uniform text of an email or instant message. Never give it up, I say. And never I shall. 
     On another note, did you know that the poet John Keats once said that if he glimpsed a note with his lover’s handwriting - the very same one whom he had only recently been forced to part from due to a debilitating illness on his part and the constraints of that particular era’s propriety on hers - that he would dissolve completely into despair for love and want of her at the very sight? It probably is just the uncompromisingly romantic side of me, but I find this little fact not only ridiculously heart wrenching, but also something that truly speaks to the monumental level of intimacy that the handwritten note can carry as opposed to our more modern modes of communication.
     Would John Keats have felt nearly as moved after scanning a message sent from his fair lady’s cell or gmail account? I think not.
[rant/FINIS]
Apologies as they are due,
Torey

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Note on a Bookfession



     This is scarily accurate for me, and the pathetic truth of it all is that it isn’t even limited to books. No, I’m not joking. I have the absolute hardest time watching a romantic comedy or reading a scene in which a character makes a particularly painful flub that gets everyone staring at them with the ”What on earth did you just do?” look painted all across they’re faces. I would rather be inches away from developing a real-life case of arrhythmia having the bejeezus scared out of me by some scary plot twist than be tortured for five minutes by that ridiculously awkward ”Oh, no! She’s not… She didn’t! NO. WHY DID YOU JUST SAY THAT?!” feeling that’s brought on when the character I’ve grown to identify/sympathize with puts his or her metaphorical foot in it.
     I can’t help it. I squirm, I writhe, I tuck myself into the fetal position and do my best “I’m being inexorably sucked into the dark vacuum that is the floor” impression. And at the time, I sincerely hope it works, I really do. Far better to escape into mindless oblivion for all eternity than have to share in all that AGONIZING humiliation the authors decide to shamelessly saturate their pages with on occasion. 
     The good news is that when this happens, it’s usually the mark of a skilled writer/director/actor when their words/scenes reduce me to a misshapen puddle of goo. The bad news? I still feel like a freaking misshapen puddle of freaking goo, dammit.
     Yeah, when I was four I was accused of being too sensitive by my playground teacher. My parents said that wasn’t at all true and that I was just extremely empathetic. Either way, I’m screwed.

Friday, July 15, 2011

The [Second] Ending of an Era



     Like many other girls my age who were at their youngest and most impressionable in the mid to late nineties, I also grew up with Harry Potter. The first time I ever heard mention of the admittedly peculiar name was at the age of eight, stalking through my local Barnes&Noble, hunting for a new treasure. While I perused the stacks, I couldn't help noticing a few giggles issue from a few rows over. I made my way over to find a circle of wide-eyed children, huddled closely together in a jumbled little group just in front of the fantasy section and seated before an elderly lady who was leafing through a fantastically colorful book with some sort of flying creature emblazoned across the front. Naturally, this peaked my curiosity and, as I was still quite shy at that point in my life, decided to remain inconspicuous at the back, barely hidden behind the Animorphs shelf & pretending to be interested in some odd thing or other as I listened in on the story being told just beyond.
     I picked up on a few words here and there, the term "muggle" puzzling me exceedingly within the unfamiliar context it was brought up in. Before long, I was quite confused and had absolutely no idea who the unfortunately named "Hairy" boy was or why he was so worried about some "Serious" guy coming after him. At that point, however, my mother had finally caught up with me and was giving me the scolding of a lifetime for wandering off to explore again, but just as I was about to be unceremoniously dragged from the premises without even a glossy new book to add to my name, we were just close enough to the reading circle for her to hear mention of possibly her favorite world in the entire English language: "Free."
     As it turned out, the stereotypically spinsterly book lady was holding a drawing, and whosoever was lucky enough to have his or her name drawn out of a cheap plastic cauldron would have the great joy of lugging the thick chapter book of "Hairy" along home with them. Like most children that age, I was then very much of the belief that any proper story about magic had to be filled with pretty sounding names and be sprinkled with fairy dust, complete with brave warriors bound to set off on a quest of some great importance or other. Since the possible freebie obviously didn't match any of those parameters or even once mention the topic of dragons, I wasn't overly excited about the prospect of learning more about the story with such an unlikely protagonist at its helm. But despite my protestations at Hairy's lack of knightly qualities, there really was no persuading my mother to leave once she'd heard the word "free," so I ended up impatiently scrawling my name in purple crayon over the back of a ticket to be entered in the drawing.
     Now, I'm sure you can imagine my mother's delight and my own anxiousness when my name was called just a few moments later and twelve pairs of young eyes suddenly turned on me, various degrees of burning jealousy practically emanating off of them in waves. With a more than slight shove from my mother, I scuttled to the smiling woman that held out the proffered book, keeping my head down and avoiding the (I imagined blistering) glares of the others and cursing the very curiousness which had brought all this unwanted attention in the first place. As the thick-spined volume was pressed into my small hands, I remember being surprised at how gosh darn heavy the thing was before clutching it to my chest and proceeding to hide behind my mother's leg in order to escape the legion of unsettling stares. Soon after, we went home and the book was set to rest on the ugly pink shelf next to my window and was utterly forgotten. It would be a year before it was ever touched again.
     So, many months after the initial bookstore run and just after the start of a new school year, my sunny third-grade teacher began to read, "The Sorcerer's Stone." Needless to say, once I came to accept the fact that it was actually 'Harry,' not 'Hairy' and was solemnly promised that dragons would indeed eventually make an appearance, it was love after first sorting. Never before had my parents seen me pace impatiently before heading out the door every morning and never had they seen me skip home to regale them with all the wonderful adventures of Harry, Ron, and girl-who's-name-no-one-could-pronounce I'd heard that afternoon. If we were particularly good, my teacher would read us an extra chapter before sending us home, so before long my suddenly very scrupulous classmates were loath to hear when the book we'd all grown to love finally came to a close.
     That was the first time I ever experienced the unique mixture of bittersweet sorrow one has after coming to the end of a book that's touched one's heart in such a way that he or she cannot even explain it, but intrinsically knows is somehow life-changing. Now, my parents had always read to me, and I had always loved books, but it was only on that day that I became a true Reader. Much to my father's surprise after finishing our just-before-bedtime chapter of Narnia the following night, only a few minutes after I had been all tucked in he found me wide awake and hidden underneath the covers with a small flashlight and a paperback copy of Harry to keep me company. Torn between delight and dismay that I had begun to read on my own and without the help of Daddy, peaking under my book tent, he said I could only read to the end of the chapter if I promised to go to sleep immediately after finishing. He checked on me the next few nights just to be sure I'd continue to keep my promise, and after observing me as night after night I dutifully stowed my flashlight and placed Harry safely on the nightstand after a chapter's worth of adventures, he stopped checking on me and we silently agreed to never speak of my secret late-night readings again. It was a pact between two book-lovers; Mommy didn't have to know I was staying up an hour later so long as I was spending that extra hour reading. I cherished the short, precious hours of uninterrupted reading as completely my own and took full advantage of them throughout grade school.
     Until I reached the age of seventeen my junior year in high school, this continued to be my ritual. Daddy didn't read to me anymore; we shared and swapped books instead. In the interim between Potter books, I fell in love with the world of classic literature and ate them up voraciously, sometimes two or three at a time! English had long since earned its place in my heart as my favorite subject, and I always strove to finish my homework before it became too late to get at least one or two chapters in before heading to bed.
     Harry changed me, it's true. But even nine years later, I was still very much the shy, curious girl I was when I'd first hidden behind that Barnes&Noble bookshelf in order to catch those few odd, magical words. When "Deathly Hallows" came out, I knew it would be the end of an era. I waited outside the doors of an independent bookshop in the rain for three hours and somehow managed to stuff the beast beneath the folds of my jacket to keep it safely out of mother nature's way on the long walk home. However, once I arrived in my room, sopping wet on the outside but with an almost completely dry book for my pains, Harry stayed, placed reverently in the center of my maple wood desk, untouched for days. I didn't move it, tried not to look at it, didn't dare turn on my computer for fear of coming across anything Potter related. I couldn't bear to even open the cover, for I knew then that it would be the beginning of the end. I took walks, I attempted to read other things, and all the while it just lied there, waiting patiently. After a week of stubborn resistance and refusing to accept calls from my fellow Potter girls, my defenses wore thin and on a particularly rainy Saturday, I began to read.
     I'm not ashamed to admit that I wept as hard as any self-respecting toddler when I came across Harry's final request, consisting only of three words: "Stay with me." It was as if he were speaking to all of us, all of those who had stuck by him, through think and thin, through all the years of tumultuous adolescence and unnamed fears, dead winter schooldays and summertime heat waves. That was the last straw. All of my reserves were totally diminished by that point and I just let loose. My copy was already sporting a few raindrops anyway, what harm would a little more water do?
     I finished the book by midnight the next day, and again experienced that half-wonderful, half miserably awful feeling of accomplishment, loneliness and closure after having to say goodbye to something, to someone so remarkable. I was right, it was the end of an era, not only for Harry but for me as well. I was saying goodbye to a part of myself, a part of my childhood, just as much as I was saying goodbye to Harry and wishing him all the best and more. The next year was not Potterless for me, I read the book again, keeping it next to my bed, right alongside my countless number of college applications.
     I finished out my last year of drudgery, leaving my safe sanctuary of a home and all familiar faces behind in exchange for a new life, a new start hours away. I was soon to discover that I not only loved college, but relished the chance to be whomever I wanted to be. Each year I've worked on shedding more and more layers of my old shyness, and though I think I've been largely successful in my journey towards opening up to people and becoming more of myself (and less afraid to show it), it will always be a work in progress.
     Through Harry, I discovered that reading gives you a chance to look through a very different kind of window than one that's made of glass. It allows you to see and feel things you perhaps never thought you could without leaving the country or, as it may be, the planet, or even the body your soul's been chained to since day one. It removes all limitations and opens you up to a realm of pure possibility; it sets you free... Or, at least, I've always felt that way.
     For almost the entirety of last year, I didn't once pick up a book for pleasure. I was too busy, too stressed by the demands of school and that which I demanded of myself, too saturated in a world of too-much-like-high-school drama to notice I was losing touch with who I was and worse yet: losing sight of the girl I'd always wanted to be. As fate would have it, I was forced to pick up Harry again in an English class that spring. On a whim and over a long weekend, I took the opportunity to travel back home so I would have my own copy in hand when it came time to analyze it a few weeks later. I did the assigned reading, finished the care-worn volume early and suddenly realized I wasn't the same, shy little girl I'd once been. I wasn't necessarily someone different, that little girl was still very much a part of me, but I had changed and now saw things and read things in Azkaban I'd never seen or thought of before. My perspective had changed and so did what I drew from it as a result. Never underestimate the unsettling power of growth; it sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
     But no matter how much my perspective had shifted since that first introduction to the scruffy, bespectacled boy in Barnes&Noble, the hopeful words within still had the power to instill in me a new sense of purpose, acting as fuel for the inspiration I needed to chase after those dreams I'd somehow managed to lose sight of in all the murk. It took outside forces pushing it on me again to recognize that this was another point in my life where it was time to make a change, to pick myself up, dust myself off and do whatever it took to get back to feeling like myself again.
     Harry has been a source of hope, a moment of magic on a dreary day, a renewer of childhood dreams and a true friend through all the years I've known him, and he's been there in the exact same way for countless other girls the world over, a few I've talked to, some I may one day meet, and many I will unfortunately never get the chance to know. But know this, Potter girls, we're all in this together, in this fight to be ourselves and keep the dreams and magic in our hearts alive in this so often disheartening world. We may no longer be shy eight year olds, or lonely girls hiding between book stacks in school libraries, or teenagers walking back from bookstores in the rain, but we are still those that were first touched by the inspirational beacon that brought light into some of our dreariest of Mondays. Harry helped to rekindle our sense of adventure, those dreams we may, at some point, have convinced ourselves to set aside, and most importantly, the firm belief in ourselves and our ability to thrive. Harry has time and again stepped in and out of our lives when we've needed him most and, for some of us, with just a flip of a page has been able restore our faith in the everyday magic that you can find just around the corner, be it found in people, places, or the simple things that make us most happy without asking for anything in return.
     Let no opportunity go unexplored, no good friendship abandoned, no hope forsaken and no page in this or any other chapter of your life unwritten. You are the author of your own life, the creator of your own castles and the demolisher of your own dreams; no one else can hold you back from being the person you've always wanted to be but yourself. It's for you to decide whether you'll continue to believe in magic once you've decided to make a grown-up of yourself, or whether you will take Harry with you, in book or in spirit on your next great journey into the unknown.
     Just know that you are not alone, that we are all with you in the bittersweet happiness that will accompany the second ending of an era of magic and mark the close of yet another significant chapter of our young lives. The books were one ending, and the movies a rekindling of interest and fond memories whose own story ends tonight. But don't worry! There is so much more to be seen, to be done, to be read, to be experienced, to be known, to be dreamed of and to be chased after! Take a page out of Harry's book & keep on going even if the way does get a bit rough sometimes; your adventure is far from over yet, and you never know what you might find if you just make it around the next bend in the road...
     To this day, the third book is still my favorite. It represents a turning point, for Harry and for me... And I'm not afraid to keep turning around again if it means I'll be heading in whatever direction is most right for me, wherever that may lead me. Don't be afraid. This is not an ending, it's only the beginning. Write your own story and be the master of your own tale, carve your name into every new page with all your might, dare to leave a lasting impression that will never fade. It's your story, after all. It's always been for you to decide how it is you'll be remembered.


Yours, ever and always,
Torey