School starts in 5 days...this is how I feel:

Currently Reading...

I just finished "Other Voices, Other Rooms" It was quite good, especially for a first novel. Like all great Southern writers, Capote is able to capture the darkness of the South (his writing could easily be compared to that of Faulker and Flannery O'Connor.) His characters are haunting but at times confusing, especially Randolf who was suppose to be some sort of transvestite (it took me a while to get that one). It's rather morbid to read and I don't know if the ending is happy or not, but the not knowing makes it all the more interesting.
George Saunders (read his article in the New Yorker about "wash boarding") is hilarious, however, I'm about to die from complete boredom from the direct characterization used in "The Hours" by Michael Cunningham. I like the mystery in indirect characterization much better.

Book Review

I just finished reading "The Color Purple" by Alice Walker. Can you say perfection? Everything about the book was perfect. The character shifts were fabulous and noticable. I think that is what I'm missing in alot of my own writing. Her characters are all amazing, and the plot is interesting. The format too was almost unprecendented- the whole book is composed of letters to either God or Nettie, her sister. These letters also allowed for two settings, Africa (where Nettie is doing missionary work) and the deep south (where Celie lives). I can't even describe how much I enjoyed the book, it's a must read.

"Tea and books- two of life's exquisite pleasures that together bring near bliss."

Christine Hanrahan

Saturday

I'm writing like a maniac. Every bird I see, I want to write a full page about the way it rustles it's feathers, the way it perches upon the telephone wire, the way it sings it's glorious song of lament. I'm starting a new work, probably a composition of several non-fiction essays, about people. But these people are different. They are people who know who they are and have no aspect or wish to conform to society. These people live in their own world, the world that they find befitting, wither it be in the gray office of a First Federal building or kicking a scooter down Tradd Street. These people receive no respect or appreciation from society and I feel that it is my calling to portray them through my writing.
Have a good weekend.
It's Blues Fest.

"I agree, in fact, I think poetry is ridiculous. It's for people who are too lazy to write a story. I hate it when someone comes up to me and says "Yeah, I've been busy writing this poem for the past month." I think...hell, I could have written a whole novel in one month. - George

Grey

The earth was in compassed and nearly suffocated by a thick blanket of grey. A pallet of grey, one monotone color. No colors mixed in. There is a breeze, and the trees bend. Its cold.
"Oh, what wonderful weather." I say to my good friend.
She looks at me like I'm half crazy, it isn't the first time I've received such looks.
"It makes me sad." she mumbles.
However in my mind, it is the sunny weather which makes me most depressed. Its a fib, a lie. It portrays a world of good, a world of happiness, a world in which everything seems to be fine. For now. It deceives one from reality. In reality, there are starving children and a war and your dog just died.
Clouds provoke thought. While walking home I think about several things, especially descriptions. It is as though I am writing a book in my head, and everything I see I must describe.
I see a flower. It's pure white with slim, elegant petals like a swan's plumage. Beside it lies a wilted flower with yellowed petals --the same flower, the unfortunate one.