Literary Ramblings

This morning I woke up at about 12:50. My parents and I had lunch; my littlest brother was and is slumbering on the sofa; my sister and middle brother soon joined us; and my oldest brother (who is, however, younger than me) was happily surfing the Internet in the shady coolness that is his room. I can always tell when my oldest brother is awake by the greenish-yellow glow, reminiscent of extraterrestrials, that fills the gap between his room's door and its frame.

It is a sunny day, but still delightfully cool. Yesterday there was similar weather, so my sister, oldest brother and I went to a nearby school, where there is a tennis court. My oldest brother and I practiced our serves, etc., on our own while my sister rollerbladed along the circumference of the court, peacefully except when she told us to watch out. Tennis is one sport in which I would like to become less hopeless, and I want to practise my returns as well as the overhand serve again today. After these activities we went on the swings for a while. I think that is one of the more dignified things for people who are theoretically too old for playground activities to do.

Yesterday evening I finished reading the autobiography of Agatha Christie, but felt somewhat disappointed that I was done so early (I usually feel this when reading autobiographies), so I also read the first few chapters of a delightful German children's book entitled Neues vom Raeuber Hotzenplotz. I like Otfried Preussler's books very much. I like the aesthetics of them, the sort of natural imaginativeness, and the comfortableness. The problem with most children's books is, I think, that there is a tension between the real world and the imaginary one, and sometimes a rejection of the real world. I like those books best where the two worlds blend into each other and peacefully coexist. It is this sort of groundedness that, for instance, makes J.R.R. Tolkien's Hobbit appeal to me far more than the Lord of the Rings does.

This morning I decided to make this blog less egocentric. I think blogs are better when they focus on interests -- cars or books or music, for example -- that others may share, rather than on daily chronologies with analytical notes. Actually, I haven't seen any other blog involving such analysis thus far anyway . . . One of the things I realized while reading Agatha Christie's autobiography is how one can write down observations from one's life and experiences in an objective and concise way that is much more interesting to the reader. But I will be careful because I think there is a danger of being didactic.

I've just remembered that I wrote down several ideas for short stories yesterday. One of those ideas, which would probably be better suited to a book, is to write about what would happen in Vancouver if the big 9.2-magnitude earthquake really did hit Cascadia. But I don't know much about what would happen anyway, since, even though I was in my Geology class for most lectures pertinent to a possible "megathrust earthquake" in this region, I've forgotten much of the information. So I would need to do tons of research, and I don't feel like it yet. But at least this is one case where I have the plot all figured out, instead of having a nebulous conception of my characters and themes but absolutely no plot to go on. And I don't think I have the skill to retain the interest of a reader in the absence of a fixed plot.

So far I have three books and several short stories in a sort of limbo until I gain the life experience and technical knowledge to complete them. It's nice, actually. One of them may, I suspect, be my "great novel"; I started it in my first university year, and every few months I take another look at the fragment I've already written and rewrite it. I think it's very good (or at least has the potential to be very good) and I like the characters and setting and everything about it. The main thing I want my stories to have is truth. Of course I like fiction, and glory in escapism. Of course great authors can evoke greater truths despite imaginary settings, characters and plots. But I think that the author should not pretend that he is depicting life accurately if he isn't. In my view, whitewashing the truth is usually wimpy and dishonest, as much as depicting life in different shades of ugliness because of cynicism or because of the desire to be "realistic" is usually repellent and dishonest. Anyway, I think that this story has truth. Others may find the story boring -- though my littlest brother read and liked the first part of it -- but at present I don't care.