My Name is Claire, and I Am a Bibliophile

N.B.: I am trying to be better about keeping up my blog. Mum (and on occasion other family members) keeps telling me I need to write a book already, become the next JK Rowling, and use my fame for good.  (I'd rather use it for world domination.) My problem is, I can't think of a story. But, as grad school keeps telling me, the more you write, the better you will get; maybe (if I'm lucky), I'll hit on a book idea that will become so outrageously popular, it will allow me to pay back my student loan debt a little sooner than when I die. So some entries here will be random, not necessarily about life in Canadia <--- (yes, I meant that), just me trying to hone my writing abilities. Plus, writing blog >shudder< entries is way more entertaining than writing for my research project (I do that, too, Mum, don't worry :-)

 

 

I realized today, when I had to go pick up a smaller-than-notebook-paper-sized notebook for my field notes journal, that I have a fascination with journals. They're so pretty! There were peacock feather ones, and music notes ones, and skull and crossbones ones (that I may or may not have bought Gillian, long ago - did I actually get it for you, Gillian, or did I just think about it and change my mind because you have a bazillion journals already?), old-world map ones, and so many more that I kind of stood there for about ten minutes in brain lock. I wanted them - ALL of them.

 

 

It's not like I'm a great journal writer - so far, since I began "consistently" journaling (at least twice a year!), I have filled three (almost four) journals. I do not consider this a crowning achievement, as my first “real” journal began in 1996 with the ballet girl journal Wendy gave me as my Pine Cone Pal at girls' camp. It took me until 2003 to finish it. I've done a little better since then, but still. And it's not like I don't have a bunch of blank, just-waiting-to-be-filled journals - there's the Percy Jackson journal, the Other Harry Potter journal (with Fawkes - I already filled the Hedwig one), the Eiffel Tower journal, the SLC Temple journal (just received as a gift two weeks ago, and it's soft leather bound, so I'm keeping it), the Butterfly locking journal (Christmas gift from A., who works in a bookstore), the Blank Book journal (Series of Unfortunate Events), and my Savior journal I began when I was eight, stopped writing in a few weeks later, lost, then discovered again when I was halfway through the ballet girl journal.

 

 

Of course, right now I'm in Canada, so I don't have access to all my blank journals, except SLC temple, Percy Jackson, and Butterfly locking journals. None of them are the right size, and I certainly am not going to waste any of them on a field notes journal for my Master's Research Project. So I had to go to the bookstore and buy one.

 

 

Bookstores present a real problem for me (and my wallet). If some responsible family member is not with me, I end up dropping a C-note on children's fiction/fantasy without batting an eye. (Gillian? Not a responsible family member, but an enabler, at least when it comes to my book buying binges. Probably because she reads them all, but doesn't have to fork over the cash. Of course, it's my fault, because I got her started with the Charlie Bone series, and it was all over; I created a little reading monster with a similar taste in books. She's not gonna stop me - heck, half the time she'll find the next book in a series we read, and oh-so-innocently point it out to me just as I'm having a crise de nerves because I have five books I want to buy, and they're all hardback first editions so they cost a bomb.) Mum is pretty good about keeping me from going overboard, mostly because I feel guilty spending the NDP of Djibouti on books when I'm shopping with her. (Side question: does Djibouti have an NDP? My interweb is broken now, so I can't look it up. I figure if they can waste money on protected habitats for mating turtles, they should, right?)

 

 

I just, I don’t know, go into a sort of trance when I enter a bookstore – which is weird, because they all smell like coffee, thanks to the enterprising folks at Starbucks, and coffee has caffeine, so logically I should wake up more when I go into a bookstore, right?  Part of it is how quiet they tend to be – even when Barnes & Noble is packed with last minute holiday shoppers, it’s never really loud.  Maybe because people associate lots of books = library = keep your voice down.  I dunno.  But I wander around bookstores in a bit of a haze, trying to figure out which books I want to buy (I rarely have a specific book I’m looking for), which ones will be worth it, which ones will make me regret shelling out my hard-earned cash money, which ones are going to get me hooked on a new series or author to the point where I will be jonesin’ for their next book the way addicts jones for the next hit of their preferred recreational drug.  There’s a great quote from Inkheart by Cornelia Funke that sums up my feelings every time I go to a bookstore (or the library): “She felt almost as if she could hear the books whispering on the other side of the half-open door. They were promising her a thousand unknown stories, a thousand doors into worlds she had never seen before.”

 

 

I wander in a trance through bookstores because I’m trying to get a fix on the books that will be worth it to read.  And when I say worth it, I mean they will become books that I will want to read over and over again.  My definition of a good book is not just that I don’t want to put it down until I’m finished – it also has to make me want to read it again when I do finish.  The best books are the ones I re-read on an annual (or semi-annual) basis, because I just need to experience the story again.

 

 

In bookstores, it’s sometimes a bit of a gamble, because I will pick up a book that looks like literary gold, only to discover that it’s pyrite.  That is irritating.  And I know that most people say, “Well, just go to the library” but that only works if the books are older.  New releases (especially for popular authors and series) always have a long wait list, and I am not patient.  Not when it comes to the next Rick Riordan or Brandon Mull novel.  Not when I’m already in the store, looking at a new book, skimming the first few pages, trying to discern how good of a read it will be.  Putting it down, walking away, and waiting until the library has it?  Not gonna happen. 

 

 

But I’ve only had a few book purchases that were mistakes (The Prophecy of Stones, I’m lookin’ at you) – most of the time, they’re keepers.  And the more success I have in choosing good books, the more I tend to take chances on new authors or series.  Which makes walking into a bookstore very dangerous to my wallet.

 

 

(Tonight wasn’t too bad, though.  I only spent $21, and I got a cute composition book that says “Decomposition Book” because it’s made of recycled paper (although I was sad none of the designs had zombies on them), a bargain book titled The Guinea Pig Diaries (not about guinea pigs, but an author who tried various ways of living, like outsourcing all his work to India and helping his nanny Internet date, then wrote a book about it), and The Wild Things by David Eggers, an adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are – he helped write the screenplay for the movie.)

This is another favorite quote from Inkheart, just to finish things off.

 

 

Meggie: You've been to Persia, then?
Elinor: Yes, a hundred times. Along with St. Petersburg, Paris, Middle-Earth, distant planets and Shangri-la. And I never had to leave this room. Books are adventure. They contain murder and mayhem and passion. They love anyone who opens them.