Thursday, December 13, 2012

Lover of books. Books, books, books.

A few months ago, I was posting about being allergic to my book collection.
I didn't get rid of my books.

...I still have said collection, and it's growing.

I love books.

Some people say this, but I realllly do.

I often prefer reading a book to watching a movie. In books, the reader gets to decide just what everyone and everything looks like, whereas in movies, you get to see what Hollywood and the director dictates.

...maybe it's a control issue for me. I want everything to look the way I imagine it, which is more than anyone could put on a screen.

 Either way, my bibliophila is a small problem.

I should never ever go into book stores, especially used book stores where good deals can be had.
Yesterday I found 8 books (and some of them were compilations -- meaning, even more books for my money!)
A few of them were gorgeously bound hardbacks. I am a sucker for a beautifully bound novel, especially if it's a classic.

The stack of yet unopened and unread books, just waiting to be devoured, is exciting.

Something to tack on awkwardly at the end of this post:
I have been noticing that I am starting to read some novels just for the writing style. It's almost like a form of music, to read beautifully crafted prose. Oscar Wilde is a perfect case of this. When I read The Picture of Dorian Grey, I was not fond of the storyline, but I enjoyed how well the book was written. I've started to read other things by Oscar Wilde just for the fact he was so clever and good at writing.

What on earth is happening to me? Am I growing up?

Someday, maybe, possibly, hopefully, I will achieve that similar ability to weave descriptions and dialogue so my reader feels they are right in the situation with me.

I'm sure you know this, but, not all prose is good prose. I have read some badly written published work.

When I tried to read Twilight (yeah, yeah, everyone ribs on Twilight, but I am serious), I couldn't get over the bad syntax.

Maybe I should have gone through that "book" with a red marker and sent it back to the publisher. Instead, I got halfway through and decided it was not worth the time. I wish I could write something halfhearted and hokey, get it somehow (magically?) published, and rake in the millions!
...but so does everyone, I am sure.

If I had mailed the marked-up book in, maybe I could have gotten a job as an editor!

Now, that would be a fun job.

I'm afraid that I'm turning into a book snob. Oh dear.

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