"She had responded to his wicked kiss, and hated herself for it."

Fact #1: I spend most of the year complaining--often and loudly, to anyone who will listen--about the weather: "I don't hate snow, but I hate slush," "I like winter clothes, but I hate trying to walk when it's raining," "It's too icy to ride my bike," etc. I eagerly anticipate summer. To be fair, I mostly get excited about the possibility of smoking outside without having to pile on 55 layers of clothes, but still.

Fact #2: I like to read. More than that, I like to feel smart, and for me, this usually goes hand in hand with feeling well-read. Most of the time, I read things that I feel have some literary value, or that I could at least argue have the possibility of literary value. I don't (usually) actively seek out books that will make me work too hard, but I like to think I'm not entirely prone to fluff.

Fact #3: Despite the fact that I love summer, I don't do well with heat.

Sub-point: My IQ is inversely correlated to the temperature. I'm not sure what my IQ normally is, but I am sure it drops significantly with each degree the temperature rises. As soon as the weather turns summer-ish, and the temperature stays at or around 70º for more than a few days, my brain starts to turns to mush; by mid-July, the temperature and my IQ are both around 80.

Despite the fact that, for at least 2 months of the year, I'm legally retarded, I'm still compelled to read.

And this is why I feel I need to explain my summer reading habits.

If you compare my 2009 reading list to the weather records from the same time you'll notice that, about the time I went on a Y.A. Lit binge, the temperature was consistently above 85º. I didn't really feel the need to justify my reading choices then, because Y.A. Lit is relevant to my interests. However.

For the past two weeks, I have found myself taking my breaks in the walk-in cooler. I spend most of my time off sitting perfectly still, lest even the slightest movement should cause me to start sweating in places I forgot were capable of sweating. I've been sleeping with ice-packs, people. That's how fucking hot it is.

I have also found myself reading romance novels. Obsessively.

First, let me say that I never intended to read "romance" novels. Or, I never intended to invest any length of time in the overly-sentimental and predictably mawkish romance novels I've been reading. The kind of novels wherein the Hero is a Rake (capital "R") who, though historically devoted to bachelorhood, can't help but fall for the Heroine, a sort of plain-but-smart-and-witty woman that every woman secretly believes herself to be. That was not my plan. My plan was to spend the hot (aka: sweltering) period of this summer reading correspondingly hot (aka: torrid) novels of the Harlequin persuasion.

Yes, dear friends: I had planned to read porn. Sleazy, smutty, and--above all else--explicit Harlequin romances, preferably the kind with a least one sex scene per chapter. The sort of book with ripped bodices and long haired Fabios on the cover, with words like "Forbidden", "Temptation", and "Sinful" included in the title. I wanted pirates! Wenches! Abductions! At the very least, I wanted drug-fueled scandals! I wanted adultery! I wanted orgies!

I basically wanted The Princess Bride with lots and lots of dirty sex. Or "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls" in paperback format.

The problem with this plan, I found out, was that I have a very real problem taking that kind of book to the cashiers at the bookstores I patronize. I've developed a rapport with most of them, and I like to think there's a mutual level of respect between us. And I didn't really want to buy this kind of novel from a used bookstore, for paranoid hygienic reasons. So, I compromised and ended buying a couple of books with relatively innocuous-looking covers that still suggested a tolerable amount of scandal. The rationale behind this was that, while the cashiers weren't going to laud my superior taste and intelligence for selecting said books, I probably wasn't going to lose more than a modicum of the respect I'd felt I'd worked so hard to get either.

The innocuous-looking books proved to be innocuous-looking for a good reason: they are innocuous. They have, at most, 2 sexy scenes per novel, and those scenes are punctuated with the Hero declaring how much he loves the Heroine, and how his life was "meaningless and hollow" without her, etc. And perhaps I'm just a bitter cat-lady who's never been showered with "I love you's" whilst getting fucked, but this really pissed me off.

At first.

When I read the first of the books I bought, I was appalled that there was a "author" who had actually made a career writing about an archetypical romantic Hero whose personality is suddenly reformed by the love of the Right woman. I was repulsed by the trite representations of love at first sight, and the reinforcement of the ideas that no marriage is complete without children and/or that no person can really be whole unless s/he's part of a couple. I was aghast that confident, successful, intelligent men were being reduced to sappy, vulnerable, obsequious... things... with nothing more than a stock, spinster-ish character as the catalyst. Or that strong, respectable women were being reduced to simpering worshippers of beautiful but cruel men.

And then I read the second of the books I bought. Mostly because it was there, and I have issues buying a book and not reading it.
And was surprised to find that I quite liked the Heroine in this one. She was smart, and independent, and a little bit violent. Which I like. I was surprised that the dialogue was not only funny, but quite believable. And I was surprised that the (admittedly too rare) sex scenes were actually kind of hot, despite phrases like

...he slid one long finger inside her, teasing her warmth, tickling her sheath

and

Simon felt her thighs slide apart as he settled his body against hers, his manhood hot against her belly.*

Inadvertently and against my better judgement, I ended up liking this ridiculously saccharine novel. Which brings us to:

Fact #4: I have a highly addictive personality. When I find something I like, I tend to get a bit locked on.

Fact #5: This book I liked is, unfortunately, part of a series. A long series.

And that is why the next 8 books I read this summer will probably be about "true innocent[s] blushing uncontrollably" upon finding themselves "pressed firmly against his arousal". I just thought you should know.





*My major problem with any novel--Harlequin or no--that tries to address sex delicately is that they always, always, always end up making sex sound stupid and/or completely unappealing. His "manhood" or "arousal"? Her "sheath" or "cradle of her womanhood"?
No.

Reading, Writing, and Resolutions.

In January, Dallas resolved to read at least 52 novels before the end of the year. In a well-intentioned-but-fallacious attempt to 'improve her mind',* she planned to read a lot of musty, canonical "masterpieces."

Around the same time, she also started seriously working on her novel, a Sci-Fi/Fantasy story for Young Adults. Her goal is to finish said novel by the end of January, 2010.

In April, someone helped her remember the name of the series of books she fell in love with as a child (The Obernewtyn Chronicles), but was too broke to order them. Instead, she decided to try and actually finish** Ulysses because:

1. it's widely hailed as THE definitive work of Modernist Literature;
2. Lots of authors, musicians, and films she genuinely enjoys are somehow inspired by Ulysses; and, most importantly,
3. she already owned a copy.

It took her a month to finish 110 pages, at which point she realized that:

1. she is a college drop-out, which means that she doesn't even need to know what a literary movement is;
2. her enjoyment of things inspired by Ulysses in no way hinges upon her having actually read Ulysses; and, most importantly,
3. she fucking hates Ulysses.

Somewhere in this mess, Dallas lost the notebook with most of her novel in it, and had to try and rewrite it from memory.

This proved to be incredibly frustrating. In lieu of actually writing, and 'in the name of research,' she started reading popular YA novels written by other people--some of which were pretty good, and some of which were very, very, very bad.

Also in the name of research, she read a fair chunk of non-fiction. She read a book about how Tolkien created the exhausting mythology of Middle Earth. She read books about comets destroying the earth, about the sinking of Atlantis, about expeditions to Hollow Earth, and about the apocalypse. She read books about how to identify rocks and gems, about how the Earth's crust was formed, and about volcanoes. She accrued dozens of National Geographic magazines. She read books about alchemy, mythology, chemistry, and archery. She read ten different books about the technique of writing itself, as a sort of refresher course in the basic protocol of plot, dialogue, etc. For various reasons, most of these books aren't listed in her Reading Log, either because the book was so picture/illustration-heavy that she didn't feel like it counted as actually reading, or because she only read the parts she felt relevant to her story.

Sometime in July, her story started coming together, so she pretty much stopped blogging in an attempt to focus her energy into her novel. Unfortunately, she was caught in a vicious cycle: she would write thousands of words, then delete all of them upon rereading. The tone was inconsistent and erratic, the narration rang false, the characters were unbelievable, and the plot seemed forced.

So, she went back to reading 'kid's books'.

About a month ago, she noticed that her writing was consistently stronger when she was reading other YA Lit.

She also noticed*** that if she tries to read, say, Tom Robbins, the tone of her writing changes drastically; suddenly, her characters are alternately telling each other to fuck off and waxing philosophical about what it means to love. So she puts Robbins down, and picks up Murakami; now her characters are obliquely symbolic, constantly finding themselves in surreal, non sequitur situations, and obsessing over another character's clubbed thumb or something.

So, until she has a satisfactory first draft finished, she's only reading YA Lit. If Daniel Day Lewis can write love notes to Fergie to stay in character, Dallas suspects it's probably okay for her finish up the year exclusively reading books targeted at the age group she's writing for.†

Which works out just fine, because she only has five books to go.

And the last five books of The Obernewtyn Chronicles arrived in the mail today.

So, to recap: with a month and a handful of days to complete her reading goals for 2009, and two months to finish her first draft, Dallas has

47 out of 52 books read &

27,451 out of a projected 75,000 words written.

Seeing as how this will be the first time she's ever followed through with her New Year's Resolutions, she's feeling pretty good about herself right now. She's bursting at the seams with self-satisfaction and just about ready to tell 2009 to go fuck itself.††

* Those were her exact words, which just goes to show that she'd already been spending too much time with the likes of Austen and Tolstoy.
** Marking her 3rd attempt to read it

*** Finally.

† She is in no way trying to justify a Reading List predominately composed of books targeted at tweens. She feels no shame in reading YA Lit, and therefore does not need to defend it. She's merely observing.

†† (Almost) Another year wherein she managed not to:

get diagnosed with cancer, get hit by a car, get in a car accident, go to jail, knock her teeth out while walking up or down stairs, run over a dog, spill a vat of acid on her face thereby horribly disfiguring herself and marring her soul, contract conjunctivitis, or get eaten alive by ants.†††

††† And for all that, she's grateful. Happy Thanksgiving.