Marginalia.

“You just like them because they’re old,” my dad said to me, after I proudly showed him the 1943 Random House editions of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights I recently purchased from two different independent booksellers. They were originally sold as a set.

“Well yeah,” I admitted. “But also because of the art. And the smell. And the inscriptions. And the marginalia.”

The art is truly incredible.

What is most amazing about the art is that they are actually wooden engravings letter pressed from electrotypes. I don’t know how well you’ll be able to ascertain how detailed they are from the photographs, but it is impressive. The artist, Fritz Eichenberg, also produced wooden engravings for several other books: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, among others.

One of my favorite smells in the whole world is “old book.” I love browsing through the stacks in libraries and scouring the aisles of antique bookstores. The quiet atmosphere, the smell, the organization! Heaven Being surrounded by books makes me feel safe and comfortable and just happy; especially in San Francisco. If I pass a bookstore I will step inside, if only to look around for a moment and take a few deep breaths and relax. The city can be a little overwhelming for a country girl like me

Finding a used book with a personal inscription in it is more exciting to me than finding money on the ground… or at least as exciting! Maybe as exciting as finding a one hundred dollar bill To read something so intimate and ambiguous is like peeking into a stranger’s past and becoming a silent witness at a particular moment in their lives. It is special.

My friend, “Lee”, wrote a beautiful inscription to his friend about, ironically enough, old books. (Lee and I are a lot alike. I started writing this post a few days ago, when I first got the books, but haven’t had the time to finish it. In the meantime,  Lee emailed me, and told me to read this inscription he wrote and I was surprised for about two seconds. Our thought processes intersect quite frequently, so the novelty has begun to wear away.) Anyhow, I don’t know his friend but will link you to her website so you can read his wonderful inscription. It is too good for me not to link you to it. I can only imagine how, a hundred years from now, someone will someday discover that book and read his inscription in complete awe.

I cherish all the books I own that contain inscriptions, whether they were written for me or not. I just hope that one day, when I am no longer here, someone will care for them as much as I do.

Marginalia. That’s a great word, isn’t it? Used books tend to be marked down in price if their pages contain marginalia. I find that lucky and baffling, at the same time. If I had to choose between a clean book and one with notes in the margins and highlighted passages, I’d choose the latter, every time. To me, it isn’t about getting the cheaper copy (although that is a lucky bonus!) more than it is about having a book with a little history; a book that can offer a second perspective. I love the hints and insight given by the previous owner, seeing what that person thought was important enough to highlight and note. I love having that disembodied connection with the book’s past.

But maybe my dad is right, in the end. More than anything else, I love holding something that is almost 40 years older than I am. Knowing that when something is truly special, it will endure the wear and tear and decay of time. I resent the Amazon Kindle. It may be practical, but it isn’t romantic, the way a book is. I almost feel like it is disrespectful. I never understood why some people first hated the idea of mp3s, or even CDs. I myself much prefer to download music. But because of the Kindle I now totally understand why audiophiles who cherish records and/or jewel cases resent the inevitable obsolescence of those items. They’ve become novelty.

Nothing is sacred for everyone. Not books, not records, not CDs, not art, not even god. The important thing is to figure out what is sacred to you, if you haven’t already. And respect what others find sacred. Even if you don’t.

*I recently patronized a Barnes & Noble with my mother. She was looking for a certain book; when we made our way to the register, the cashier asked if we were club members. My mother looked at me and said, “Aren’t you?”

“No,” I said and smiled at the guy, not wanting to go into detail and possibly insult him. When he started in on his spiel about how if we spend $250 in one year we end up saving a lot of money with the membership, I almost laughed. Instead I smiled again and said, “Quite honestly, I never spend that much money here. I usually shop at independent and used bookstores, but thanks anyway.”

I do sometimes feel a little guilty about the fact that I am basically working in the book publishing industry yet I refuse to shop at major book chains. It seems pretty hypocritical, right? But you see, it is because of those market-hogging giants that the industry is in such a rut right now, demanding what will sell and ultimately controlling what gets published, so eff them, really. Thousands of independent bookstores went out of business last year, and not just because the market is so shitty. I think the general consensus is that when monopolies begin to control any industry, nothing good will come from it.

To find an independent bookstore near you, visit IndieBound.*

“I am not led, I lead”

Have you ever felt inspiration and despair for the same thing within mere hours?

I bet it happens to me more often than I think. It probably happens to us all, all the time. The spectrum of human emotion is as detailed as the bits and bytes in binary numbers. Possibly more so. Like how people can have a thousand different facial expressions. Like a friend can have a thousand different facial expressions. How interesting is it that we know our friends’ faces almost better than we know our own. Perhaps it is that we see the beauty in a friend’s face easier than we see beauty in our own. All we see when we look into a mirror is what we dislike, the flaws, the old scars, the new wrinkles. I don’t know what I look like when I am happy, but I know what Mackensy looks like when she is contemplative. I know what Alexis looks like when she sees her son laugh. I know what Mike looks like when he is excited about something he is writing. I know the difference between my sister’s bartending smile and her genuine, Michelle, smile. Her canned laugh for the drunk guy at her bar, and her hysterical, tearful laughter when we’re talking about her sleepwalking escapades.

I finished reading Old School by Tobias Wolff late last night. It took me three days, only because I had other things to do. I would have finished in a day given the free time. No book has captured me, captivated me, the way this one did, with its beautiful prose. More poetry than prose really. Each word in a precise place, the way an epic poem is carefully constructed. Like crossing a river, rock by wobbly rock, stepping in just the right place to maintain that perfect balance. And what an incredible story! Masterful. Truly masterful. I wanted to read it again, as soon as I had finished the last sentence. I almost did, having turned the first page for a second time, before sighing and putting it in a safe place, resolved in my decision to try and read as much as I can from this year’s Litquake line up before the festival begins.

I was so inspired after reading that (I also have to mention I’ve read a few other books in the past two weeks which have contributed to that inspiration, namely, The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls and Dinner at The Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler.) I woke up this morning itching to write poetic prose. The subject matter I tend to be drawn to, however, usually sucks that beautiful inspiration out of me, and my drive starts to fade, and I lose my momentum, like a marathon runner who gets a stitch in his side midway through the race and slows, before eventually grasping at his ribcage is desperation. That’s me. Grasping in desperation to this romantic idea I have of writing emotionally-charged fiction. I’m really good at it in blogs, huh?!?! Somehow it just doesn’t translate into my fiction. I write, coldly, as Mike says. And then I get frustrated and “take a break.” Usually for a few days, or a few weeks, even months, before I give it another go. Because my inspiration has deflated, like birthday balloons the morning after. Sad orbs in darker colors than yesterday, hovering above the floor.

What I am choosing to read for Litquake, if I do it, is Pseudocide. The obvious choice. It is short and simple and SF related. And I started to get inspired, excited about it while chatting with Mike earlier this evening. But I now realize it is also controversial. (Like much of my fiction.) I watched 20/20 tonight and the first segment was about the 2007 documentary entitled The Bridge. It is not what inspired my piece, but many people, especially in SF, are concerned about its impropriety. They think it romaticizes the idea of committing suicide from the Golden Gate Bridge. Gulp. Does my story do that? I didn’t mean it too, but I don’t know. I cannot see my story from the outside. From a reader’s perspective. Much like I cannot see my own face, the way my friends see it.

Inspiration and despair are intertwined, like a smile and a frown. Like crying and laughing. Love and hate. Life and death.

Non dvcor, dvco. Yeah, that’s me to a T. (What does that mean, anyway?)  But I have to admit; sometimes I feel like I’m being pulled. Like, by some external force, I am not allowed to be satisfied with the same thing, or the same place, or the same life for too long. Because I have goals too, Mike Golden goals. So maybe I just needed to remind myself that yes, I am in charge, I do lead, but sometimes I should stop and enjoy where I am, and savor any spark of inspiration I get, for as long as it lasts.

if you know this girl

then you know that she’s a subconscious saboteur. A wanderer, a soul searcher, a realist and a surrealist.

If you know this girl, you know that she sings the blues in blogs, but not quite like her friend Molly. She writes stories better than she can tell them. She can pretend better than she can face truths. She can hide and lie, little white lies; pale, translucent white lies that don’t hurt; they don’t hurt anyone. Not anyone, but her.

If you know this girl, you know that she loves more than she leaves. Although she leaves a lot too. So maybe she loves too much, too easily, too forgivingly. Or perhaps is not forgiving enough. Maybe she does actually leave more than she loves. Maybe she’s too confused. Or maybe she’s been hurt too many times.

If you know this girl, you know that she is more than a writer. She’s a painter. A captivator. Or maybe she just wants to be more than a writer. More of a writer? She wants to be nothing, but a writer. She’s obviously conflicted.

If you know this girl, you know she has writer’s block. You know she always has writer’s block. You know that she knows that the best way to overcome writer’s block is to write. Anything. So she writes. Anything.

If you know this girl then you know that she loves to be happy. She loves to laugh. But you also know she subconsciously loves to be miserable. Because misery is a catalyst for material. So even when she is happy, she looks for the rainclouds on the horizon of a sunny day. So she sabotages her happiness. Or maybe she just refuses to settle for happiness. Perhaps happiness isn’t enough. If you know this girl, you might agree with that.

If you know this girl, you know that there is always music in her head. Songs swim in an ocean of words, like schools of silvery fish.

If you know this girl, you know that she can’t be alone, but she hates being crowded. You know that she is a lover AND a fighter. You know that she is the smartest blonde to have ever graced the beaches of Orange County. If you know this girl, you know she’s a total bullshitter. But you also know she is in no way disingenuous.

If you know this girl, you know that she tries often and gives up easily. (But secretly never gives up.) If you know this girl, you know that she underestimates herself; she’s very critical of herself.. (But tries to avoid cliches like “you are your own worst enemy” because cliches are unoriginal, duh, and she despises being unoriginal.)

If you know this girl, if you really know this girl, you can’t help but adore her. And if you really know this girl, it must mean that she can’t help but adore you.

But do you really know this girl? Does anyone really know other people, as close as they may be to one another? Can you ever really know someone?

(If you know this girl, you know she loves to get existential.)

If you know this girl, give her a hug the next time you see her. Because if you know this girl then you know that she never forgets a hug. And you know that she thinks a hug is one of the best things you can give to a friend. If you know this girl, you might agree with that.