Dear Mr. Hewson,

Wow. I wish I’d found this video of “Two Shots of Happy, One Shot of Sad” a long time ago; it’s totally brilliant, and I am a sucker for songs done with an orchestra. It’s also been a long time since I’ve listened to this one, and let me tell you, it’s exquisite. Your vocals are so perfect, here. I am swooning; really! I am.

You should sing this more often. Seriously.

Also, I hear that there’s a movie in the works that has something to do with a book about the jealousy and hatred of you, the news of which has me intrigued. A book that’s titled “Killing Bono: I was Bono’s Doppelganger” would definitely spark the interest of any dedicated U2 fan, and perhaps anyone who has felt like they wanted to kill you in a moment of sheer frustration with your world-saving-rock-star-isms. I’m kinda keen to get my hands on a copy, now. I also think I would pay to sit and watch you read such a thing; it would be way too funny to pass up.

On a more serious note, I hope no one kills you. You know, I would like for you not to be dead; that would be good.

Stay alive, my friend. And sing more crooner-ish things while you’re at it.

Cheers and much love,
Sara

Well, this weekend was an interesting one for me: a surprise visit from my parents, and loads of surprises on the pages of the two books I flew through this week (one of which I devoured in three hours, but I’ll get to that later).

I think the folks at ABC’s Castle should start paying me — I blog about it way too often, and I’m always talking about how fabulous it is. I think I may have convinced at least 3 of my friends to start watching it after Christmas. In the meantime, I’m such a big fan of the show that I decided that I would allow my curiosity to kill the cat (no mystery there) and go out and buy “Heat Wave” (the book that Richard Castle had been writing on the show, which was actually released). As luck would have it, a friend had given me a $30 gift card for Chapters, and so I could get the book for free, which was the final nudge toward it.

When I found the lone copy of it tucked away on a bottom shelf in the nearest Coles store, I was thrilled: I had a new book and the time to read it! As an added bonus, it wasn’t a super long book, which meant I was all the more likely to finish it quickly. I have a serious issue with books that are more than three-fingers wide — they instantly seem insurmountable to me (I know, I know, I need to get over it. I’m trying!). I bought the book and trotted off back to my house both pleased and slightly embarrassed that I’d given in to a guilty pleasure.

I didn’t get to properly dive into the book until the next day, but dive in I did, and that night I managed to make it all the way to the infamous sex scene between the Detective Nikki Heat and her shadow, Journalist Jameson Rook (which is on page 105, exactly where Castle points it out in an episode of the show). It was at that point that I had to put down the book, for two reasons: 1. It was almost 3am, and I had to work that morning; and 2. It seemed like a good spot to break (it being after a climax and all, you know).

My feelings about the book up to that point had been mixed — I knew it wasn’t going to be high literature (and it wasn’t), but I was absolutely enjoying the banter and jokes, and the mystery involved in what essentially was a full episode of the show translated onto the pages of a novel. There are a few jokes made about Bono, and it turns out that Nikki Heat’s aspirations in life were eerily similar to my own, as she started out her university career doing English and was headed toward doing Theatre, until tragedy struck her life. I found this little detail rather amusing, and it has certainly endeared me to whomever it was who actually wrote the book.

Reading on, after the sex scene, I let myself relax a little and just enjoy what I was reading, which made for a better experience all-’round. Anyone who watches the show will be delighted by how the two lead characters in the novel are with one another, and will find that the story is extremely easily read. Like I said, it’s not high literature or anything, but it’s definitely a lot of fun, and I did find that there was a good deal more suspense involved in reading the particular story-line because it’s not revealed as quickly as the show necessitates it must be. In fact, reading the book whet my appetite for mystery literature, and has encouraged me to broaden my reading horizons, which is actually an excellent segue into some talk about the second book I read this weekend: Martin Amis’s “Night Train”.

There’s a bit of a story that goes along with why I ended up reading Martin Amis when I knew nothing about him, save for the fact that he’d written “London Fields” (a book I haven’t read and know nothing about). I’ve told the story to so many people, but I think I would be remiss in not putting it down in words. Last Wednesday night, I settled down in bed and flicked on my webbernet TV to help me sleep. It was late, and I was tired, but it never hurts to have a little encouragement in the sleep department, and TV does the trick. Anyway, I fell asleep and started to dream. I dreamt that I was in a public place (I feel like it was a library, but it wasn’t really clear) and that there was a very large black board hung on a wall in the building. If you picked up a writing utensil of any sort and wrote on this board, the writing would appear in very vivid, multi-coloured script. In the course of the dream, I began to flirt with a man, and he with me, both of us employing quotations from literary masters, writing them on this big board one after the other, but all the time completely unaware of who the other person was. This continued for some time, and I remember feeling that excitement and sense of nervousness in the pit of my stomach that is so perfect when one is flirting.

I woke the next morning and discovered that I could actually remember the dream (which rarely happens for me), and that there was one detail that stuck out in my mind the most: the only novelist that I could remember being quoted during the dream was Martin Amis. Now, let me stress to you that I really didn’t have any idea what Martin Amis was all about at this point, I just knew that his name kept echoing in my head.

That next day, I came into some more good luck and was given some more book bucks to spend. I went off to Chapters to see what I could find, thinking that I would be flooded with choices of books to buy. When I got there, however, I felt as though I couldn’t find anything that I wanted to read. I found this bizarre, and was determined to find something, so I started looking for interesting books in all corners of the store. Happily, I bent down to look at the bottom shelf in the beginnings of the Fiction and Literature section, and what should be staring at me but three books written by none other than Martin Amis. “Oh,” I thought, “this is just a fabulous coincidence. I think I’ll pick one up and see what this guy is all about.” So, I take a look at the books, and the one that most catches my eye is called “Night Train” and has neon orange on the cover. It’s short, which attracts me, and the design is simple. I flip the book over and read the blurb on the back, which informs me that the book is about a female police detective, working with the NYPD.

AHEM.

Sound familiar to anyone?

Seriously. I’d just finished reading “Heat Wave”, I watch re-runs of Castle on webbernet TV all the time, I dream about Martin Amis (about whom I know nothing) and I end up crouched down in the corner of a bookstore, holding a copy of a book he’s written about a female detective with the NYPD. Tell me that’s not just a little bit eerie.  What’s more, of course, is that I buy the book (how could I not? Really.) and start reading it the next day. I finish it in three hours (likely the fastest I’ve ever read any novel) and now I’m dying for more of this stuff: mystery, suspense, and shady characters.

I wonder now if some higher power (be it God or the literati) is trying to get me to read mystery fiction. Either that, or it’s warning me that I’m going to become an NYPD detective. *insert copious giggles here* Either way, I’m glad it all happened as it did. I was the one who figured Castle was going to get people reading, and (while I’m sure my own thoughts were at work, here) it definitely did, in my case.

…I’ll say it again: EERIE!

So, this is an interesting sort of Fact-Fueled Friday entry: I’ve got a question to ask!

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I’m a fan of ABC’s cop drama cum rom-com, Castle, and this week’s episode presented a hilarious and intriguing dilemma that involves a 9mm bullet and some lengthy Russian Literature. In the course of the episode, a man is shot and the bullet doesn’t kill him, or even hit him, because there is a copy of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment in his jacket pocket and the bullet halts half way through.

Now, I know that the purpose of making that part of the plot was for the sheer hilarity of it happening, and as a sort of inside joke amongst the well-read of the staff and audience. In fact, Detective Ryan actually makes a rather witty remark that if this man had been a Nicholas Sparks fan, he’d be dead, implying that his good taste in literature literally saved his life. I laughed, I’m not going to lie.

In the meantime, I’d actually like to see it tested. Could a man, shot at relatively close range, survive the shot of a 9mm if it hit Dostoyevsky first?

Seriously. MythBusters, are you listening? This’d be a funny one.

Since I spend a lot of my time with children who are five and under, I think a lot about how they see the world; getting in touch with your inner child is really helpful when you’ve got to speak pre-schooler on a regular basis. One of the things I see in play more than anything else, and that I remember about being a child, myself, is the power that imagination wields over a child’s world and how they see that world. It occurred to me again today that, though I’ve grown, the importance of my imagination has never diminished. In fact, in learning more and becoming a wiser, more savvy member of society, my imagination has not only remained intact and influential in my life, its fierce creativity right out demands that it begins and ends my day.

The extraordinary thing about being a child is that imagination is encouraged and fostered by play and interaction with friends and schoolmates. One of the most difficult things about being an adult is that imagination is often doomed to a ill-repute as a childish pastime. There’s a huge difference between what it’s like to imagine something as a child, and what it’s like to imagine something as an adult; that difference lies in the amount of restraint we are given, or that we give ourselves. I envy the pre-schoolers with whom I interact — they “don’t know any better”, and therefore, their world is masterpiece of imagination. By the time you “grow up”, you’ve put the whole world in boxes, including your own mind, and with so many boxes, in boxes, in boxes, it’s difficult to think outside them.

I like to think of imagination as “the gift of silly thought”, and there’s nothing more comforting to me than using my silly thoughts to formulate a great story or game in my head. I don’t often tell people about these stories or games, but they keep me thoroughly amused, and they remain a way in which I can stomach the difficult things that go on around me, and in the world. Having said that, I am reminded again of why I ended up doing an English degree, but also why I write and aspire to be a better writer in the course of my life. I’m sure that anyone who writes (fiction, of course, but many other things as well) can understand and relate to creating a set of utopias in their mind in order to escape the dystopias in which they live during the everyday. It all starts at about age 3, and goes from there. Though I miss the uninhibited imagination of my 3 and 4 year old self, I am so thankful that I got the chance to use that imagination and that it has stayed with me. So many kids don’t get the chance to spend hours imagining like I did. You might say it’s the product of being idle or bored, and maybe it was (and still is), but I definitely associate it with boredom in the best way possible — I was under-challenged, so I created my own world in which to live, and I think I’m still living there. It’s definitely more fun to live there, and the fine mix of control and change that I find in my imagination is so satisfying and enlightening that it has rescued me from many a darkened corner of my psyche.

In saying that, I have come to the point in my train of thought where the “realist” kicks in and insists that my brand of imagination and day-dreaming is only escapism, and that I should quit it and live in the real world. Problem is, of course, that I don’t know a world that’s any different than mine. My M.O. has always been to imagine big and dream bigger, and I don’t think that’s very likely to change at twenty-four. How does one live in the real world, anyway? And where the heck is it? Truth of the matter is that no one I know has ever been able to give me a satisfactory answer to that question. The real world, it seems, is a concoction of experiences that have made a person to believe that the world operates in a certain way. It’s all perception, of course. And one’s perception of the world can be traced right back to the 3 and 4 year old self and the corresponding imagination and the lack and/or repression thereof. There’s more to it than that, of course, and it’d take me a year to fully explain what I actually believe to be true about these matters, but the fewer restrictions placed on a child’s imagination, the bigger their view of the world will be, the more possibility they will see in it. People with big imaginations (no matter what it is they’re imagining) are the world-changers; they’re the ones who believe things before they see them, and who dare to dream of wildly creative worlds beyond their own, only to bring some of that magic to those around them. I always (well, since I was about 5 and my cognitive function allowed such lofty aspirations) thought I could make the world a better place just by imagining it, and I feel incredibly lucky to still believe that, and all because of my spare time and my penchant for living limitlessly in my head.

Now, I just have to take a lesson from my pre-schooler friends and parade around like a fool with my ideas on my sleeve, not caring what anyone else thinks. Alas, the “not caring” thing doesn’t come bundled with the “wild imagination” thing. Well, at least not until there’s an app for that.

Okay, so the credits for the Sectionals episode of Glee ran only 7 minutes ago, but my heart is actually still pumping with excitement. I admit, I’m a total sucker for the show, and I can’t help that a bunch of drama-ridden teenagers with amazing voices can get me this wound up. What this show has that other shows don’t is spirit, and there was a whole lot of it in tonight’s episode.

Part of the reason I started watching Glee in the first place was my very tuned-in and turned-on roommate, and I’ve got to thank her for that. Wednesday nights from 10:30 to 11:30, I forget about everything else and settle in for some pure, unadulterated joy (with fake pregnancy and awesome vocal talent, to boot). There are some great shows on TV right now, but Glee is something completely different, and it seems like people are really responding to it. It’s no wonder, though, because it’s like a stylish soap opera theatre class with all of the over-the-topness, love triangles and hit pop songs that you can possibly take. That, and the characters (though laughably stereotyped at times) are people we all want to believe in. There are elements of everyone in those kids (and the teachers, too), and I for one cannot help but root for them.

One of the things that I think really works for this show is that it works with emotion and song; like any good musical does, it pulls on your heart-strings because we hear music on a different emotional level than we do speech. Emotions are more compelling when they’re belted out with breath that ignites from the very core and picks up speed and heat at the heart, only to fly out the mouth and into the ears of an audience. Music as a shared experience is actually one of the most compelling things I’ve ever witnessed or been a part of, and putting that into a hip, drama-filled TV series is actually a completely brilliant idea.

I don’t really ever have anything to say about the characters and who I want them to be with, or what I want to see happen. I know the chemistry they’ve created, I know the story arcs, and I can predict with reasonable accuracy the outcome of certain situations that arise within the episodes; somehow though, none of that matters even a little bit. I still enjoy every moment of the show, and I still get excited when the things I knew were going to happen, happen. I don’t know about any of you, but I think that’s fairly impressive.

What I also love about this show is that it has actually captured the hearts of so many people who I expected, given their taste, not to like it.  It sneaks up on you, that’s for sure.

There’s not much more to say about it, really, except that I hope it keeps going, and that people don’t stop believing, if you get my drift.

Dearest GW,

So, about 20 minutes ago, I found myself reading an article on Leon Trotsky, while listening to Bing Crosby singing White Christmas; at that point, my mind jumped right to you and I thought I’d share with you the several contributing factors that led me to this juncture on my unexpected afternoon off.

To begin with, I should be running around after pre-schoolers and being merry right now, but due to some unforeseeable nonsense about a water main, I’m sitting at home with coffee, Christmas and communism instead. One of the websites that I’ve recently added to my “Dark Roasted Stumbling” routine is called The Daily Beast. You should definitely check it out, if you haven’t already; the title of the website was enough to get me curious. Anyway, one of the leading articles (well, it’s a review I suppose) on The Book Beast is an article about Leon Trotsky, and a new book that apparently debunks the “Trotsky Legend”.

With Bing crooning Christmas tunes in my ear, I merrily (or not?) read of this new biography that apparently aims to shatter any image of Trotsky as a revolutionary or prophet of any sort. According to the new biography, written by Robert Service (who apparently has a whole lot of credentials and has studied at some pretty important universities), the “only major difference between Trotsky and his fellow Bolshevik leaders was that he never got the chance to wield total power” (that’s a quote from the article, not the book). Now, this might be all fine and good, and since Trotsky is dead and therefore will never have the chance to wield this “total power”, I feel just that little bit safer tucked away in my tiny corner of the democratic land of Christmas consumerism. Aside from that, however, it seems like this Service fellow has written something that’s essentially bordering on slanderous, and that’s just bad biography work.

Meanwhile, since you definitely know more about Trotsky than I do, I’m curious to know what you think. I’d also like to know why Robert Service seems to think that he needs to debunk the Trotsky mythology, and write what essentially seems to be coming off  (to Michael Kazin at least) as a tell-all that only really tells part, and appreciates less. That said, if Trotsky has been lauded as a revolutionary of any sort for this long, people won’t take kindly to someone rather blatantly saying “he’s not — that’s that; let’s all go home and think about how this will affect our lives while we drink Vodka and wallow in due sadness”.

It’s funny that I even really care to read about all of this; I chalk it up to pure curiosity of the bored academic with her afternoon off and no place to go. And an innate sense of schadenfreude, of course.

Cheers to you, sir.
Sara

Dear Mr. Hewson,

I think the most recent development in the (RED) campaign clearly dictates that you should write a companion piece to “Get on Your Boots” that’s called “Tie up Your Laces”. I think you would be doing us all a terrible disservice to avoid such an excellent opportunity to parody yourself. If you made a shoddy video of you singing it and Edge playing along and posted it on YouTube, it would take off as a hilarious viral success and draw all sorts of attention to the campaign, thereby creating enormous blogging fodder and selling many, many, many pairs of (RED) laces.

I’m really not kidding, you know. Seriously. If there’s a man who needs to regularly parody himself (and who can pull it off), it’s definitely you. Seize the day, my friend! Seize it, tie it up, and run!

Cheers,
Sara

Well, I’ve been strangely on hiatus this week, and I find this to be rather unfortunate. Since I don’t normally post on Sundays, I thought I would get a head start on the new week today, and write a bit about this, that, and the other thing, too. Sometimes, I don’t have a whole lot of anything particular to say, but I like to blog anyway. Today, I will deem Homesick Sunday Miscellany day, and with any luck, be witty and charming enough for someone to take notice.

There’s a reason I call Sundays “Homesick Sundays” — I get wickedly homesick, and I inevitably end up doing something that reminds me of home, or keeps my mind off how much I miss my family. My approach is different every week, but it usually includes reading, writing, TV, or movies (or some combination of all of those things). Of course, I’d like to be reading, writing, watching TV and movies every day, but it’s not a perfect world.

Here in the city today, we’ve got some serious snowfall in our hands, which makes this particular Homesick Sunday better than most because it means I don’t have to feel bad for not getting out in the world, or bothering to get out of bed much. I slept in until a glorious (or obscene, depending on your perspective) hour, and then I decided that I would mosey on over to my favourite online TV site and watch some episodes of Castle, since that’s clearly become something I do when I’m not obligated to do anything else (yeah, I’m a total sucker for the show; keep reading for more ramblings on that).

Castle is the TV show that apparently makes its audience want to read. I mean, it’s not much of a push to make me want to read, but when I come across a TV show with a handsome, witty writer as its main character and then find out that they’ve released the book he’s been working on in the show in bookstores, it’s kinda hard to resist wanting to read it. I almost braved the weather to go to the mall and buy the book this afternoon, out of sheer curiosity. The thing is, the book is essentially written about the characters in the show, and so it’s a great extension of the show, as well as being a great marketing ploy and a way to keep people hooked — if it’s successful, that is. On top of all that, it’s a great way to get couch potatoes off their bums and into the bookstores, and perhaps entice them to become repeat offenders and pick up some more page-turners. Not only that, of course, but there are a lot of references to books, famous authors and literary genres in it as well. There are references to Edgar Allen Poe, David Mamet, and Frank Miller, just to name a few (and that’s only in one episode). It’s delightful for people who are already familiar with literature (like English majors, *ahem*), because it’s a giant inside joke, but it’s also really neat for people who don’t know, who will perhaps go and find the authors and genres mentioned and read them. GASP! Wild accusatory thought: publisher/literati conspiracy to get people to read?! BAM!

…well then, I think that thought proves that I have indeed been watching too much Castle, as it reminds me of something he would say. Well done, Inkpen; well done.

In other book-related news, I have decided that I might pick up some scary-ish books to read in the not-too-distant future. I’ve been reading this book called The Historian, and I really enjoy the way it’s gotten under my skin and pushes me to read more. I generally dislike things that scare me, but this is a seriously interesting book, and it’s so subtly terrifying that if I’m home alone reading it and I hear the slightest little noise, I jump. Oh, and it’s a vampire novel that’s actually a vampire novel and not one about sparkling emo people; that’s a bonus.

With all this snow happening today, it’s got me listening to Christmas music and thinking about how lovely it will be to have some time off this year. I’m delighted to be going home for Christmas, and I’m even more delighted to know that my mother has been kind enough to pay particular attention to my list this year, and as such, I can expect some fun stuff under the tree. One of the things I’ve asked for this year is Michael Chabon’s new book Manhood for Amateurs. I really love the way Chabon writes, and from the press that I’ve seen about this new collection of essays, it’s going to be a really great read. I’ve also asked for a book called In Praise of Slow by Carl Honore that’s all about slowing down your life and having a better quality one as a result. I’m really interested to read that one because I’ve never been a person who liked to rush and do too many things, but the whole world around me seems to be in a mad dash to do 504 things at once. I hope this Carl person knows what he’s talking about, and then I can perhaps feel better about not having accomplished a million things by the time I reach twenty-five and relax without wondering what the Hell else I should be doing with that time.

Speaking of which, I think I will go and relax and try not to care that I’m not doing something productive. S’okay? S’okay.

Okay, so I have a weakness for Children’s Literature — I’m only human! I also love things that rhyme, which is somehow related, I’m sure. I was at work (I work in a pre-school) last week, and one of the kids asked if I could read “Boom Chicka Rock” (written by John Archambault). I started reading and got so into it that one of my co-workers actually made a comment that I was really enjoying it. The book has such rhythm and so it’s actually quite difficult to keep still, or have a straight face, when you’re reading; this is particularly so when you’ve got a group of involved pre-schoolers sitting in front of you. In fact, I loved the book so much that I am buying a copy for myself. I totally think it’s worth it — quality Children’s Literature is hard to come by, and a good book never gets old.

I think that’s what I love about books: the good ones never go out of style. It’s an interesting exercise, actually, to hang out in the Children’s Literature section of a big book store like Chapters and really take a good look at the quality of the books there. There are certain things that one looks for in a good children’s book, and some of the stuff I’ve found is not only completely developmentally askew, but just plain boring, or wordy, or trying too hard. People think that writing a book for children is easy; let me tell you, it’s not. In my experience, children are neither as simple, nor as complex as we sometimes think they are. I think it takes someone who hasn’t lost touch with their childhood to really know what a child wants and needs to hear. Not losing touch with one’s childhood dreams, emotions and curiosities is a difficult thing to achieve in a world like ours, and I admire each and every author who has managed to channel that child-centered outlook into their writing. I’ve tried my hand at children’s verse, and I hope to publish someday (maybe even soon!), but I’m not so naive as to think that just anyone can write classic, quality books for little ones. Books like “Click Clack Moo Cows That Type”, “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom”, “Where The Wild Things Are” and “Madeline” don’t come along every day.

I encourage everyone to wander into the Children’s section of their nearest bookstore and see what catches your eye, and what doesn’t — you might learn a few things.

The buzz in the capital city for months has been about the locally-based CBC show that’s headed for CBCtv in January: Republic of Doyle. The crew has no doubt gotten on the nerves of the downtown residents with all of the filming and taking-up of streets and such. I moved out of the downtown core on a day when they were filming right on my doorstep, and that was annoying as all get out, but it was in the name of something big and cool, so as a Newfoundlander (someone who’s not generally accustomed to big and cool), I shoved my annoyance into one of the boxes I was moving and carried on about my merry business.

Now that the show is almost ready to start airing (the first episode airs in early January), I’m wondering whether it’s going to be up to scratch. I’ve heard mixed things, but of course, as any Newfoundlander knows, we must all support the endeavours of our own, no matter how bad they are. I’ve always had a problem with this particular cultural pastime, but I certainly don’t want to trip this race horse before it’s out of the gate, so I’ll reserve judgement like a dutiful artsy equalist type and wait until I get to see what the little show that could can really do.

In the meantime, here’s the most recent version of the trailer. It looks like fun!