The Big Sleep and Reasons Why William Faulkner Might Not Have Been the Best Screenwriter of All Time

Books I Bought Last Week:

None. Can you believe it? 

Books I’ve Finished This Year:

-East of Eden by John Steinbeck

-Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

-Silk by Alessandro Barico

-Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores

-The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

-Animal Farm by George Orwell
-The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
-The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald 
-Grimm's Fairytales by the Brothers Grimm
-Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

Currently Reading:
-The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific by J. Maarten Troost


I bought another typewriter.

On Sundays, teachers, students, and military get a 25% off of their total purchase, so what on Thursday had been $12.99 for a typewriter I wasn't sure I wanted, today turned into a casually frantic search for a $9.75 typewriter. I found it tucked above scales and under food processors in a case that on second glace wasn't broken after all. It was only cosmetically dirty (nothing that rubbing alcohol can't fix) and the keys worked fine, though a younger and less experienced generation of buyers thought it didn't work due to needing a new ribbon. Okay, where does one find typwriter ribbon anymore? After two office supply stores and a total of five quizzical glances from men who didn't quite know how to handle the nerdy anomaly excited to find typewriter ribbon, I victoriously drove down the highway with my window down, listening to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros play my favorite summer song, "Kisses Over Babylon." (http://youtu.be/CR8xbCPvr-o)

What stuck with me was much less contemporary than my song, or even my car (though it is nearly 20 years old. Yikes.) -I love old things. Old, old things. I use my recently acquired typewriter as a segue into what I had intended to blog about today: Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep, Musso&Franks, and noir. (If I were a radio host, I would change the theme music from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros to something more fitting, say Woody Herman, http://youtu.be/hK_9otl3sZ0)

I grew up watching old movies and The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart was one of my favorites.It captured everything I loved about noir films, and the plot was so intense that I used to use it as a litmus test for adulthood: if I could figure out the murderer, then and just then I'd be a

grown-up. What I didn't realize is that not even the director knew who the murderer was -but I'm getting ahead of myself. In the meantime, I was growing up, starting college, getting curious in literature, and The Big Sleep was one of the first few books I ever bought.

But I never read it.

That doesn't surprise you, does it, reader? The blogger who struggles with reading books as fast as she buys them? Nah. So it mustn't surprise you, then, that I didn't read it until this year, until over ten years after I bought it. I probably wouldn't have, to be honest, if I hadn't had a conversation with a colleague at the college about noir 

films. Reminded by how confusing the plot was and realizing I'd never read a Raymond Chandler book before, I decided that now would be the time. Coincidentally, only a week or so after I'd begun reading, a writer's conference I attended mentioned noir films and directly quoted from The Big Sleep. Omitted from the film (as most of the real plot is), Chandler describes Phillip Marlowe as a kind of cynical warrior, and as he steps into the Sternwood mansion, he sees a huge stained glass window of a knight rescuing the damsel in distress. What's interesting about noir, though, is that the damsel in distress is almost always a femme fatal, and she certainly is in this book. Marlowe is compelled to save her via the knight-in-shining-armor motif, though he knows in saving her, how exactly dangerous she is. But even more interestingly is the idea that noir is so purely American. While Swedish noir (like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) is becoming popular now, previously it was very American, very cowboy-ish in the sense that the renegade independent comes out of the wilderness to rescue someone and to restore justice, and then he recedes back to his solitary lifestyle. If noir is cowboy-ish, then it's no wonder that noir hit it's silver screen popularity in California, America's last frontier.

By Chandler's cynical voice through the first person Phillip Marlowe is the charm of the book. While he's bitter and makes comments about society, his eye for detail is both thoughtfully introspective and sometimes funny. I was pulled in almost immediately, especially with phrases like "Neither of the two people in the room paid any attention to the way I came in, although only one of them was dead." Later when he references the dead man, he says, "His glass eye shone brightly up at me and was by far the most life-like thing about him." Later as he notices that someone has moved the body, he says, "Dead men are heavier than broken hearts." Who is this detective? He wants to come off as street-smart, savvy, too cool for school -and he is- but he's also a beautiful thinker, a philosopher. The end -no, I won't ruin it for you- is so beautifully worded that I couldn't help but to sigh with the last turned page. Read it. You have to.

By the way, the book is completely different from the movie. Raymond Chandler wrote it while sitting in the back booth of Musso&Franks on Hollywood Boulevard. It was established in 1919 and

among M&F's patronage includes not just Chandler who wrote his only four novels from the back corner booth, but also William Faulkner who rewrote The Big Sleep in script form, their contemporary Ernest Hemingway who drank at the bar (big surprise) with F. Scott Fitzgerald (big surprise). Tennessee Williams was there. Everyone was there: Charlie Chaplin had a favorite booth, Marilyn Monroe had a favorite booth, and all of the  directors and producers intermingled there. As someone who loves Old Hollywood, I would have loved to go there anyway, but I finished the book as we were already driving out to California. Dad mentioned that Chandler wrote the whole thing at Musso&Frank's, and that he (my dad) had driven there several

Brink's truck driver to pick up money. In fact, when Brink's was having a tough time, the manager even offered him a job, knowing that he loved the place and that he loved Old Hollywood. The job didn't work out, but he appreciated the thought and remembered her. "Dad, let's go. I'll pay. It's not like we're here every day." So we went. We valet parked in the back lot and came in through the back door, looking old and sketch. This place is that amazing? I thought. But then we came around the corner to see the glossy floor, the wood paneling, the shiny red booths... No one has restaurants like this anymore. The manager that had offered Dad a job was now the owner and she remembered him -almost 30 years later. Crazy. She knew exactly which booth was Chandler's so as a nod to Chandler, I sat in his booth, holding a copy of his book. So surreal. 

So here is the funny thing about The Big Sleep: Raymond Chandler wrote this beautiful, complex story that had a few things in it that the Censor Board wouldn't pass in 1946, so William Faulkner (then screenwriter, not major American novelist) changed them for the script. Then Howard Hawks wanted Faulkner to add a few scenes to beef up Lauren Bacall's role in the film (she was very popular at the time, and even more popular starring in a movie with her new husband). So the already diluted, confusing plot became even more fuzzy with new scenes and character motivations. When Hawks was halfway through shooting the film, he said to Chandler, "Say, who is the murderer, after all?" Chandler, nearly speechless, said, "Ask your screenwriter. You've changed so much of the story, I couldn't tell you." When Howard Hawks asked Faulkner, he shrugged. "Eddy Mars seems like a crook. Let's pin it all on him." And that, my friends, is why the end of the movie differs so much from the end of the book, which is really a shame because the end of the book is brilliant and contains in it the namesake for the story. Otherwise, you watch the movie and you wonder what this has to do with sleep.

The moral to this story is to always go to the restaurant where your favorite book is written, sit in your author's booth, and get a drink at the bar from where your other favorite author drank with his frenemy. Here's the other moral of the story: always buy cheap typewriters at Goodwill.

Eternal Summer

Yeah, um, I know it's been a long time.

I'm sure somewhere that's on the top ten list of things not to say to your blogging readership, but, meh, honesty is what it is and writing never is what it could be when you deliberately avoid saying the thing you want to say.

So here's how things are from where I sit: I'm eating strawberries and almonds from a teal Earthenware bowl, I'm drinking the last of the morning's coffee from a cup with the handle formed from an arched horse, Woody Herman's old big band orchestra is faintly playing on my computer, and I'm sitting under a large shade tree pretending not to hear the trash truck making its rounds in the neighborhood. This is summer, my friends. This is the time of the year when I can reside barefoot in gym shorts and a long-sleeved Jane Eyre t-shirt, planning what my summer is going to look like, while knowing it's not as infinitely long as it seems right now.

My pledge to myself this summer is to write. More. Really. I've just spent the last ten months frantically squeezing editing into every spare moment, and while there's something distinctly teacher-ish about it (something that I secretly love), I haven't yet negotiated that balance in scheduling that allows me to do that, plus reading, plus writing. If you've been reading my blog for any length of time you know this: I need to stop buying books faster than I read them (hah) and this summer involves more dedicated reading.

But additionally, I'll be working with more short stories (probably Steampunk stories), I'll probably play with some creative nonfiction (essay or novel, who knows), and I'll set to reworking the novel-ish idea that I had last touched in November. Yeah, I told you it's been a while.

To be fair to my craft, I haven't been completely non-productive; I've polished and submitted to quite a few contests. I know contests are a gamble and that sometimes they feel like throwing away money, but even then I like the idea that these contests go to literary publications. Even if I don't win (which would be nice), my money is going to a starving writer like myself who could use the cash, and the rest of the money is going to the overhead costs of supporting accessible literature for the masses. I can live with that. Here is where I've submitted said work:

Conium Review: sent April 1st, heard May 1st: Rejection (Boo)
Mixer Magazine: sent April 14th, should hear by June 26th
Bristol Short Story Prize: sent April 10th, should hear mid-July
Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition: sent April 10th, should hear end of July
Spoon River Poetry Review: sent April 14th, should hear in August
River Styx Poetry Magazine: sent April 10th, should hear in October

I suppose that's another rule I've just broken: thou shalt not ever reveal where thou've sent work on the chance that thou shalt be rejected by all of them and thus appear inferior. To this again I say, meh. I am who I am. If rejection means I need to write more and improve more, then I'm game. I'm game anyway, so I'll ride the tides of chance.

Hemingway said he would strive to write one true thing a day and here's my truth for today: my current plans for summer seem eternal because they're my plans for life. Uninhibited by scheduling, I aspire to soar above my circumstances, to write and read and enjoy, to dream that my writing right now could be accepted by every publication, that there is nothing stopping me. Maybe that's a little bit of Gatsby and contemporary relevance getting to me, but I don't care. Maybe success has eluded me so far, but that's no matter, because today I'm going to run faster, stretch my arms out farther, and then one fine morning-- (Thanks, F. Scott.)

Writing Should Be Writing

Books I Bought Last Week:

-Drive by James Sallis

-Freedom by Jonathan Franzen

-The Imprefectionists by Tom Rachman

-Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

-Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson

-The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison

-Poison by Kathryn Harrison

-The Binding Chair by Kathryn Harrison

-Mad Girl’s Love Song by Andrew Wilson

Books I’ve Finished This Year:

-East of Eden by John Steinbeck, 600 pages

-Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, 120 pages

-Silk by Alessandro Barico, 94 pages

-Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores, 144 pages

-The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, 230 pages

-Animal Farm, 93 pages

(I’m realizing that my new goal should be to not buy a stack of books that exceed the number that I’ve read thus far that year. So, maybe, come November or December I can be more careless with my book acquisition, whereas February should still be modest.)

After attending ASU’s 2013 Desert Nights, Rising Stars Conference this weekend, I left so enthused. I had story ideas and starts, I was encouraged about the prospects of finding an agent (with self-publishing so prominent now, agents are actively looking for authors), and I got a huge download of new information that I can use both for my own education and for educating others. Let’s face it: educating others is just a more advanced way of educating yourself.

But now that I’m “back to real life,” I’ve realized a list of rules and boundaries I need to adhere to. (If I don’t keep to this list, no one will for me.)

I [insert name here] solemnly swear to respect myself and my writing, and that means these things:

1.      Go to bed means go to bed. There’s no faster way to fall behind schedule than to drag through it with a sleep-hangover.

2.       Writing time means writing time: not Facebook time. ‘Nuff said.

3.       I will sit down to write with everything I will need. That means no getting up to get a drink. Or a snack. Or to check email. Or to check snail mail. Or to water the plants. You know something is wrong if I get up to water plants.

4.     Once glued to the chair, I will only allow some out-the-window time. I can’t swear to not look out the window (let’s be honest here) but I will be aware of how much I am looking out the window. Substitute window for checking nails. Substitute nails for working tangles out of my hair. Substitute hair for- you get the idea. No one realizes how poorly groomed they are until they’re [not] writing.

5.     If I hate what I am writing, I give myself permission to write something else. This does not mean blogging or Facebook status updates. Writing should come easily.

On this day –February 26, 2013- I declare that I will uphold these ideals and that if I don’t, I will conceal it and still tell everyone I’m a writer though I don’t produce a single word. Just kidding. Maybe. 

Ten Reflections About Point of View and Voice

1.       You’re talking to yourself. Narrators do this in books, therefore if you’re talking to yourself, you’re the narrator.

2.       If you appear to be the only one talking to yourself, that must mean the story is about you. If the drooling guy on the corner is talking to himself, too, the story must also be about him. First person multiple means you share.

3.       You should never write in second person. Or be hypocritical.

4.       Maybe you should ponder not using some words that could be kind of passive. Where in all of that kind of vagueness is the character who is now hard to find because of the sort of ambiguity?

5.       When a writer uses third person limited, s/he will often give us one (and only one) character’s thoughts. “Don’t give us two,” the author thought, as Kristen simultaneously thought she agreed.

6.       Don’t refer to yourself in the third person. It’s weird.

7.       When thou choosest the omniscience of person the third, one needn’t sound antique. Exemplifying thy choice stands the Bible and literature of the century of our Lord 19^th, however thy word choice needn’t likewise exemplify.

8.       The writer SHOULD pick a character we LIKE to tell the STORY. The reader doesn’t WANT a character that gets on your NERVES –like a narrator with a NERVOUS TWITCH or a narrator who SHOUTS ALL the TIME!

9.       um, readers also don’t like, um, really boring narrators who are, um, meek and normal who, um, end up being super boring and, um, say the same stuff all the time, um, and don’t really do anything.

10.   Ultimately, there needs to be a reason why your character is in the story and why you chose that particular point of view. For an example of a point of view that works for only that perfect kind of story, check out “Orientation” by Daniel Orozco, or click here:
http://nomrad.files.wordpress.com/2007/07/orientation.pdf

Weird Things, Episode 2

Okay, so I've finished reading the book (for those of you catching up, it's Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores by Jen Campbell). By the way, I found out there's a sequel (More Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores) but it's not available in the U.S., and neither Barnes&Noble nor Amazon have any estimable time when it will be. Boo.


I imagine Jen experiencing or remembering other weird stories to add to a second book, and booksellers contributing stories. Likewise as I finished the book, I couldn't stop thinking about stories that I seemed to have forgotten. Hah.

So enjoy Weird Things Episode Two.

------------
Customer: Excuse me, but I'd like to return this book.
Bookseller: Okay, is there anything wrong with it?
Customer: These pages look weird. (They're the kind of irregular-edged only common in hard cover books or nicer trade paperbacks.)
Bookseller: Well, they're indicative of more expensive publication.
Customer: But I don't like it. Can you order another one?
Bookseller: Um, I could but the next one will come back like that, too.
Customer: But why? Does the publisher just not check mistakes anymore?
Bookseller: It's not a mistake. It's intentional. That's why it's... more money.
------------

Older Customer: I need help looking for a book.
Bookseller: Sure. What can I help you with?
Customer: I need a book. A book for old people. A sex book.
Bookseller: Well, our sex books are just right over here. (Points by customer service.)
Customer: So can you help me with them?
Bookseller: Um, okay. (Comes around the counter.) Let's see what we can find. Here's one.
Customer: (Flips to a page.) Oh. Do you think that position is possible for someone as old as me?
Bookseller: I, um, can't really say. But it is a book for, um, mature adults and it wouldn't be in the book if-
Customer: Okay, well, thanks for your help.
Bookseller: You're welcome.
(Customer puts book on shelf.)
Customer: I don't have time for it today. Maybe I'll just buy it online.
Bookseller:...
------------

Customer: OH, MY GOD!
Bookseller peeks over the bookshelf.
Customer: OH, MY GOD! Jimmy, WHAT did you DO? If you have to go POTTY you need to TELL ME!
Customer picks up child by the armpits leading a soiled child in the direction of the bathrooms.
[Ten minutes later.]
Customer: Excuse me.
Bookseller: Yes?
Customer: Where is the nearest children's clothing store?
Bookseller: Well, there's a Children's Place on the other side of the mall-
Customer: No. I'm sorry, but Jimmy peed his pants. I don't want him to think that he can be rewarded for not doing what he was supposed to be doing. Where's a cheaper clothing store?
Bookseller: Um, Sears is next door... kinda.
Customer: That's better.
(Naked child emerges from behind a bookshelf, streaking naked through the store.)
Bookseller: Your, um, Jimmy-
Customer: OH, MY GOD! (Starts running.) JIMMY! OH, MY GOD!
------------

Customer: I have a return.
Bookseller: Okay. Was there anything wrong with the book.
Customer: It's disturbing and revolting, and I can't believe my daughter bought it for my granddaughter.
Bookseller: Do you have a receipt? (Gets receipt.) Okay, within two weeks. No problem. Okay, where's the book.
Customer: Here it is. Filth.
(Olivia Goes to the Circus.)
Bookseller: This is the trash?
Customer: Degenerate garbage.
------------

Customer: I need the next "Cat Who" book.
Bookseller: Well, let me look that up. (Type type type.) I'm sorry, but there doesn't appear to be any new listings.
Customer: That's wrong.
Bookseller: You're welcome to look at this. (Turn the screen.) See -there's a name listed for the new book, but there's no concrete date. They've been pushing it back for a few months, and now it's set for 2014.
Customer: But we're faithful customers and we've been WAITING!
Bookseller: I'm sorry, but it looks like you're going to have to wait some more.
Customer: I CAN'T wait anymore!
Bookseller: I don't know what to tell you. I could write it faster than they could publish it.
Customer: I'll pay you.
Bookseller: Wait, what?
Customer: Seriously. I'll pay you to write the next book.
Bookseller:...



Thank you, Jen Campbell, for jogging my memory :)

"Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores"

WARNING: Anything said hereafter is true and any resemblance to persons living or dead is intentional and in no way coincidental. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty).

Yesterday, my brother gifted me a book (which, by the way, gains my complete and undivided attention). The book is Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores by Jen Campbell, and not only is it a rollicking good time, but it has brought back several memories from working at Barnes&Noble.


Why do we think that bookstores only attract intelligent customers?


I should mention that books about jobs have about a 50% success rate with me: when I read Waiter Rant by Steve Dublianca (a book recounting the trials of waiting tables) I was back to having nightmares about floods of customers coming in five minutes before close, near-degrading treatment for close to minimum wage, and tables of 50 people who only order water and then they're surprised when I don't seem to do anything else than refill water pitchers.


But this wasn't like that. Whenever I read something new, it would remind me of another funny story. Even better, the book is not only Jen Campbell's experiences but other bookseller experiences.  I went to her blog to read even more. You can find it on the right sidebar under the blogs I read (called "This is Not the Six Word Novel"), or here: http://jen-campbell.blogspot.com.

So, here are my own experiences of Weird (But True) Things Customers Say in Bookstores:


Customer: Where is your non-fiction section?

----

Customer: I'm looking for a religious book. It's yellow and has the word "one" in the title.

Me: I'm afraid I need more information to help you with that one.

Customer: My landlord knows.

Me (thinking, not saying): Good for him.

Customer: If you'll let me use the phone, I can call him and ask.

Me: These phones are for employees only, but there's a payphone by the bathrooms-

Customer: I'm pretty sure customer service means I get to use your phone.

Me: Let's go take a walk in that section and see if we can find your book...

----

Customer: Where are your spell books?

Me: Spelling books?

Customer: No. Books with spells in it. You know, so I can put a spell on my neighbor at 3 am and that kind of thing.

----

Customer: Where is your Dummies' books section?

Me: They're in section according to what the subject is.

Customer: Where's that?

Me: It depends on what subject the book is.

Customer: The subject is Dummies'.

Me: No, I mean that the Dummies' book is in whatever section that particular subject is. So if you were looking for a Dummies' book on Windows 7, it would be under the computer section.

Customer: What if I want a Dummies' book on Dummies' books?

Me: (blank stare)

Customer: Right. Thanks.

----

Customer: Do you have any books where the author is telling the reader a story?

----

Customer: Have you been to Carnegie Hall?

Me: No.

Customer: Then you shouldn't be working in the music department. Where have you been on the East coast?

Me: I haven't, but-

Customer: Then you shouldn't be working in the music department.

Me: Excuse me. I have performed several classic works like The Gloria, Handel's Complete Messiah, Mozart's Requiem-

Customer: But have you seen professional groups perform it?

Me: Yeah.

Customer: (leans forward) Who?

Me: The Phoenix Symphony, Cantemus, the Phoenix Opera-

Customer: Pfff.

Me: Can I help you locate anything day, sir?

Customer: Hmm. Where is your country section?

----

Customer: I'm here to pick up a special order.

Me: Name?

Customer: Candy McNumnums.

----

Customer picks up the new Oprah Book Club selection: ("New" meaning this was a few years ago)

Customer: Did this just come out?

Me: Yes.

Customer: Charles Dickens, huh? Did he just write it?

----

Customer: I have a return.

Me: Okay. Was there anything wrong with it?

Customer: I bought it for my neighbor, but then he died. I've been grieving him terribly so I haven't gone out much since he died two months ago. I would just keep it, except I already have a copy.

Receipt: Hawaii. Three weeks ago.

Me: Huh. The receipt is from Hawaii.

Customer: Well, I meant that I've been grieving him so much that I only went out of the house once.

Me: The only problem is that our return policy is two weeks with a receipt. It doesn't matter where the receipt is from -it could be a store in Hawaii or a store in Phoenix, it doesn't matter- but if it is longer than two weeks, we can't accept it.

Customer: But I was grieving! I didn't leave the house!

Me: But according to your story, you bought this after your neighbor died.
Thought: You bought him another copy after he was already dead?

Customer: I was grieving! I need to speak to your manager.

----

Customer: I don't have a membership card, but can we look up the phone number for my sister-in-law's Zumba partner?

----
*note: all caps indicate shouting

HH: I have a membership card. (Reports telephone number waaaay too fast.)

Me: I'm sorry, what was that again?

HH: (sigh) (Reports number too fast again.)

Me: Okay, that was 928-776-what?

HH: (heavier sigh) You guys at this store are so incompetent. (Reports last few numbers.)

Me: Your total today is $#.##

HH: (passes over another bag from the music department) Put that in there, too. (Swipes credit card.)

Me: I'm sorry -the computer didn't take your card. Can you swipe it one more time?

HH: Swipe it one more time? I'll swipe it TWENTY MORE TIMES!
(swipe swipe swipe swipe swipe swipe swipe)

I pass the bag over with the other bag inside.

HH: You put the other bag INSIDE?

Me: Well, you asked me to.

HH: NO, I said to put the ITEMS inside. (Fumbles with the bag.) You would make a TERRIBLE shipping clerk.

Me: Well, fortunately I don't intend on becoming a shipping clerk...

HH: Well, I don't know why NOT -it's a good JOB.

Me: Have a nice day.

HH: Have a #@%* nice day.

Okay, everyone, it's your turn: if you've worked in a bookstore, add your own funny stories. What are some Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores?

I'm Sorry, Mr. Clemens

Books I bought today:
-Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes, in which the Mr. Sylvia Plath reveals -in his last book- secrets about their complicated relationship.
-Alone Together: Why We Expect More From Technology and Less From Each Other, in which I give in and purchase this copy albeit used for $8 at Bookman's.
-a book as a birthday present for someone (shh!)
-for my brother, a book from 1885 called "Lucille" and unusually bound in faded alligator skin.

The Three, Solitary, Shamefully Scant List of Books I've finished this year:
-East of Eden by John Steinbeck, 600 pages
-Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, 120 pages
-Silk by Alessandro Barico, 94 pages



And because we all know that whatever you commit to on Goodreads is like signing your firstborn child to (yeah, right), I really will read 45 books this year (I think I said 45).

In fact, right now I'm learning something about myself: Mark Twain isn't so bad. Okay, I'm sorry, Mr. Clemens, for calling you old, weird, boring, and maybe a little too hairy like Albert Einstein: what high school girl is really qualified to judge?

Truth be told, I never read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in high school, and there's no way you could get me to explain that -even in my detrimentally honest candor- to my 32 juniors who are now (pretending to) read it. For the sixteen year old version of myself, to sit down and read it turned into nap time, and post-nap-time-reading was met with rolling eyes, and sighs, and fidgets, so I gave up. Every day I would come to class and turn to my classmate and say, "Ya know, Katie, I just really didn't get last night's reading." (Translating Subtext: If I'd tried, maybe I would have, but will you just tell me what happened anyway?)  And she would, and I would pass the daily quizzes.  *sigh I know I have students like me in those seats somewhere. Worse, I know I have NHS (National Honors Society) students like me doing the exact thing I did. But, see, that just makes me a more clever adversary. I keep telling myself that this whole hypocritical experience has made me a better teacher. I mean, which of you reading adults hasn't trespassed in a similar fashion? I would bet that most of you have -you just didn't become English teachers.

Um, that's what you call irony, class.

Solution: I ask really hard questions that are ridiculously specific so that even if you read and didn't understand the reading, you would be able to pass, whereas the cheaters like myself would never get these questions by 1. skim-reading or 2. asking their neighbors for answers.



Yeah, I'm a pretty great English teacher...

...who, herself, neglected to read last week. Whoops.  No worries: I asked really clever questions so that the class who seemed to do the reading could supply answers. They didn't catch on that I had forgotten my book on my desk the evening before and crammed the whole thing in ten minutes before class.

It won't happen again. In fact, as of tonight, I have begun reading with pen-in-hand again. C.S. Lewis said, "The best way to read is with book in lap, pen in hand, and pipe in teeth." I have underlined passages about superstition (salt over the left shoulder, a cross nailed into the bottom of Pap's shoes), Jim's fortune-telling clot of hair removed from an ox's fourth stomach (gross), and words like pungle. Yeah. They better see me comin' tomorrow.

So here I am, a recovering know-it-all-sixteen-year-old (aren't we all) who was immediately disproved that Mark Twain was boring by his own opener: 

 "NOTICE: 

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be pros- ecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; per- sons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR, Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance."

I hereby revoke any verbal injustices to Mr. Samuel Clemens, to wit Mark Twain, and in only a few days, I'll finally do what I said I did eleven years ago, and I'll have another book to add to my books-read-this-year list. #fistpump

A Note To the Reader: I don't lie about finishing books anymore -otherwise there would be a great many added to that "Books I've Read This Year" list, and they would be like Joyce's Ulysses and Tolstoy's War and Peace. Hah. Like any teacher could read those during the school year...