I always wanted to do book reviews because the ones I read online were almost always recaps of the book, like a chapter by chapter summary of what was good and what wasn’t, and the ones that weren’t summaries they were boring and critical of the writer and his style etc.
But when I read books, I don’t notice things like style. I notice emotions and memories, I don’t know if the book is badly organized or could do with a better editor. I don’t notice things like logical flaws, I just read, and read, and at the end of it my heart feels slightly more comfortable. Like it is no longer as squeezed into a box as it was, kind of congested and unhappy.
My reviews might not be book reviews at all, it might just be a thought process. But the main goal is to help other people decide if this book is a valuable book to read- if it is a book that fits into their life stage and if the few hours spent poring over the pages will change the way they experience life. Not so much of literary techniques or the flow of the story or plot twists, but how it affects the humans who read it.
Other smaller goals would just be to improve my writing and the way I structure essays, and to get the whole brain dumped into my laptop for two hours. It doesn’t take me very long to write, especially because I rarely edit what I write. But I usually just sit here and rock side to side a little bit, and hope that what I am writing is really what I want to write, and not something that I will cringe at in the future.
I personally believe that there are no bad books, there is just bad writing and bad editing and bad publication methods. Each book contains several lives. Not just the possible lives of the characters that the author didn’t manage to bring out, instead rendering them as flat and one-dimensional people on the page, but also the lives of the possible characters sitting in the wings hoping to be called. There were possibilities and then there was a book. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time or the muse descended on the wrong person, but it was a gift, and the gift still exists even if its life seems to be expended. Just because the chef couldn’t use the seasonings properly doesn’t mean that the crayfish is a bad crayfish, it was just the process and the chef that was wrong for that crayfish.
Perhaps I sound insane, that since books are the homes and birthplaces of characters, these characters cannot exist outside of books. I think they can- in our dreams and our shared thoughts across seven billion people, we must dream of the same things. Broken teeth, the fear of flying, murders etc.
On the topic of my personal life, I have been quite busy this past week. More to come in the next few weeks, but I never wanted slotherious to be part of my day to day life, it was more of an addition, a safety valve that I can release whenever I am too stressed out. As far as possible I will avoid talking about my own troubles here, and just leave slotherious as a depository of thoughts and dreams and reading.
Right now my eyes are half closed because I’ve been sleeping an average of four hours a day and I say very weird things when I don’t get my seven hours a day. Good night.
The next post will probably be a book review. ‘On alcoholism and redemption: a review on ‘Dry’ by Augusten Burroughs.’