For much of my life, I wanted to be a writer. I even chose English as a major when I went to college (choosing to also major in Psychology as a back up). I realized, eventually, that I didn't have it in me to be an author, not in any real way. I have my share of imagination, creativity, and writing ability, but I felt what I lacked was the endurance and stamina. I mean, even to write a short story you need a beginning, middle, and end. That's a fuck of a lot if you think about it, especially if what you are writing is entirely made up in your head. So I figured, meh, I can't hack it so let's let that dream die.
But now I'm thinking that what I lack is something that isn't something that is too terrible to miss out on. I honestly think that in order to be a decent author, you need to be seriously fucking disturbed. Take the Hunger Games trilogy for a start. If you've only seen the movies, you should seriously read the books and not just because "Catching Fire" was a very, very poor portrayal of the book (to be fair, that is a difficult book to turn into a singular film). First of all, the author has the idea of a yearly event in which children - children - are forced to fight to the death. OK, that is fucked up in and of itself, especially when you consider that two tributes come from each district and so the winner is going to end up killing someone they probably know. But there is so much more. I remember reading the third book and thinking what horrible nightmares the author must have had to come up with some of that shit, especially the mutts. It's one thing to write a crime novel about a ruthless killer, regardless of how horrible the murders are, but to conjure up a game where children not only have to kill one another but have to be chased by weird, giant, dinosaur-lizard-rats is quite another. Suzanne Collins is a terrifying woman.
But it's not just that sort of thing that makes me think authors are disturbed. I still have not forgiven Muriel Barbery for how she ended the exquisitely beautiful The Elegance of the Hedgehog. If you haven't read it, please skip to the next paragraph as I'm going to give the worst spoiler .........................OK, those who haven't read it have had a chance to leave the room. So just when Rene finally gets to be who she is, finally gets to be appreciated for the beauty of the woman she is and has the opportunity to live in and engage with the life she should have had, WHAM! she's dead. What the fuck?!?!?! When I really love a book, as I love hedgehog, I will read it multiple times. I've mentioned before that I've read The Westing Game at least six times. But hedgehog? I've only ever been able to read it once and I actually gave my copy to Tits when I moved to Texas. Because I simply cannot forgive Barbery for what she did. She created these complex characters, so rich and dimensional, and made me fall in love with them. She built up this story about despair and sadness and regret, and then she dangled hope in front of me and Rene before she crushed it out. I get extremely involved in what I read or watch and so I literally fucking wept at that book (my ex husband can testify to my getting lost in books as he said to me, whilst I was reading 1,000 Splendid Suns, "Kitty, honey, I think you should take a break. You've been steady crying for about ten minutes now".)
Today I finally borrowed My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult from the library. I knew a lot about it from talking to people and, actually, when I got to the big climax, I remembered that someone told me what the twist was because I said it was fine, I was never going to read it. Again, if you haven't read it, don't read this paragraph. .............................................
So this is a story about a thirteen year old girl who decides to sue her parents for medical emancipation because she doesn't want to keep having to be a donor for her sister who has a rare form of leukemia. The protagonist was actually conceived, specifically, from an embryo that was a perfect genetic match for her older sister. Initially, the just thought they'd use umbilical cord blood but over the course of years, Anna (protagonist), had to donate other things, including bone marrow. The final straw was being asked to donate a kidney when she was thirteen and her sister, Kate, was sixteen. So you read this heartbreaking novel from the perspectives of multiple people and you get to the climax, right? Turns out it was Kate, not Anna, who really wanted it all to stop. She was tired of living this life she'd lived for the past fourteen years, the trips to the hospital, the treatments, the constant sickness and ruining of other peoples' lives as she saw it. So you look at Anna again and really see her. She's a thirteen year old girl who loves her sister and wants to do what is right. She's also at an age where she is growing into herself so she has conflicting emotions about wanting her sister to live and always be there but also wanting to be allowed to live on her own terms, not just regarding keeping her sister alive. But up until this point, she's never had to face this sort of choice. Her parents want her to donate a kidney. She wants to donate a kidney. But Kate says no, Kate give Anna an out so that she, Anna, can live her life. She's been carrying this burden around, wanting to do what is right for Kate and do what will allow her to be free.. even though what she really wants is, in her mind, impossible; I cannot live independently and autonomously as long as I have things that can be donated to my sick sister.
OK, I know this is a new paragraph but here comes the big spoiler so again, if you haven't read My Sister's Keeper and you want to, skip it. So everything is settled, it comes out that Kate is the one that wants Anna to not give the kidney, the judge decides that Anna gets medical emancipation and forms are signed. And then the story is told from the father's perspective. He is a firefighter and he has gotten called out to a car accident. And you know what? Picoult fucking kills Anna in a car crash! Anna dies and her kidney goes to Kate and that's about it. I cried so much that I was extremely glad that the Bat and Monkey were both out because I wept and said things like "Oh no" and "not Anna" and who knows what else. What the fuck? This girl, this poor, strong, brave, confused girl that I fell in love with was just ruthlessly stolen from me after being put in my charge. Fucking Picoult. I glanced at the Q & A section at the back of the book and she says that her eleven year old son read it and couldn't talk to her for awhile after he finished it (he, too wept). He asked her why she had to end it the way she did. She gave an answer but all I can think is "you are a terrible person."
So there you have it. Authors, in my very humble opinion, are fucked up, disturbed people. And all I can say is that I'm grateful for them. All the books I've discussed in this post are ones that have given me great pleasure. I think we readers are as fucked up and disturbed as the authors as we love their work so much. But I still think maybe it is OK that I can't inflict this kind of horror or emotional turmoil on others.
I'll stick to writing my dry business documents for the moment.
But now I'm thinking that what I lack is something that isn't something that is too terrible to miss out on. I honestly think that in order to be a decent author, you need to be seriously fucking disturbed. Take the Hunger Games trilogy for a start. If you've only seen the movies, you should seriously read the books and not just because "Catching Fire" was a very, very poor portrayal of the book (to be fair, that is a difficult book to turn into a singular film). First of all, the author has the idea of a yearly event in which children - children - are forced to fight to the death. OK, that is fucked up in and of itself, especially when you consider that two tributes come from each district and so the winner is going to end up killing someone they probably know. But there is so much more. I remember reading the third book and thinking what horrible nightmares the author must have had to come up with some of that shit, especially the mutts. It's one thing to write a crime novel about a ruthless killer, regardless of how horrible the murders are, but to conjure up a game where children not only have to kill one another but have to be chased by weird, giant, dinosaur-lizard-rats is quite another. Suzanne Collins is a terrifying woman.
But it's not just that sort of thing that makes me think authors are disturbed. I still have not forgiven Muriel Barbery for how she ended the exquisitely beautiful The Elegance of the Hedgehog. If you haven't read it, please skip to the next paragraph as I'm going to give the worst spoiler .........................OK, those who haven't read it have had a chance to leave the room. So just when Rene finally gets to be who she is, finally gets to be appreciated for the beauty of the woman she is and has the opportunity to live in and engage with the life she should have had, WHAM! she's dead. What the fuck?!?!?! When I really love a book, as I love hedgehog, I will read it multiple times. I've mentioned before that I've read The Westing Game at least six times. But hedgehog? I've only ever been able to read it once and I actually gave my copy to Tits when I moved to Texas. Because I simply cannot forgive Barbery for what she did. She created these complex characters, so rich and dimensional, and made me fall in love with them. She built up this story about despair and sadness and regret, and then she dangled hope in front of me and Rene before she crushed it out. I get extremely involved in what I read or watch and so I literally fucking wept at that book (my ex husband can testify to my getting lost in books as he said to me, whilst I was reading 1,000 Splendid Suns, "Kitty, honey, I think you should take a break. You've been steady crying for about ten minutes now".)
Today I finally borrowed My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult from the library. I knew a lot about it from talking to people and, actually, when I got to the big climax, I remembered that someone told me what the twist was because I said it was fine, I was never going to read it. Again, if you haven't read it, don't read this paragraph. .............................................
So this is a story about a thirteen year old girl who decides to sue her parents for medical emancipation because she doesn't want to keep having to be a donor for her sister who has a rare form of leukemia. The protagonist was actually conceived, specifically, from an embryo that was a perfect genetic match for her older sister. Initially, the just thought they'd use umbilical cord blood but over the course of years, Anna (protagonist), had to donate other things, including bone marrow. The final straw was being asked to donate a kidney when she was thirteen and her sister, Kate, was sixteen. So you read this heartbreaking novel from the perspectives of multiple people and you get to the climax, right? Turns out it was Kate, not Anna, who really wanted it all to stop. She was tired of living this life she'd lived for the past fourteen years, the trips to the hospital, the treatments, the constant sickness and ruining of other peoples' lives as she saw it. So you look at Anna again and really see her. She's a thirteen year old girl who loves her sister and wants to do what is right. She's also at an age where she is growing into herself so she has conflicting emotions about wanting her sister to live and always be there but also wanting to be allowed to live on her own terms, not just regarding keeping her sister alive. But up until this point, she's never had to face this sort of choice. Her parents want her to donate a kidney. She wants to donate a kidney. But Kate says no, Kate give Anna an out so that she, Anna, can live her life. She's been carrying this burden around, wanting to do what is right for Kate and do what will allow her to be free.. even though what she really wants is, in her mind, impossible; I cannot live independently and autonomously as long as I have things that can be donated to my sick sister.
OK, I know this is a new paragraph but here comes the big spoiler so again, if you haven't read My Sister's Keeper and you want to, skip it. So everything is settled, it comes out that Kate is the one that wants Anna to not give the kidney, the judge decides that Anna gets medical emancipation and forms are signed. And then the story is told from the father's perspective. He is a firefighter and he has gotten called out to a car accident. And you know what? Picoult fucking kills Anna in a car crash! Anna dies and her kidney goes to Kate and that's about it. I cried so much that I was extremely glad that the Bat and Monkey were both out because I wept and said things like "Oh no" and "not Anna" and who knows what else. What the fuck? This girl, this poor, strong, brave, confused girl that I fell in love with was just ruthlessly stolen from me after being put in my charge. Fucking Picoult. I glanced at the Q & A section at the back of the book and she says that her eleven year old son read it and couldn't talk to her for awhile after he finished it (he, too wept). He asked her why she had to end it the way she did. She gave an answer but all I can think is "you are a terrible person."
So there you have it. Authors, in my very humble opinion, are fucked up, disturbed people. And all I can say is that I'm grateful for them. All the books I've discussed in this post are ones that have given me great pleasure. I think we readers are as fucked up and disturbed as the authors as we love their work so much. But I still think maybe it is OK that I can't inflict this kind of horror or emotional turmoil on others.
I'll stick to writing my dry business documents for the moment.
A Thousand Splendid Suns? OMG, that destroyed me for a good couple of days.
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