blog crush #1 – one foot walking

Do you ever get people crushes?* You know, when you meet a new person and, in a completely platonic way, you are just so completely amped to have met them and think they are beyond fabulous and then you find yourself ranting about how great they are to everyone you meet? (Do you get these sorts of crushes? Or is it just me, and my friend?*)

Anyhow, I have recently stumbled upon a new variation on the person crush. I’m calling it a blog crush. I have only recently started blogging again after more than a year on hiatus and I am positively addicted to perusing the thoughts of strangers! I love to find new bloggers with a kooky take on the world or a fabulous turn of phrase.

So, in order to honour my blog crushes, I thought I should mention them. Who knows, maybe other readers will find themselves equally crushed.

Susana examining her bones

So, without further ado, the inaugural blog crush mention goes to (drum roll please): One Foot Walking.

Susana Romatz’s blog had me hooked from first read. She blogs on such interesting topics and has such a unique voice that I keep waiting, breath bated, for each new post. In her three most recent posts she has mused on the use of crystal balls, velvet, and eggs for obtaining spiritual visions; keeping a written account of your every sin; and the skeleton in each of us.

I love reading Susana’s blog. I hope you enjoy it too.

* I got the term ‘people crush’ from a friend of mine who falls hard for new friends and who I believe to have coined the phrase.

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being bad in bookstores: confessions of a text addict

The perfect place to wile away a Saturday afternoon

I have a problem. A book problem. I can’t say no. I buy far more books than I can ever read. Every time I discover a new (or just happen to be wandering past a favourite) used book store I justify entry with an “I’ll just take a quick look around.” Once inside, I begin the purchase justification – only if I find something on the Treasure Hunt list (the list of books I want to read that I carry with me everywhere). But then, as I scan the titles, I inevitably find books that I simply must own. Half an hour later, kneeling in the back corner among my dusty friends, I look down shamefully at the pile of books in my hands and try to whittle it down to just two or three essentials. Which I then buy.

Don’t get me wrong, I never regret these purchases. I really love books, and I love that warm excitement of finding a treasured favourite or a rare title. But I also know that there are times when I should hold myself back – like now, when I have so recently returned home, sans savings, and am still not working, and when I have a backlog of more than a dozen as yet unread titles to get me through the coming weeks.

Yet still I buy… oh, how I buy!

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who reads that crap anyway?: drowning in the sea of literary mediocrity

There are so many bad books out there. I often wonder how they get published. Do you think there are speciality “trashy novel” publishers? Probably. Do you think the authors know they’re terrible or do you think they consider themselves as one with the giants of literary history?

I often ask myself who buys that stuff. The answer, somewhat shamefully, is my mother. My mother is a voracious reader, but she loves the chaff. She actually goes straight to those 3 for $10 bargain bins in bookstores. I mean, how good can you expect a $3 book to be?!

Wow, so many great books to choose from!

Of old, I thought her preference was financially motivated. Hoping to save my mother from her reading purgatory, I suggested a library membership. She scoffed. I mean she actually scoffed at the thought of reading books from the library! Broke my heart.

Once or twice, I tried buying her a “good” (yes, I know it’s subjective, but I have my standards people!) book but inevitably, when I queried her progress, she would admit to having “struggled through” a couple of chapters before giving up and tossing it aside for something she could “sink her teeth into”. In response to my look of sadness and horror she would sigh, “I just couldn’t get into it.”

It seems my mother is a trash novel junky.

I’m thinking of an intervention. “It’s not the reading, it’s WHAT you’re reading.” We could gather all the family around and read brilliant quotes to her until she sees the light. We could start by watching cinematic interpretations of great books, to get her foot in the door. We could…

Honestly, though, I think she’s a lost cause.

Any other junky novel addicts about? I’d love your insights.

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