Good Morning, World 🙂
Last night I scrubbed my brain in a sudsy bubble bath, complete with meandering sentences, exotic words, and the desperate tinge of pity at the plight of poor Jean Valjean. This is what happens when one commits themselves to reading ten pages of classic literature a day – sometimes it’s scintillating, sometimes it as boring as stirring a pot of oatmeal. Last night was one of the better nights. His words and metaphors arose from the grave to make me stammer “Holy fuck this is good,” and I feel like this rarely happens to me anymore.
I miss reading good literature. I’ve been so wrapped up in market research, freelance writing, blog posts, outlining, editing, and shit, being a parent, that I haven’t made time to sit down and read for a while. And that’s silly, because learning from the work of other writers is half my job. I need to read materials that will propel me forward into the land of
making money off of fulfilling my dream, and that includes pieces that are just truly masterful. Such is the case with Les Miserables.
I’m not trying to write a review here. The guy’s been dead for years and his work is a timeless classic–he doesn’t need the publicity. But when I read sentences like:
“He examined without wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is deciphering a palimpsest, that portion of chaos which still exists in nature.”
Or how about:
“With the constellations of space they confound the stars of the abyss which are made in the soft mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks.”
Seriously, I miss writing like this.
I miss reading words that aren’t just a product.
I’ve spent so many hours reading the first chapter of the books in the top of my target categories on Amazon, and feeling like there’s so little musicality in their language. I miss beautiful speech. I miss the flowing dances of words.
Where’s the poetry? Where’s the sadness? Where’s the small tinge of something great that I can’t explain, but hits me right below the heart whenever I read prose with a sense of depth?
Oh well. This ten pages a day stint of mine has turned into a useful habit. I feel so refreshed after I finish for the evening, like my brain has just been cleansed of the other verbiage I’ve been sloshing around in. If you’re feeling stale, I highly recommend reading something good. I won’t lie, sometimes Victor Hugo can be dead boring, but once he’s finished making you shovel through a metric fuckton of seemingly irrelevant backstories and political history, he brings the fucking ruckus.
Work on my outline: secured. Blog post: secured.
Time to work on my article.