Resolution52 – Brian Utley & Jenny Dalton

I remember sitting in classrooms through the years and often times feeling completely in the dark, not having a clue as to what the professor was going on about. One time in particular is burned in my memory. I was taking a class where an entire lecture centered around one word: misogynist. Well, I had no idea what that word meant, (and in my defense it was a class focused on medieval poetry, which, in my mind, is kind of a cruel and inhumane prerequisite. Furthermore, in my humble opinion the only tolerable poetry is the kind set to music, preferably with a drum solo somewhere in there, thank you), and I spent the entire class trying to figure out what in the world this guy was yammering on about, while everyone else seemingly understood with the noddings of the heads and of course that one kid in class who just has to have a ridiculously insightful comment, which I didn’t latch onto as well, which further drove home my ineptitude.  So I sat there in silence, too embarrassed to raise my hand and ask the meaning, wondering if I was completely alone in my academic short comings.

I’d like to say this feeling of inadequacy in comparison with those around me has faded since my younger days, but alas, it is not so.  A good example of this would be my first, and every year after, mothering stint I’ve been involved in. At first, I thought I might collapse under the weight of the pressure.  With the having of a child, a feeling of unavoidable guilt quickly becomes a mainstay feature in the hollows of your soul. Guilt about things I wasn’t doing right, wasn’t doing at all, or was going to do in the future that would inevitable be the ruin of my offspring, and subsequently probably be the downfall of a nation at some point.  I was getting about 1.5 hours of consecutive sleep a day, I was frazzled, rarely showered, and that baby WOULD JUST NOT STOP CRYING! I could do nothing to soothe her and because all the other young mothers around me seemed to have everything together, I was convinced, once again, that I was the one falling short. And that just made it worse.  It wasn’t until years later, when I started really talking to my close friends, that stories of the pressure felt, depression, inadequacy, and the feeling that they alone were the ones not keeping up, not daring to admit they were struggling for fear of appearing weak, began to emerge.  And I couldn’t help but wonder, if we had all just admitted years before that our problems and fears existed, would we have been comforted? Would we have been shored up knowing we were not alone, that we were in good company in our inadequacies?

The memory of those times and many others through my life came flooding back while reading Jeffery Eugenides novel, The Marriage Plot.  The book follows the lives of three college graduates, immersed in a love triangle as they embark into the world trying to find themselves and the path they are destined for as they deal with all sorts of unexpected and most times ill prepared for events of love, mental illness, friendship, marriage, and religion.  Tolerance, understanding, acceptance and forgiveness weave through this tale as the characters find the strength to sacrifice for each other and in the end, sacrifice for themselves. I couldn’t help but wonder while reading this book, if the characters had shared their weaknesses, and trusted others with their flaws, would things have turned out differently? Would their lives have met less resistance and despair with the relief and support that can come with voicing our fears and our perceived shortcomings, while being honest about who we are as individuals?

I guess my thought is this: If we raise our hands and admit that we really don’t know everything, that we are not perfect, that we are struggling and we aren’t quite sure if the decisions we make and have made are the right ones, will it be worth it, if only maybe for that one other person in the world who sighs and is relieved that they are not the only one? Well, I’d like to think so.

2012, Book Thoughts, Jenny Dalton Jeffrey Eugenides, Jenny Dalton, The Marriage Plot

As my birthdays come around more frequently, or so it seems, I’ve been increasingly weighed down with the feeling that time is no longer my friend.  I remember when time moved slowly and I had plenty of time to accomplish my goals.  As I get ready to turn thirty-two, I can’t help but feel the panic set in. I have yet to DJ at a radio station I founded, I haven’t even begun to run that really cool I-think-I’ll be-young-and-hip-forever record shop, I haven’t saved the world, or opened an orphanage, and I’m certainly not the JD Salinger of my time. My mortality seems to loom as the years go by, and I am unable to stop it. But, despite these failures, I continue to read.

Rachman’s, “the imperfectionists” (aptly, the title is not capitalized) is a series of short stories following a group of mostlyAmericans, all connected by one thing; a small floundering newspaper in Rome.  Each character is defined by their position at the newspaper and the perfection that is required to work there, although the focus is the imperfections that surround their personal lives and the concessions they make for themselves, their lives, goals and relationships.  Although you only get a glimpse into each life, it’s enough.  You quickly realize the same perfectionism that is demanded in each character’s work atmosphere is not mirrored in their personal lives, which, seems to make it that much harder for them to accept.  Rachman has a unique way of making you sympathize and personalize with each of his characters. Though I had little in common with any, I went away understanding and even respecting the decisions and lives of each in their search for personal happiness.

Ironically, for me, inspiration came in the form of Herman Cohen, the corrections editor, who puts out a staff article every week, called “Why?” (an article detailing the staffs most recent and unforgivable literary mistakes), who also has compiled a style guide called “The Bible” currently containing 18,238 words and phrases journalists should never use, and who is often heard yelling out the word, “Credibility!” while making jabbing gestures into the air.  The character who is in the most obvious demand of most literal perfection in the work place, makes no such demand of himself or others in his personal life or otherwise (he can’t even bring himself to correct his grandchildren’s grammar). At work he is forceful, demanding, and respected, while at home, he is humble, loved, and grateful.  He’s content in a perfectly ordinary, happy life that I’m not sure it ever occurred to him to expect.  Even at the end, when he was too entranced with his grandchildren to write that novel he always thought he’d write, there was not a flicker of regret.  In his grandchildren, he had found something better than his previous ideal.

The thing is this; ordinary is subjective.  Ten years ago my idea of ordinary was very different than it is today. So what if I’m thirty-two and haven’t made my “mark” on the world? The long and short is this: My ordinary life, filled with children that I adore (mostly when they’re sleeping), a partner whom I love, admire and who inspires me every single day, family and friends who make my life rich and full and who give me more of a sense of accomplishment in thirty-two years than I could have hoped for, are to me, anything but ordinary. Like any life, I too have regrets. But, regretting that I was born tone deaf and will never sing alongside Jon Bon Jovi in a concert put on in my honor for the inspiring work I’ve done fighting for animal rights coupled with the banning of cell phones in movie theaters, isn’t keeping me up at night anymore. Because in reading this book, instead of being critical of life unexpected, I’m more sympathetic, understanding, and grateful for it.

2012, Book Thoughts, Book Updates Jenny Dalton, the imperfectionists, tom rachman

I’m not a writer. And I’ve never blogged. Publicly anyway.  But I was an English Lit major, (not an English Everything is Spelled/Grammatically Correct major, I might point out) once upon a time, and I do enjoy a good over-analysis when I’m all worn out from honing that skill set on my current romantic relationship.  So here I am, reading some books and giving you the what for.

So I was perusing my tiny, somewhat pitiful they-do-an-okay-job-with-what-they-can-get, local library a couple months ago, when my eyes fell on a familiar author that I had never gotten around to reading, Agatha Christie. Turns out she is literally the best selling author OF ALL TIME.  She is the third most widely published after William Shakespeare and THE BIBLE. That’s insanity! Anyway, despite not knowing this impressive resume at the time, I proceeded to checkout Christie’s, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.  Wow, was I surprised at the ending.  And I don’t get surprised by endings.  You wanna know why? Because I watch a ton of CSI and Law and Order and I have read almost every Stephen King novel.  That’s the kind of training that has made me nearly un-surpriseable (it’s a word). And I’ll tell you what else- Agatha wrote a real page turner.  I couldn’t put the book down.

So I told Brian, I said, “Brian, you gotta read this,” and he said, “Jenny, I’m in the middle of something,” and I said, “I don’t care,” and he said, “Ok. Sigh (he actually said the word ‘sigh’ which was weird).”  So then he read it and loved it too, and we also read Murder on the Orient Express, which was also fantastic.  We decided Christie was a real pioneer in the detective novel genre and began to wonder how this came to be.  She must have had influences as all writers and artists do, after all, there’s always someone who changes things just enough that the wheel starts spinning in a totally different direction, like Elvis and rock ‘n’ roll, or Nirvana and the era of grunge and alternative music. Coincidently, Brian had recently begun reading Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, and it was toward this famous detective that we began to look for Christie’s inspiration.

So we started with the basics.  We read the short stories, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.  Then we moved on (grudgingly) to A Study in Scarlet and The Hound of the Baskervilles.  I’m not saying they were bad. Because they weren’t, obviously. I’m just saying, me reading Christie before Doyle was basically akin to my kids growing up watching Toy Story and Tangled and then expecting them to be impressed with the plot and graphics of Snow White.  I mean of course, still today his stuff is impressive, but I imagine, as new things often are, it was pretty amazing in 1887.  Sir Conan Doyle was a major founding father of the great mystery detective novel, (who of course was, I’m sure, influenced by Poe), and laid the groundwork for one of my most favorite genres- the mystery novel.  But I’ll tell it straight.  What I didn’t like about Holmes was, as a reader, you only got the basic story and all the detective work was already done, without the reader, and summed up concisely at the end.  There was no way I could even try to solve the clues because I wasn’t given the same information that Holmes had.  And that was frustrating, because just as I have perfected all my major karate skills from watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I’ve also honed my detective skills from picking up the subtle clues left to me by my favorite mystery novels and television shows.  I’ll be watching Bones or Psych for instance, and some might say I’ll “annoyingly” tell you my predictions through constant commentary on character dialogue, body language, and plot details until I have solved the crime. It’s fun and enjoyable (for some more than others) and all part of the experience! The long and short is this; Christie allows you to participate, while Doyle, not so much.

My conclusion? Agatha does it better – but, without Doyle, she probably wouldn’t have done it at all.

Book Thoughts, Jenny Dalton, Mystery Novels Agatha Christie, Blogging, Jenny Dalton, Sherlock Holmes