Under the Table and Dreaming

Banned Book Week

This week is one of my favorite weeks of the year. No, it's not because it's finally fall. It's not because the weather is finally cooling down. It's Banned Book Week. The American Library Association puts on the event every year to celebrate our freedom to read and to make people aware that even in a nation that Constitutionally guarantees ones right to free speech, there are people who seek to ban creative works. Personally, I am one of those people who, if told a book is banned, I want to read it even more. Every year the ALA publishes a list of the books that are most challenged. This year, they published a list of banned and/or challenged books from the Radcliffe Publishing list of the 100 Top Novels of the 20th Century. Here are the books on that list that have been challenged and/or banned.

• The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
• The Catcher In The Rye - J.D. Salinger
• The Grapes Of Wrath - John Steinbeck
• To Kill A Mockingbird - Harper Lee
• The Color Purple - Alice Walker
• Ulysses - James Joyce
• Beloved - Toni Morrison
• The Lord Of The Flies - William Golding
• 1984 - George Orwell
• Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
• Of Mice And Men - John Steinbeck
• Catch-22 - Joseph Heller
• Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
• The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway
• As I Lay Dying -William Faulkner
• A Farewell To Arms - Ernest Hemingway
• Heart Of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
• Their Eyes Were Watching God - Zora Neale Hurston
• Invisible Man - Ralph Ellison
• Song Of Solomon - Toni Morrison
• Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
• Native Son - Richard Wright
• One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey
• Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut
• For Whom The Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway
• The Call Of The Wild - Jack London
• Go Tell It On The Mountain - James Baldwin
• All The King's Men - Robert Penn Warren
• The Lord Of The Rings - JRR Tolkien
• The Jungle - Upton Sinclair
• Lady Chatterly's Lover - DH Lawrence
• A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess
• In Cold Blood - Truman Capote
• Satanic Verses - Salman Rushdie
• Sons And Lovers - DH Lawrence
• Cat's Cradle - Kurt Vonnegut
• A Separate Peace - John Knowles
• Naked Lunch - William Burroughs
• Women In Love - DH Lawrence
• The Naked And The Dead - Norman Mailer
• Tropic Of Cancer - Henry Miller
• An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser
• Rabbit, Run - John Updike

Books are banned and challenged all the time. Books are even burned, which I think is heresy. But the best way to combat those narrow-minded people who, instead of just not reading the books they don't like or not allowing their children to and want to regulate what we all do, is to read the books that they object to.

I have read Lolita. I did not like it and thought it was a justification for child molestation. I thought Slaughterhouse Five was nothing more than an acid trip. I thought Lord Of The Flies was stupid. But it really doesn't matter what I think about any of these books. The only thing that matters is that I live in a country where the authors are free to write them, I am free to read them, and free to express my opinion. I have no problem with people who do not want their children reading To Kill A Mockingbird because it contains the "N" word. But for them to turn around and tell me that I can't read it, well, that's an entirely different ballgame.

So, my challenge to you, my three loyal readers, is to pick up a banned and/or challenged book and read it. Make a statement. Exercise your freedom to read whatever you want to read.

Julie & Julia

As I mentioned last night, my mom and I saw Julie & Julia last night. The movie was much better than the book, I think, largely because it was also based on Julia Child's "My Year In France". The movie blended scenes from Julia's life with scenes from Julie's. It was funny and charming and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Watching the movie, several things occurred to me.

Julia had a pen pal. She wrote the wife of a man who wrote an article in a magazine that Julia wrote a letter to. They wrote to each other for years before they ever met in person. Julia wrote to her sister and her husband wrote to his brother. Of course, this was before email and computers. So letters were the way people communicated long distance. I miss letters. To this day, among my most cherished possessions, are letters friends wrote me over the years. I miss ink on paper. I miss the permanence of committing thoughts to paper. Yes, my words exist here, in cyberspace. But the nature of the internet seems so not permanent to me. I miss the formality of writings letters. I don't write letters often any more. Email is immediate and I type so much faster than I write. But I still miss pen and paper. I miss getting cards and letters from people.

Julie's friends in the  book and movie are not my favorite people. But there was a line where she and a girlfriend were talking and the girlfriend said something about hating her friends. Julie's husband piped up and said he liked his friends. Julie's friend said that they weren't talking about men. Which, of course got me thinking. I have always  said that I, for the most part, prefer male friends. Mostly because they are not catty and back-stabbing like a lot of women are. That having been said, most of my female friends are not like that. But I have found lately, the I do know some women who were like Julie's friends in the movie. Her friends were kind of superficial and self-involved. I know people like that. Some of them I knew were self-involved and superficial immediately. Some of them have surprised me. I thought they were one way and turned out to be another way. But that happens in life. I am lucky to have friends who check in with me and tell me that they care. I love that I'm lucky enough to have people around me who are smart, kind, caring, genuine, and good people.

Julia's husband, Paul, was a diplomat. They met when they worked for the government. And they were truly, deeply in love with each other. They had the kind of caring, loving relationship that most people strive for but probably don't really achieve. They were a good fit for each other. As Paul said to Julia, "You are the butter to my bread." Julie's husband should be sainted for putting up with her crazy project. He, too was a really nice guy. He was loving and supportive. They were high school sweethearts - something rare in this day and age - and they had been together a long time. Through the book and movie, they seemed to really love each other.  This got me thinking about Michael, who is in Texas. I miss him terribly. I have never missed anyone like I miss Michael. He is a genuinely nice person. He does nice things for me. And for the first time in my life, I'm truly in love with someone. I miss him and can't wait for him to get home tomorrow. We haven't been dating long enough for me to say that he's my Paul, but I would like to take enough time to find out.

The backdrop of the movie, is of course, the food. I will say right now that I'm not a fan of French food. Patrick and I had an interesting conversation about that yesterday. He was asking me what I ate in France. Truthfully, I don't remember much about the food in France. Mostly because it was at the end of my trip and I was getting sick. (I got a really nasty sinus infection that took a long time to get rid of. I attributed it to people smoking all the time.) It was also hot - mid 90s - and there is a shocking lack of air conditioning in some restaurants. It's hard to eat foods that are bathed in butter and cream when it's that hot out. I don't really remember what I ate in France. I do, however, remember what I ate in Germany and Italy, two of the best food places on the planet. While French food is not my favorite, now I can appreciate what goes into making it. When I went on my trip to Europe, I didn't cook. At all. So I'm sure if I went now, I would have a much better appreciation of the food than I did back then.

I love to cook. But Mastering The Art Of French Cooking is not among the cookbooks I own. I'm not that interested in French cooking. I love butter and cream and am not afraid to cook with them. I am not, however, a fan of aspic or some of the other things that are in Julia's cookbook. I prefer to cook food that is comforting to me. But I can appreciate what Julie accomplished. It's quite a feat to cook from an entire cookbook. I don't think I own a cookbook in which every recipe interests me. And I'm a picky enough eater that there are just some things I won't cook.

What I can appreciate is that Julia Child was 37 - my age - when she attended the Cordon Bleu. She was the only female in the professional class. She insisted on taking the test to graduate. She was spunky and I like that about her. I like that she found her passion in life - food - and managed to make a career out of it at a time when women didn't make a career out of food.

I really love any movie that gets me thinking about so many different things on so many different levels. I felt just okay about the book, so the movie was a wonderful surprise. It was a nice evening and I'm glad my mom and I got a chance to do something.

Lesson Learned

I just finished reading "Julie and Julia" for book club. I'm on the fence about the book. I like the way she writes. But I found the book to be a bit disjointed. I did learn from the book, which is always good. I learned that I'm never going to own or cook from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I have no desire to eat kidneys and brains and whatnot. But that's not really what I want to talk about.

The end of the book got to me a bit. It made me realize something. Sometimes, you life changes in subtle ways and sometimes it changes in large ways. How you deal with or recognize that change can have a profound effect on your life. When Julie embarked on her project, she wasn't sure why she did it except that she was going to turn 30 and was a temp secretary and wanted something more. Something I can totally identify with. the difference was that she had her partner to go on the journey with her and support her.

When I started this year, I was unemployed and alone. But I found a job (two of them actually). I started training with Team In Training. And my life changed. Profoundly. Not only did I give something back, not only did I get immeasurable joy from teaching and training, not only did I show my son by example what it means to never give up, but I started to like myself. I started to feel better about my life. I started to feel good about myself. I started to like myself for the first time since I can remember.

Julie had something similar happen. She's a writer now. What started as a challenge to herself for reasons that she couldn't identify, ended with her doing what she wanted to do. This confirmed my belief that you will never grow as long as you remain comfortable.

I am uncomfortable being a parent. I constantly think I'm screwing Patrick up. I think I'm selfish and don't spend enough time with him. I do not punish enough. I do not praise enough. Etc, etc. But I realize that because I'm so uncomfortable being a parent, I'm probably pretty good at being one.

I am uncomfortable being a girlfriend. I think I'm screwing that up constantly as well. I'm - alternately - clingy and pushing him away. I am difficult. I'm used to doing things my way. I'm not the easiest person to deal with some times. But I realize these things and try really hard to not do them. Sometimes I'm successful, sometimes I'm not. I'm just thankful that I have a boyfriend who's willing to stick with me. He is showing me that I don't have to be afraid he'll leave. I don't have to be afraid he'll call me names. I don't have to be afraid of letting myself like him or fall in love with him. I'm learning to trust not only him, but myself. He's good to me and he's good to Patrick. And despite my discomfort at being a girlfriend, I think I'm okay at it and getting better. 

Life is all about change. It's all about learning. As far as I'm concerned anyway. I will keep challenging myself and keep pushing myself outside my comfort zone. Because i have found that when I do, I become a better person.

So while I may not have been in love with "Julie and Julia", I did learn something from the book. And that's what it's all about for me.

A Moveable Text?

There have been several controversies in the publishing world recently relating to publishing and/or editing works by authors who are dead. And a lawsuit over a work that presumes what a famous literary character would have done after the book ended. It has made me wonder, how much do authors own their words? Sure, there are copyrights and whatnot, but really. How much does the published work belong to them and how much does it belong to the public once it's been published?

There was a lawsuit recently filed by J.D. Salinger to block publication of a book, written by someone else, that supposed what would have happened to Holden Caulfield after Catcher In The Rye. J.D. Salinger won the suit and blocked publication of the book. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Scarlet was a runaway hit when it was published and Margaret Mitchell didn't attempt to block it's publication.

Vladimir Nabokov's son moved to publish Nabokov's last manuscript, one that Nabokov asked, on his death bed, to have burned. Despite his death-bed wish, the work was published. I can't imagine what his son was thinking to directly go against his dad's wishes with respect to this book, except he was seeing dollar signs more than anything else.

Ernest Hemingway's grandson has partnered with Scribner (Hemingway's original publisher) to publish a new, doctored version of Hemingway's posthumous memoir, A Moveable Feast. The negative references to his second wife, the grandson's grandmother, have been removed and a more glowing portrait of her, written by Ernest Hemingway, has been inserted. The book may have been published posthumously, but as this editorial points out, Hemingway was very involved in the writing and publication of the memoir.  While he died before the book was published, he still wrote the manuscript.

All of this got me thinking - once you publish, the words don't really belong to you anymore. Sure, there are copyright laws that ensure no one plagiarizes you and that you get royalties on the publication, but that doesn't really protect you. Once I publish this blog, these words no longer belong to just me. They are on the internet for anyone to read, copy, steal, etc. And I suppose that any writer realizes this and accepts it as one of the costs of doing business.

On the other side of the coin, On The Road was re-released for the 50th anniversary. The original scroll was published as Jack Kerouac wrote it. I think that Kerouac would have been pleased to see that his original work could finally be published. I think it honors his memory to publish what he wrote.

Raymond Carver's widow has moved to re-publish some of his most famous stories without the drastic changes his editor made. Sometimes, these edits changed the entire meaning of the story. Which raises questions about his legacy. Does that change his place in literary history? Does that change how people look at him? Because the stories are so drastically different as he wrote them then as they were published. Even the titles to the stories changed. So was Carver the literary icon that everyone says or was it his editor who was really the icon? At what point does it become someone else's voice?

But what about when a writer dies? John Updike passed this year. What if there is another Rabbit Angstrom book - unfinished - that we was working on? What if he left explicit instructions that the book was to be destroyed if it was not finished before he passed? Do we honor his request and destroy a Pulitzer Prize-winning legend's book? Or do we publish it as one last hurrah of a literary icon? Is the world deprived of his genius by honoring his last request. Would people have thought Andy Warhol crazy if he asked his last painting in progress be destroyed on his death? What about Picasso? Does the medium make a difference? Should Michael Jackson's last unfinished album (if there is one) be released? At what point should dead people control their art?

I know that none of these questions are easily answered. And I hate to see art of any kind destroyed. But I also understand that artists are temperamental and perfectionists. I think that Hemingway is tossing in his grave at A Moveable Feast being doctored and re-released. I think, however, that Jack Kerouac had a big glass of whiskey when On The Road was published as the original scroll was written - without all the editing. I think Raymond Carver would be nervous about what his widow is doing. I think Vladimir Nabokov would beat the holy hell out of his son. Does it matter what these now-dead people would think? I think so. I would like to think that all our lives mean something. That when we leave a last wish, it be honored by those who claim to have loved us. I want to be cremated. I would be upset to find that my family decided to embalm me and bury me to decay over God-knows-how-long. Isn't this really the same thing?

All in all, it comes off as a greedy ploy for money or revenge - exposing the flaws of these artists. And making a profit off it to boot. It also begs the question of where does it stop. Do we publish everything - snakry letters, sex tapes? Who makes that determination?

I know that I have spent this entire blog asking a lot of questions and not answering any. Mostly because I don't think there are answers. Unless someone leaves explicit instructions in a will or trust, not a lot can be done. And even then, people can act against the instructions or challenge the will or trust. It's a complicated issue. I tend to fall on the side of the author. If they ask for something to be destroyed, it's because they think it's not their best effort and would rather not be remembered for that work. Or don't want that work being their last. It's a small thing that we can do. Yes, it means that we may miss a piece of literary genius that's not as bad as the author thought. But I think that's a risk worth taking to honor someone's last request.

The Year Of Magical Thinking?

I just finished reading "The Year Of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion. Joan Didion is somewhat of a literary icon in this country. I have "Play It As It Lays" but haven't read it yet. I have to say that I was a bit mystified about why literary critics were so in love with "The Year Of Magical Thinking". Before I go into that, I'll give you a brief description of the book.

Joan Didion was married to John Gregory Dunne. He's a writer as well, whose works I'm not familiar with. His brother is Dominick Dunne, who I have read extensively. He covered the OJ trial for Vanity Fair and I waited impatiently for the new Vanity Fair to come each month when the trial was going on to read his summary of events. Anyway, Dominick Dunne's daughter, Dominique, who starred in Poltergeist, was strangled to death by her ex-boyfriend. Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne had a daughter, Quintana. She was in the hospital with an infection and septic shock around Christmas, 2005. Right before New Year's Eve, Joan and John sat down to dinner and he keeled over with a fatal heart attack. The book is about her struggle to come to grips with his sudden death.

Generally speaking, I tend to avoid morose and depressing reading when I'm happy. Why bring my mood down? So I was kind of surprised that I picked up this book because I knew what it was about. And I'm in a really happy place right now. I got it months ago at a library sale. The whole bag of hardbacks was $5.00. It sat in my garage until last weekend. I read the book in a matter of three days or so. And couldn't figure out why I was in a foul mood and feeling disconcerted for a few days after I read it. Then I figured it out. The book didn't have a resolution.

I did not start reading this book with the expectation that Joan Didion would teach me anything about death or grieving. What I did expect was that it would be a phenomenal meditation on death and those left behind. Uh...yeah. No so much. First of all, she writes it in an almost condescending way. She quotes poetry to show you she's erudite and education. And she uses literary devices and metaphors so much they practically jump off the page and smack you upside the head. I'm not the brightest person ever. But I can see a literary device and a metaphor without having it continually thrown at me. And yes, I realize I sound like a nit-picky snob.. But it interfered with the flow of the book for me.

Speaking of flow - the book was written in such a way as it covered jumped around to different times over that year. It got kind of confusing in places. But mostly, I think I was just disappointed that the book didn't offer more. It seemed antiseptic and one-step removed as though the person was writing in the first person, but thinking in the third person, if that makes any sense.

I've never lost anyone suddenly that was really close to me. So Maybe I just don't have that perspective to look at this book through. And, God forbid, if it ever does happen, maybe I'll pick up the book again and read it with a new appreciation. Until then, I'm just left feeling let down and disappointed. 

Refuge

Everyone has a place they go when they are upset. A place that is comforting and give you time and space to work things out. I have different places depending on my mood. When I'm angry or stressed, I go to the batting cage. I hit balls until I can't lift my arms and my hands have blisters. When I'm upset or hurt, I either go to the ocean or a bookstore. If I'm really upset, I go home and stay there. I become a hermit until I think I can deal with the world again.

When I go to the ocean, I sit on the beach and stare at the waves. There's something about the endless waves crashing on the beach as they have done for eternity and will continue to do that calms me and soothes me. I sometimes need to calm my mind. When I do, I listen to a CD of the ocean because the sound of the waves helps to partly still my mind.

I love going to the bookstore. As you all know, I love books. When I'm upset, I love the smell of books. I love to find an unoccupied section (usually Middle Eastern History) and just stand and look at the shelf. Sometimes, I pick up books and look at them. Sometimes, I shop. Sometimes. I just stand there and think. Either way, it's a safe place for me. It's my port in a storm.

Right now, my heart is broken. I was hoping that I would have some time to be proud of what I did this weekend. I was hoping I could bathe in the accomplishment but I haven't been able to do that. I'm not sure if what's been broken will be repaired. All I know is that I took myself to the bookstore and stood in the Middle Eastern History section and just stood. The smell of the paper and glue did nothing to comfort me. The relative quiet and solitude in the aisle did not soothe me. It just made me sadder.

So what does one do when their places of refuge do not offer the solace they seek? I wish I had the answer to that question right now.

For The Love Of Books

Amazon released its new Kindle. The Kindle is like an iPod for books. It holds 1,500 books. Personally, I will never own one. I was chomping at the bit to get an iPod and would gladly give my right arm for a Nikon D60. I have a Blackberry and love it. I'm not a technophobe. However, when it comes to books, I'm a traditionalist in the same way that I wholly disapprove of inter-league play in baseball. There are some things that are best left alone.

I used to be a huge book snob. And to a certain degree, I still am. I fail to see the point of reading Jackie Collins or Danielle Steel. An ex of mine once told me that I should be glad people read and not be so concerned with the "what". Maybe. I still wouldn't read the Twilight books if you paid me (no offense, Becky). My brain candy is geared toward murder mysteries. As I have gotten older and see that 40% of people in this country read one book a year or less, I've become less of a book snob. It doesn't matter what you read, but just read.

That having been said, I have issues with this Kindle. Not everything in life needs to resemble a computer or video game. Reading requires concentration and an attention span. Making more palatable to people who are used to their electronic devices might be genius on Amazon's part. I just don't like it.

It's a tactile thing for me. I like the weight of a big book. I like the smell of art books. Or the musty smell of old books. I like to feel the texture of the paper the book is printed on. I like the look of the slightly yellowed pages of older books. I like to hear the voices of the characters in my head when I read. I like to see the notes people leave in the margins of books. And believe it or not, that happens when I read abook, not when I read on a computer screen. There's just something more intimate and personal about reading the printed word than reading words on a computer screen. (Yes, I see the irony of discussing the value of the printed word on an electronic forum.)

But that's just me. I'm sure there are plenty of people to balance me out. Those who prefer to see the words on a LCD screen than having to hold a cumbersome book. I will always prefer to hold a book. I will always prefer to see colorful dust jackets lining my bookshelves. I will always prefer the smell of a book, the feel of a page, the notes in the margins. Some things are just better left the way they were.

Dude. Seriously?

TypePad keeps track of how often my blog is viewed. I average about 14 views a day. (If you take out the one or two from me getting to the TypePad site from my blog because I'm lazy, I figure about 4 people read this.) They have a graph that shows how many hits for each day over the month. Imagine my surprise this morning when I saw my blog had been viewed 354 times since yesterday. It has been viewed like every minute for the last 12 hours. Huh? I think something has malfunctioned. I'm witty and funny and a decent writer, but seriously? Houston, I think we have a problem. Especially since yesterday's post was just the shuffle and didn't do anything at all but list the first ten songs appearing on my iTunes Shuffle. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to have 300 people a day reading this little blog of mine, but i know that's not what really happened here. So I wonder.

Speaking of this little blog of mine, at the end of this month, I will have been doing this for three years. Three years on the roller coaster. Anyone getting sick yet? I promise a "very special" post that day. In other blog milestone news, I'm also coming up on 1,000 posts. I know, hard to believe. For those who have stuck in since the beginning (which I think is only Katrina), thanks. For those who stop by once in a while, thanks. And for all the bastards who don't read, I can call you bastards because you don't read. Ha. Oh, I slay myself.

On that lovely note, I'm going to get going. I have a walk to do and a class to plan for and a house to clean. My life is nothing if not exciting. Book club is tomorrow. I have barely crossed the 350 page threshold in The Fountainhead. Anyone want to bet an over/under on how much I'll have done by tomorrow? Ha. I'm on a roll today.

[Edited to add: Local headline on Yahoo says that a cemetary is having financial troubles. This stopped me in my tracks. What happens if a cemetary files for bankruptcy? Let's say that someone buys it. Let's say it's a developer. Does he get to move all the bodies and develop the land? Is there a haz mat issue, especially since we jack up dead bodies with all sorts of toxic crap we'd never get near when we're living. Would another cemetary take the bodies? Do the loved ones of the dear departed have a say? Just stuff I was pondering. ]

The Fountainhead

I have not mentioned it on my blog, but I have been trying to read The Fountainhead for book club for three months. We broke it in half originally, but then we broke it down further because no one but Becky was making any progress. Becky loved the book. I, on the other hand, loathe the book. Evidenced by the fact that in three months, I have read 300 pages. I am literally reading 10 pages an hour. My normal rate is 50 to 100. You may be asking why I hate it so much. Or you may have decided that since I'm posting about a book, you're going to stop reading now. Either one is fine. For those who are interested......

I read Ayn Rand in college. I read Anthem and We The Living. I did not like either book very much but they were both short. I also do not like her philosophy of objectivism. Objectivism is the belief that reality exists independent of consciousness. The proper purpose in life is the pursuit of one's own happiness and rational self-interest. Anyone who knows me can see how that flies in the face of what I believe. And objectivism is prevalent throughout The Fountainhead.

There are really no redeeming characters in the book. The one character I liked raped a woman. But she decided that was the only way she could have sex. So they started having an affair. Yes, I'm leaving out a ton of stuff. But I'm not going to torture you with details like Ayn Rand tortures her readers. I have a hard time with her portrayal of women. And men, for that matter. Some of the discussion of architecture is interesting. But it seems to me that she likes to talk. And this book is nothing but her endless rabble. Conversations go on and on such that the salient points are lost among hyperbole. I feel as though I'm being preached at when I read this book. I feel like I'm being condescended to.

As a result, I read ten pages an hour. And I have to really find motivation to read on. Some days it just isn't there. I have put the book down and read three others. That's never a good sign. The only reason I have not completely given up on the book is that it's for book club and I really do like to try to read the selections. And I hate to admit defeat. But sometimes you have to admit the relationship isn't working and get out of it. That's kind of where I'm at with this book. Sorry, ladies, I don't think I will get it done by Sunday.

The Library

As I have said many times before, I'm a nerd. When I was a kid, my grandparents were my daycare. I went to their house every day after school and all day during the summer until I was in high school and got a job. When I was in first or second grade, I got a library card. I remember it being yellow. I had that card until my wallet got stolen in high school. During the summer, i would walk to the library, which wasn't far from my grandparents' house. I checked out books and read all the time. The summer between sixth and seventh grade, I discovered "Baa Baa Blacksheep", Pappy Boyington's tale of combat during WWII. I have read that book a dozen times. It's one of my favorite books to this day. I remember the book I checked out from the library had long since lost its dust jacket. I remember the black motor boards and gold lettering. As I said, big nerd.

When I was in high school, I joined forensics (not the CSI kind - speech and debate). Team debate is evidence debate. There is a resolution and you have to debate either pro or con. You have evidence, which is writings from experts in the field. I used to cut school in high school with Katrina and go the library at Fresno State to research for debate. I learned to love the library when I was a kid. I learned to use the library in high school. And I learned well. I know part of the reason I survived college and law school is that I knew how to use a library.

After Patrick was born, one thing I wanted to impart to him, more than anything else, almost, was love of books and love of the library. He has definitely inherited my love of books. He likes to read. And has lots of books. Today, I took him to the library and we got library cards. It's changed a lot since I was a kid. You check out books by yourself. And you can renew them online. I think that's so totally cool. I'm glad I have a new library card. I missed having one. I checked out two books. But am trying to have the discipline to read The Fountainhead, which I started again. Still hating it, but going to try.

Patrick didn't seem that thrilled about his library experience, but I probably wasn't either when my mom first took me. He did find two books about soccer, his latest sports love, and checked them out. He read in the car all the way home. So I think he enjoyed it, even if he didn't want to tell me that. I'm glad I got to share the experience with him. And I'm very glad that he shares my love of the written word.