A BETTER PENCIL Chapter 8: Writing on Screen

This is going to be a review of a chapter of our textbook for my Writing for the Digital Age class. I'm just warning you so if you aren't interested you can just skip this one and come back tomorrow or Saturday for a post about something fun.

Considering the only person who's probably left at this point is Dr. Alberti, I'm just going to write this one for you. Hi, Dr. Alberti!

First off, I'd like to thank you for requiring the Baron book over something else, because I actually find it enjoyable to read. Not only do I not dread my reading for this class, I kind of look forward to it in an ultra-nerdy kind of way.

Now, about chapter 8 specifically, there's a quote near the beginning that I would like to discuss. When talking about computer generated texts, Baron says that their

value and reliability go unquestioned by their enthusiastic practitioners, but which prompt serious objections from the vociferous technophobes who still long for an imaginary 'good old days,' a golden age that never really was, when texts were simpler and more reliable.

I think this sentiment of non-existent "good old days" is interesting not only in the context of technological texts but also with print texts. We, in general, are mistrusting of new technologies because we get stuck in a rut. We get comfortable with certain ways of doing things, and altering those patterns is hard and kind of scary because there's a potential for things to get worse instead of better.

But when it comes to reading books, and I'm talking traditional paper books here, we're the same way. We are always claiming that literature isn't what it used to be and writers aren't as good as they once were and that pop fiction and fads such as the current zombie craze are going to ruin literature forever. They really aren't. I mean, good stories are good stories, and good writers will always exist to tell those stories, regardless of what's popular at the time. And who's to say that zombie books and paranormal romance are always bad things? Look at Frankenstein and Dracula.

I guess what I'm driving at is that I understand this yearning for the non-existent, "better" past, and I recognize that I'm guilty of those same irrational desires, but that we shouldn't feel this way. New technologies, modes of delivery, and types of writing are not going to ruin literature, reading, and the language as we know it. Change it, yes, but that doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane

All I can think to say about Neil Gaiman's newest book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, is that it touched me deeply. As I read it, I felt that I was looking at a piece of Gaiman's soul, that he was sharing something fundamental with me. When I finished reading it (which only took a few hours -- I devoured it) I closed the cover, then just sat quietly for a long time, thinking.

(Photo from Goodreads.com)

But besides the insubstantial connection with the author that refuses to be pinned down, there are many concrete things that make the novel wonderful. As always, Neil Gaiman's style and word choices delight me. His prose is simply a pleasure to read. It's beautiful, and art all on its own.

The subtlety of the story helps urge this beauty along. The novel, though it is yet another account of good versus evil, feels so fresh and crisp. The story is short, but it turns in such a way that it feels much longer than its word count would suggest. It's epic in feel, and all of that concentrated feeling is engaging in a way that I haven't been engaged in a while.

Patrick Rothfuss, my favorite author, said that this story made him cry, not because of the events, but because the story was told so masterfully. (I paraphrased there, he was much more eloquent.) I did too. At first, I didn't really understand what he meant by that, but somewhere in the middle, I realized that what I was holding was pure, distilled beauty. It squeezed my heart and made it ache.

Plus, it's full to bursting of complex, wonderful, strong female characters. I'm so tired of cliche females in stories. These women felt so real. They made me feel proud, rather than exasperated. I won't go into the beauty of them, because their roles are kind of spoilers, and I don't want to give any spoilers, but I'm sure you'll notice when you pick up the book.

I would recommend this book to anyone and everyone because it is, quite simply, a masterpiece.

And that's coming from someone who didn't think you could get much better than American Gods.

I am better for reading this book.

Little Bee

This week, I'm going to talk about Chris Cleave's Little Bee. There are mild spoilers after the picture, so if that type of thing bothers you, be warned.

Photo from Goodreads.com

Lolita

Sometimes, I feel like a bad English major. I read far more genre novels than "literary" ones, and my knowledge of classics is, frankly, lacking. Usually, this doesn't bother me very much, but I recently became vice president of my school's Sigma Tau Delta chapter, which means I'm going to be hanging out with lit majors a lot more, and I would like to be able to hold my own in discussions of classics.

I started with Lolita. Honestly, I don't even know if Lolita is considered a classic or not, but I hear it referenced a lot, happened upon it in the library, and decided to go for it.

Usually, when I've finished a book, I have a pretty strong opinion of it and can back that opinion up with specific passages. But Lolita has me torn in a way most books simply don't. I'm not sure if I liked it or not, but I don't think I'm supposed to be sure if I liked it or not.

On the one hand, I enjoyed Nabokov's writing style. On the other hand, the subject was disturbing.

For those of you who don't know, Lolita is about Humbert Humbert (a pseudonym) who is attracted to "nymphets" -- young girls between the ages of 9 and 14. He falls for one nymphet in particular named Dolores Haze, whom he calls Lolita. The novel is structured like a memoir, and serves as Humbert's attempt to confess to his relationship with Lolita and make peace with himself and with her.

What makes the novel so disturbing isn't the sexual content between a young girl and a man old enough to be her father, but the way the reader begins to sympathize and understand Humbert. I wanted to hate Humbert for what he did to Lolita, how he broke her childhood and obviously traumatized her, but I couldn't. His rationalizations made too much twisted sense. I could tell that he really didn't understand how wrong he was, and that gets into some big moral questions, such as, if he really believes he's in the right, is he? And of course the biggest question -- what makes me think I have the authority to say what's right and what's wrong?

Lolita made me feel things that I didn't want to feel, took me down a dark part of myself that could sympathize with an unlikable hero, and that bothers me. I can never un-see that corner of myself, and that makes me kind of hate the book. But I also think it's important to read literature like this because it makes us uncomfortable. It's the only way we'll ever learn.

So, read Lolita at your own risk.