Day 131: Great House

Great House by Nicole Krauss.  ISBN: 9780393079982 (Advance Reading Copy - publishes Oct. 12, 2010).

Don't let anyone tell you that this is a book about a desk and people's relationship to it (this is what I've seen on sneak peek reviews and the book blurb itself).  This is a book about a group of people who happen to have had this one particular desk in common.  The blurb itself is so misleading that it frustrates me to no end, in fact I may be writing the publicist and bitching about it.  It describes the desk as having, "enormous dimension and many drawers that exerts a power over those who possess it or give it away."

Not so much.  In fact, that desk is barely mentioned, particularly after the first couple of chapters, when it is it's mostly in passing as *gasp* a piece of furniture.  This book is really about the people and their relationships with other people: sometimes they're the ones who own the desk and sometimes it's someone they know.  The point is, the blurb is doing a great disservice to this book, as so far it has been a pretty amazing read, especially since I was smart enough not to read the back of the book before I started reading the thing itself.  Hah!  That'll show you book reviewers.

The one thing the desk has been doing in the novel is serving as an emotional placeholder for a person.  Obviously it's a different person for each segment in the book (as the desk passes from hand to hand we get a new chapter/short story about relationships).  It reminded me of my own emotional placeholder, from which I am writing to you now, dear readers.

At Antioch I had a room mate and when we first moved in together his parents, who are amazing and generous people, bought us a little extra furniture.  We happened to be staying in a largish dorm room, so the bedside table and extra lamp was a nice touch that prevented us from having to walk all the way to the door...and Matthew rather liked sitting in the dark.  After ceasing to be room mates for a multitude of reasons, although still on speaking terms and good friends, I asked if I could keep the bedside table, and Matthew agreed being an amazing and generous person like his parents.

By the time I graduated I felt I no longer needed the bedside table, and so I offered it back to him.  When he said he didn't need it, I gave it to another Antioch student to continue the chain of generous giving (because while it is not the nicest table, it is still better than most furniture found in dormitories and I could have sold it).  It wasn't until after I found out that Matthew committed suicide that the bedside table all of a sudden became important to me.

It was as if that little piece of our lives together suddenly became the only way to hold onto him, and I just wasn't ready to let him go.  And while a piece of furniture could never replace him in my life, having something of his that I use and see and touch on a daily basis has been immensely comforting to me in a way that other things of his haven't been.  Especially since I started using it as my computer desk, which has been off and on for about two years now.

Matthew was a creative person, so it seems somehow fitting to use the table he gave me to pursue creative endeavors (my blog, the rare piece of poetry...which I've been writing again recently, etc.).  I may not be as talented as he was and I certainly can't fulfill his potential, but I hope that in a way his life is still impacting others through me.  And I may have reached the point where I can let go of his table, but it has become such a reassuring presence that I would be hard-pressed to part with it unless it became extremely damaged or worn.

Do you have any pieces of furniture that you particularly cherish?

**I would like to note that I do not typically form attachments to furniture and I've been known to sell, swap, or dump unwanted or unnecessary furniture at the drop of a hat.  The fact that the bedside table is small and can be unscrewed and made smaller is probably one attribute that has kept it in my life.  I do get attached to things, but not to the point where it will cause me inconvenience or extra money.

Day 130: Kyle B. (guest blogger)

The Boy Detective Fails by Joe Meno.  ISBN: 9781933354101.

I really like codes. When The Boy Detective Fails dropped a few little coded messages in the story and then moved on, I jumped at the chance to try my hand at pulling the messages apart. I was halfway through figuring out possible alphanumeric shifts when I realized there was a key to help out elsewhere in the book. In one of my favorite books, House of Leaves there are codes layered in on top of codes, some leading nowhere, some taking the reader deeper into the book. Something as simple as a switched letter or even just a checkmark on the bottom of an otherwise normal page is enough to make me start building scratch pads of ideas.

When I was a kid, I used a couple encyclopedias to brush up on some ancient writing styles such as, I kid you not, Phoenician. To my knowledge, I don’t retain any cuneiform, but that’s probably because most of the notes I used it for were only addressed to myself. Using code is a lot more fun when you’ve got someone else to receive the message. On the other hand, it’s a huge benefit when I’m taking notes, since not many people can read my particular iteration of shorthand.

Being deaf actually plays into this more than one might think. I’ve often taught a couple of my friends some basic American Sign Language. When we’re out in a loud place where hearing might be an issue, we can communicate a few common sentences to each other without having to shout out loud.

The problem with using other languages is that it can be a trap when someone knows the right code. I once caught some hearing high school girls out using ASL to talk about an awkward classmate who was nearby. I watched the conversation for a couple minutes as they were improvising some signs to come up with derogatory ways to refer to him in sign, giggling to each other in some kind of cruel confidence. Once I was near them, I told them they weren’t the only people who knew sign, and they might want to be a little more careful about what they said next time. I got terrified stares and walked off without the guy in question even being aware what had gone on.

What it comes down to for me is a fascination in how people communicate, especially how we try to talk to each other so that only one other person can understand. The secret message, even when unimportant, can be a meaningful one. I’m not saying I thrill on subtle encouragement to drink more Ovaltine. I’m saying it just makes things fun and can be useful now and again.

Kyle B. is some guy you've never heard of, but he's okay with that. He's a writer and journalist (also both a lover and fighter) that graduated from Kent State University a few years ago, with some slight gainful employment since. He loves to read but pretty much puts a new book back on the shelf if a couple of the first words on the jacket are "murder mystery" or "romance."

*Post was originally written July 14th, 2010 so I could do something else...like play video games all day.

Day 129: Kyle B. (guest blogger)

The Boy Detective Fails by Joe Meno.  ISBN: 9781933354101.

I found a lot more of myself in Billy Argo than I thought I would. I used to devour mystery books as a kid, less for the intrigue and suspense as for the puzzles involved and character-driven twists. I’m sure it was intended in a few places, but there were several points in the book where I started searching paragraphs for clues and oddly-placed words to unravel a code.

When I was young, I was small for my age, and heavy beyond that. I was never the strongest or fastest and therefore had to be the "intelligent” one among my friends. I never really thought I fit in with those guidelines either, though. I’m not that intelligent, I’m terrible at strategy, and a lot of my knowledge comes by the way of useless facts that I’ve picked up from candy wrappers and the trail of Carmen Sandiego.

What I do have, I think, is a hunger for knowledge. I have more curiosity than I know what to do with sometimes. I’ve spent hours of my young life paging through the dictionary and encyclopedia, letting one entry lead to another, just to see the weird and amazing connections between elements in our world.

Once, in school, one of my teachers wrote a recommendation for me for some extracurricular program. Before I handed it in, I read the note that he had put down, describing me as an “assiduous” person. I had never heard the word before and immediately went to a dictionary to check it out. To this day, I wonder if he used that description knowing I would read it and want to know badly enough that I would prove him right by looking it up.

Some days, I just have to be the kid that just keeps asking “Why?” Not for any particular reason, but just to know. It’s not always terribly useful, but when a good mystery comes along, sometimes it really pays off to just have the right key lying about to make another strange and potentially helpful connection. 

Kyle B. is some guy you've never heard of, but he's okay with that. He's a writer and journalist (also both a lover and fighter) that graduated from Kent State University a few years ago, with some slight gainful employment since. He loves to read but pretty much puts a new book back on the shelf if a couple of the first words on the jacket are "murder mystery" or "romance."

*Post originally written July 14th, 2010 and saved for an "Oh my god I have too much to do" emergency.

Day 128: The Education of Bet

The Education of Bet by Lauren Baratz-Logsted.  ISBN: 9780547223087 (Advanced Reader Copy - out now).

In this novel, Bet takes the place of Will who goes on to join the military.  There's a lot of scheming going on basically so that both Will and Bet can pursue their dreams, and it involves Bet dressing as a boy.

When Bet finally gets caught, as we know she must, she shouts at the boys about taking their education for granted, that she would have to go to such extremes in order to even get an education at a "last resort" school.

I cannot tell you how many times there were at Antioch when I felt like taking hold of people and shaking them until they saw some kind of sense.  I come from a privileged background, one where I am actually the fourth generation of women to go to college (my family has children late, so think late 1800's).  And while Antioch was not necessarily the most rigorous of academic institutions, there were people who did not even bother showing up to class.  What was more frustrating, is that it appeared that these were the people who were often receiving the most scholarship money.

Meanwhile, I could barely even find a job on campus because my mother "made too much money," and while she offered me an allowance, I wanted the freedom of earning my own money and spending it without having to think about how she would want it spent.  So I worked in the cafeteria for part of my first semester and woke up at 6 in the morning most days.  As you can imagine, I was not a happy person my first semester of college, adjusting to job, class, loud and violent next door neighbors who played video games and fought in the hall until 3AM, etc., etc.

But I showed up to class.  Every day.  I did my homework and did the reading, and read ahead whenever possible.  I participated in social activities, as best I could, going to a dance here and there and getting together with a roleplaying group.  So I really could not understand why other students who had jobs where they could do their homework and socialize with their friends did not show up to class.  Especially since many Antioch professors had an attendance policy (four classes and you failed).

It seemed like such a waste when classes were pass-fail to fail just from not showing up.  It did not make any sense to me at all.  And then I got to graduate school and I saw the undergraduates who were graded on their work doing the same shit.  And then it hit me.  Consumer economy.  People who pay for something expect to get it, when that's not really how education works.  Oh sure, you can receive the piece of paper and wave it around all you want, but a piece of paper does not make you smarter or more prepared for the world.  I think this is probably the biggest argument for free (or government provided) education.

People who do not pay directly to receive their education might actually work harder to get the most out of it.  People who do not want an education, or who do not behave like they want an education, will get shunted out of the system because why provide free education to someone who isn't even going to show up?  There just has to be a better way to provide education to those who really want it, while ensuring that those seeking degrees solely for higher paying jobs find other avenues of obtaining said jobs.  Despite where I am now, I have never regretted my educational choices, but I am angered at the idea of people out there with library degrees who have no intention of doing right by the profession because to them it's just another job.

Day 127: Color Blind

Colorblind by Precious Williams.  ISBN: 9781596913387 (Advanced Reader Copy - publishes August 2010).

"It's like being on a ferris wheel and the ride stopping suddenly, mid-air: my whole world shudders to a stop the very second Eddie calls me pretty.  I feel an urge to run to the nearest mirror and gaze at myself in a new, rose-tinted light." Page 58.

I think every woman remembers the first time someone outside of her family calls her pretty or beautiful.  It's unfortunate that it's usually someone with ulterior motives.  I remember the first time it happened to me and it no longer means as much to me as it did when I first heard it, because I can't help but wonder, "What does this guy really want?"

Obviously these are my own issues to some degree.  And it might be true that the men who told me this in the past thought I was beautiful, but they still waited until a very vulnerable moment where telling me I was pretty would get them further into my pants.  Some days I just wish someone would tell me I'm pretty because they think it's true and they want me to know.

I would like to be recognized more often for my intellect than my physical appearance, but every now and then it wouldn't hurt to be complimented on how nice my legs look or how pretty my hair is.  I'm aware that I am shapely in all the wrong ways, but I do have some nice features and I wish they were recognized more.  I wish that everyone was more free with their compliments, not only towards me but towards others.  How many young men and women would benefit from hearing something nice about themselves on a somewhat regular basis? 

It's hard being young, when you're expected to be at your peak physical attractiveness and to be found lacking.  I often have the urge to compliment people my age and younger, particularly those I know who probably don't receive them often.  I want to give them something to feel good about, something they can like about themselves, even if it's just for an hour or two before their "friends" or peers go back to calling them fat or making fun of their large ears.

I almost never do this though.  I just don't have the courage to be that "weird person."  I am afraid that my compliments would be taken the wrong way, that parents would jerk their 12 year-olds away and cross to the other side of the street to avoid me, even though my intentions are good.  And what damage might that do to a kid's psyche?  The only random person to compliment me is a potential pedophile according to my parents - yeah, that'll make them and me feel good.  So the only way around this is to compliment the people you know.  You don't have to lie, but if someone has a new haircut that suits them or a fabulous new pair of earrings or you think that they have especially lovely eyes, just tell them.  You can even preface it with, "Not to be weird, but I really think you have pretty _______ and I thought you would like to know."

Leave a comment with your thoughts and/or compliments, I will return them as best I can.

Day 126: Color Blind

Colorblind by Precious Williams.  ISBN: 9781596913387 (Advanced Reader Copy - publishes August 2010).

When I was growing up, and even into my college years a bit, I always kind of envied the black and other raced kids.  I know, it's a little messed up, but they had this whole identity path charted out for them and they had what seemed like four or five ways they could fit into their culture.  I didn't realize at the time how limiting that can be to someone who doesn't want to follow the path they're expected to by their cultural/ethnic peers or family members.

This is probably not coming out right and I'm showing my Stupid right now.  The thing is, being white comes with so many options that sometimes the only option for a white kid growing up is not to fit in at all.  By the time I hit high school I had moved so many places and seen so many things that it was practically impossible for me to fit in with anyone.  For a while I tried hanging out with the punks, but I didn't drink or do drugs.  Then I got into the theatre crowd, but I wasn't really accepted there either because I was willing to accept male roles in Mississippi, and that was weird even for theatre kids down there.  Not to mention it was hard to land a lead role unless you had been groomed from 9th grade by the theatre teacher.  That's just the way it was and I had fun and sucked it up, but in some ways there was a lot more suck than fun.

At least with the skin color it seemed that you automatically had some common ground.  As an outsider it felt like there was solidarity and camaraderie where there probably wasn't.  It took me a long time to get to a point where I realized that all of the good that comes from having a pre-prescribed identity also includes all of the bad, and that the bad usually outweighs the good.  There are cultural trends, etc. from other backgrounds that I wish I could claim, but I also wouldn't want to be saddled with the negatives, and it's not fair that people who are born into those backgrounds are sometimes encumbered by them.

I am making broad sweeping statements here, and I recognize that not every person of color has to deal with pressures to fit in culturally with their own race.  However, I imagine most do or at least have to deal with similar pressures from other cultures.  I've certainly had friends who were told they "act too white" by both their black and white friends.  This mentality isn't right, it shouldn't matter and people should be able to behave how they want to (within the law) regardless of their ethnicity.

Day 125: Dan Walker (guest blogger)

Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. ISBN: 9780141310886.

It takes a page and a half before our narrator, Melinda, gives us a rundown of all the clans, as she calls them, that students at her high school separate into.  In my time, we called them cliques, and my high school didn't have quite as colorful a selection.  I labelled my peers as I saw them: Jocks, Nerds, Preps, Goths, Burnouts, Shy Girls, Artists, and all the black kids.  I, of course, didn't fit in with any group.

The Preps liked me because I did their homework, but I was poor and couldn't take extra classes at the university in summer. The Jocks picked on everyone. Most of the rest were okay by me, but I didn't fit their style. Nerds came closest to being 'my people', because I wore glasses and got good grades, but even then, I don't think I had the same motivations a lot of them did. Plus, nerds in large packs are
really annoying.*

Thanks to a chance encounter halfway through tenth grade, I fell in with a group of about thirteen kids, from all grades, and found my circle of friends. I like to think we were far more tightly-knit than the other social groups. Rather than letting ourselves be outcast by them, we wore our lack of fitting in like a badge, proud of not being part of the herd. We sat around before and after school, playing role-playing games. We dreamed big stories about fantastic characters. We laughed at the outside world.

We called ourselves the Fire Hazards; funny story, that. One of our first hangouts was in front of the second-floor elevator, which was only accessible by faculty. We would group together there before class and do what we did. One day, the principal came by and told us we had to find somewhere else to sit, because we were being fire hazards by blocking the elevator. (Of course, you're not supposed to use elevators during a fire, right?) Like our outcast status, we took the designation and owned it, moving into the cafeteria.

I was kind of amazed in the book by the character Heather, who was trying desperately to fit in with one particular clan, the Marthas. I don't remember that sort of social competition in my school, but then again, I didn't care about it. I mean, yeah, fitting in would have been nice sometimes, but I would definitely be a different person now. I still carry a lot of high school with me; sometimes I wonder if I still haven't left it behind. So many of my best memories are from school; many of my attitudes were formed from things that happened in high school, too. But then, who I am was irrevocably shaped by everything that happened to me during my public school days, and my identity is forever tied to those Fire Hazards I used to call friends. Maybe I'll never be able to give it up; maybe I shouldn't. Who knows?


Dan Walker (pseudonym) is a writer from Northeast Ohio, who would be teaching ESL if he wasn't unemployed. He received a BA in Creative Writing from Wright State University in 2004 and a Masters in Teaching English as a Second Language from Kent State University in 2009. He will make some lucky librarian a wonderful husband someday.

*Post originally written July 11, 2010 so the regular author could get caught up on her own reading/writing.

Day 124: Evermore

Evermore by Alyson Noel.  ISBN: 9780312532758.

I so wanted to enjoy this book. It's been a while since I read a book that I've just...oh wait no, nevermind, I really liked Little Women and Werewolves so I can't complain about not reading good books recently.  I think I'm so annoyed with this because, despite the fact I was able to read it in two days, it was so repetitive that it feels like I've been reading it for ages.

I am now convinced that Evermore is not the title, so much as the answer to the question, "How much longer do I have to read about Haven eating cupcakes and Damen pulling red tulips out of Ever's ass ear?"  Congratulations Twilight you now have company in the vomit club, as in the club of books that make me want to vomit.

Why do I have a problem with these books?  I don't know, I'm just tired of seeing young girls stay in relationships where their partners are playing mind games with them.  Yes, I know they're young women and they're going to make mistakes, but why do they have to make mistakes with people who live forever.  That is an abusive or potentially abusive relationship they will never be able to escape from.  This is a deeply terrifying thought to me.  Not only that, but these are decision that should not be happening between a 17 year old girl, regardless of the number of reincarnations, and a 600+ year old man.  Knock off a zero from the age, but keep the same level of hotness and tell me age is just a number.  No, 60 year olds think a hell of a lot differently about everything, but especially about relationships.  I know because I think differently about relationships than I did 10 years ago.

I am not saying that all relationships between younger women and older men are bad or automatically doomed to fail.  I just don't think they need to be romanticized this way, especially without a hell of a lot of additional parenting.  If you just hand this book out to your daughters without talking about the issues involved, you might as well be giving her the keys to a frat house and telling her the first hot guy she meets who messes with her head and is "perfect" is the one for her.  On one level I do realize that teenagers are not that stupid.

On the surface.  

A lot of that shit gets internalized in such a bad way that it takes years to scrape it from the inside of our skulls. Young women get told over and over again that they mature faster than boys and you know what, we believe it.  Which means we feel that young men our age are beneath us and not "datable."  These are exactly the men we should be dating, because they have exactly the same amount of dating experience as we do.  When I was 14-21 I wish I had been dating men my age.  Instead I was dating anywhere from 4-11 years older than myself.  The grossest and most regrettable being the 21 year old I dated when I was 14.  If I could go back in time I would beg my mother to press charges, to get a restraining order, anything to keep me away from that "man."  These are not the people we need to be encouraging our young women to wait for.

I don't care if they claim to be patient like Damen does at the end of the novel.  He sure as hell stuck his hands down her pants quick enough and manipulated her physically into wanting intimate contact.  He did not ask beforehand how far she was comfortable with going but waited for her to tell him to back off.  That is not the behavior of a gentleman or of someone who has your best interests in mind, and I don't know why we think this is okay or romantic.  It's not.

I would have less of a problem with these books if I knew that every single teenager who read them understood what is wrong about what is in them and had someone they could talk to about it.  I wish that these books came with required parenting, but somehow I doubt that they do, and that thought scares me and sickens me more than anything I've been through.  Because it means one more girl has to live through what I have and find a way to fix all the fucked up ideas about relationships she has.  And she may not be as lucky to get off as "lightly" as I did.

Day 123: Firmin

Firmin: Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife by Sam Savage.  ISBN: 9781566891813.

There's a moment when Firmin the rat describes the bookstore he lives in.  He mentions the organization system; some of the books are categorized, and others are strewn about.  People enjoy both and like the feeling of browsing, they love coming across something wonderful and unexpected in amongst the mediocre.

I think many readers can probably relate to this, not only with purchasing or browsing for books, but also with finding that perfect book — the book that changes your life the moment you read it and stays with you forever.  We all have those books, they are precious too us.  These are books that just come along and seem to save us at just the right time, even if we didn't know we needed saving.  There have been a number of those books for me.  I think I'll include them here, and as much as in order as I can remember them. 

The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.  Not only was this my first major chapter book, but it was the first "adult" book I read.  Yes, it's geared towards children, but it was the first book that I read that didn't try to diminish or dull the pain of loss, not only of a beloved pet, but of the moment in childhood when you become responsible for making difficult decisions for yourself and your family.  I think I may have read this book too young, because I took that message very seriously, but I don't regret the person it made me. 

The Giver by Lois Lowry.  Apparently there are now sequels to this book.  Given that this book blew my mind when it first came out when I was...8 years old.  Yes, it was above my reading level, but there was so much to think about that I think about it almost every day.  I am not kidding.  I think about this book all the time.  It's probably time for a reread, which is something I very rarely do.  I'm almost afraid because what if it's not as life-altering as I remember it?  Well, I guess the last 17 years already say otherwise so I should stop worrying about it.  Once again this was more along the lines of making hard decisions at a young age. 

Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler.  This is the book that I recommend to anyone and everyone who wants to know me and how I think.  I discovered this book about the age of 14, close enough to the main character's age that it really got to me.  Both of our worlds were falling apart, and yes hers was changing a little more rapidly and dramatically than mine, but she was doing something about it.  It gave me the courage to do the best I could in preparing a better life for myself sometime in the future since I knew my life couldn't change right at that moment.  I was in a situation and a place that I had no control over, Butler showed me not only a way out of the dark times, but how to make it so the future dark times didn't seem so dim. This is an important book. 

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.  This is one of several books I read by kerosene lamp while on co-op in middle of nowhere Tennessee.  This book came to me about 3 years after my brother had been kicked out of the house and I stopped speaking to him.  It was the book that made me think it was time to let go of the anger, even if I wasn't quite ready to forgive him and I definitely wasn't ready to let him back into my life.  It wasn't really until two years ago (more or less from today**) that I started talking to my brother again.  I was able to live my vengeance through the Count and let everything else go. 

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.  I read this recently.  Some of you might even remember.  I almost wish that this was the book that made me want to be a librarian.  It almost saddens me that I didn't read it until almost a year after receiving my degree, and if you want to get a librarian a graduation present that isn't a Nancy Pearl Action figure* then might I recommend a really swanky copy of this book.  Preferably with a witty inscription and a couple of twenty dollar bills slipped between the pages.

 *I have my picture with the real Nancy Pearl!
**This means we didn't talk to each other for about 7-8 years.
**Dayna Ingram asked me to blog about this book, although she did not recommend a topic (this time).  Send me a recommendation at acampb8@kent.edu or my Twitter account @libs_lib.

Day 122: Firmin

Firmin: Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife by Sam Savage.  ISBN: 9781566891813.

Firmin is a literary rat, he eats and reads books.  There wasn't as much book eating and tasting as I was hoping for.  I really wanted more descriptions of what the books tasted like to Firmin.  The ones he did mention were from the perspective of a rat, so I thought I would share with you how I feel books would taste, by genre if nothing else.

Non-fiction tastes like broccoli.  The bad kind is super raw broccoli.  It's there on my plate, and I'm required to eat the roughage, sans ranch dip.  Stomach aches, bloating and gas to follow.  Good non-fiction is still broccoli, but it varies from lightly steamed, to covered in delicious cheese sauce (or humor as I like to call it) to make it more palatable.  I've read some fabulous non-fiction in my times and it seems to be getting more palatable all the time.  Part of this may because my palate has matured and I'm no longer forced to eat my broccoli and sprouts, but eat them gladly.

Memoir somewhat reminds of the Seder Plate.  I'm not Jewish, but as a Unitarian we tend to explore the traditions of other religions and cultures.  The Seder Plate consists of an arrangement of foods meant to symbolize the Exodus of Egypt.  To me the act of writing a memoir is itself a ritual, so I find this particularly fitting to "taste" ritual when I read ritual.  The plate is comprised of sweet, bitter, salty, and includes meat and egg.  This very much summarizes how I feel about memoirs: some are more balanced than others, while others tip more towards the bitter or sweet, but I think it's a very fitting analogy.

Science Fiction reminds of the exotic foods (at least to American palate).  It's definitely not for everyone, you have to have a taste for it, to be willing to eat squid and octopus and pigeon and rattlesnake (all things I've eaten by the way).  It has a flavor that you can get close to describing, but not close enough.  The only way you can truly experience it is to live it, but since you can't live science fiction (at least not yet), you can read the descriptions and imagine the reality as close as possible.  Some of the flavors you can taste, but unless you actually go to the county the food is made in, you will be eating the version that is adapted to your palate.  It is foreign and familiar at the same time.

Fantasy is kind of a hard one to peg down.  I'd say it's the Jello or perhaps the Gelato of the literary world.  It's delicious, that cannot be denied, but it's sort of amorphous as well, or it melts on the tongue too quickly and you feel compelled to shove another bite in your mouth.  When you're done with the bowl there's a sense of satisfaction and an anticipation for the next time you can get your hands on a good one.  As someone not overly fond of Jello, I would say that's what bad fantasy tastes like, but damn do I love Gelato.

Novels, they range in tastes.  Maybe they're a buffet.  Yes, a buffet like Golden Corral.  You mostly get the basic flavors, the mac'n'cheese, the green beans, roast beef, and some dessert to boot.  We also tend to glut on novels (or general fiction) and ignore other genres.  It's easy to do because they tend to be pushed on us as being closer to our lives than science fiction or fantasy, so they must be more "valuable."  But everything in moderation, dear reader (I know, I'm not very good at moderation either).

Horror/Suspense is kind of like the new dish you've been wanting to try, but it's so out of your usual tastes that you're never sure if you should take the leap of faith.  The pleasure of thinking about eating it is sometimes more delicious than the actual eating.  Even when it's good you sometimes regret eating it because of the results (oops, who knew I was allergic to conch?*).

Mystery is like bread.  White, tasteless, non-nutritious bread.  It's formulaic and dull and boring, but sometimes you can make a damn fine sandwich with it.  But then, the focus is never really the bread, now is it?  I prefer novels that have an element of mystery without it actually being A Mystery.  There are rare exceptions that are more like a nice pumpernickle or French loaf, maybe even some raisin bread if you're lucky.  Mystery lovers will disagree with me here, but to me - white bread.  It's obviously a library staple, though, and I respect it as such, but I wouldn't eat it on a regular basis.

Young Adult, oh I love YA Fiction.  It is dessert.  I try to eat sparingly, but I have such a bad sweet tooth.  Books like The Hunger Games are more of a cheese tray or a frozen yogurt - a slightly healthier choice, but oh so good.  You have books like Twilight, which are like penny candy: I'll eat it if it's around, but it's certainly not my first choice and sometimes I'll skip it altogether.  But I love most the truly enjoyable reads that have a certain denseness to them like a good brownie or rich cake.  I'm drooling, how about you?

Romance, strangely, is like whipped cream.  There is nothing good in those calories, but damned if I don't eat it anyway.  It goes well with other genres, but on it's own there's something shameful about just eating whipped cream.  At the worst it's like a Diet Coke: not only is it overly sweet and bad for you, but there's no caloric value at all.


*Surprise! Oh the horror.  PS: I don't know if I'm allergic to conch, but this is supposedly how most people find out...and on vacation.
**Dayna Ingram asked me to blog about this book, although she did not recommend a topic (this time).  Send me a recommendation at acampb8@kent.edu or my Twitter account @libs_lib.