Any Suggestions?

"So...I haven't read any good books lately, I know you're a lit slut, can you suggest something for me?"

...does this question not simultaneously fill readers with dread and excitement?

I hate it, because it's so vague. If someone asks "Can you suggest a good novel set in Egypt" or "Can you suggest a novel which has a delicious aura of rebellion" or "Something that has a really interesting main character"

These are more specific, therefore can be answered. One can file through their mental bookshelves and select an option or two that fulfill the request.

But to just pose any novel, from any time period, of any genre...give us a chance! There are millions of novels! Narrow it down a little!

At the same time, though, I also become an overly enthusiastic puppy, tale thumping and knocking over vases.

"Oh! I know one you'd like-oh, this one is good too! If you're looking for- oh, wait! Wait! I know the perfect one!...here, hold this..."

Soon, the poor unsuspecting individual is buried under a pile of books while I frolic around, chirping 'Just one more! You won't regret it!"

Moral of the story...if you ask a lit lover for a book suggestion, either narrow the category down so they can get a better idea of what you're looking for, or let them have their wicked way with you, and be prepared to be buried in a mountain of books.

Somnus! The Tales of the Uncounted Sheep

Okay boys and girls, today we’ll be talking about insomnia in literary culture!
It’s an observation I’ve made over the years, sitting up and pondering life when I should’ve been sleeping.
Insomnia- a friend or a foe to writers everywhere?
A lot of writers had insomnia. Twain, Dumas, Kafka, Dickens, Proust, and Fitzgerald were all said to have been insomniacs to a certain degree.
Insomniacs come from all walks of life and occupations, but somehow the writers stand out in particular. Why?
I think a large part of it is due to the creative mind. An accountant can simply put away their papers for the day, and know that in the morning they will be right there. Those numbers will not be erased; the calculators will still be functioning. Something about the artistic mind sometimes seems to think (in my experience, at least) that the ideas won’t be there in the morning. So, many writers are often plagued by literary ‘night sweats’, ideas constantly popping into their head that they must leap up and write down. “If I don’t write it down, I’ll forget it! This could be the idea that sparks my next great novel/poem/etc”
Or maybe writers are just, in general, messed up people? Who knows.


And to conclude, another little excerpt, just for the hell of it.

Everything is broken here.
I look at her, her little doll arms spread across my once-white sheets.
Her hair seems duller, her eyes seem more sad, and I worry that she will not leave this place in time.
She coughs up the blood of a torn esophagus and her hands shake.
Her fingertips are blue, blue-tipped, as if they've been soaking in the ocean for too long, permanently frostbitten. Frostbite is fine, until it starts to thaw.
I chew valerian root, trying to lull myself into slumber.
Her knuckles are permantly scarred, her hands telling her story to anyone who knows to look, but no one ever does.
The rats click in the walls.
We hold onto each other as if we're trying to save ourselves from drowning, but really, it's only so we'll sink faster.

We are entire solar systems, attempting to operate alone.
No man is a galaxy.
I used to map out entire constellations amongst her freckles.
I pretend that I know where Orion’s belt is because I am interested in astronomy.
I send her books sometimes with my cramped margin scrawling. It is my way of proving that we existed, once.
That we were real, long ago.

She weaves these spider webs of hope and does not realize they are gossamer thin.
We are in the Garden of Eden.
I tear at a fig leaf with my dirty fingers.
It is not she who has eaten the apple in this story.
Our soil is barren.
Our branches bear no fruit.

(c) A.S.