Strong though the temptation was, I resisted the urge to, once again, entitle my post with some variation of the announcement that I had returned to the blogging world. Saying "I'm back" implies that I have seen the error of my non-blogging ways and am now strenuously striving to mend them. This, however, is not the case. I have returned, but I offer no guarantee that I will remain.
I have not been neglecting my blog through any previous resolution or self-denial. Simply put, I have not recently satisfied the urge to blog because no such urge has existed.
Now, however, is an exception. I miss writing out my thoughts and sharing them, and, rather unexpectedly, I miss writing in general. As a matter of fact, I have rather wanted to write for a week or so, but I have been utterly unable to come up with a good idea for a post. I'm sure many interesting incidents have come my way this summer, but I have lost my habit of viewing every happenstance through the lens of blog-worthiness.
It now amuses me, when I think of it, how much my life once centered on my little web page. My first thought each morning would be, "What can I blog about today?" Every time I could snatch a few minutes between school subjects, I would make a frenzied dash to the computer to make sure I had not missed any new posts on my blog list. And since my days were far busier then, I often stayed up late writing a post or editing a photo since there was no other time I could do it. Describing me as obsessed would not have been far from the truth.
As I have already intimated, obsession with blogs is no longer a fault of mine, whether it was before or not. I have spent most of my summer doing other things. I wrote in my last post about working at Grandpa's, redecorating and renovating his upstairs apartment. That has now been completed, and I have been instead occupying my time with whatever happens to be convenient. I have been reading more, playing the piano more, and working on school some (I still have to finish Calculus).
My expectations for reading over the summer have been rather high. I have often regretted the brevity of the list of books I have read, and this summer seemed the perfect time to lengthen it. Sadly, I had the misfortune to start with a book that I did not enjoy at all: The Last of the Mohicans. I spent nearly all of July with this as my official current book, but I could not bring myself to read more than one or two chapters at a time. Upon analyzing the situation, I decided that I had several good reasons for this hesitation.
1. Few of the characters were likable. In fact, Heyward was the only major one for whom I had any sympathy. Although the Mohicans were described as "bold," "handsome," "noble," and many other favorable adjectives, I found them cold and a bit uncongenial. Hawkeye was simply obnoxious, though not so much as David, the singer ("I have never profaned my lips with any song that was not taken directly from the Holy Psalms."). The girls were not bad, but I felt no connection with either "happy, beautiful Alice" or "somber, noble Cora." Since I certainly could not sympathize with the enemies, I was basically left with a tale of people for whom I cared absolutely nothing.
2. I could not discern an overall plot. I felt as though I were reading a collection of semi-related stories that went through a constant cycle of conflict and resolution. This can be done successfully, I'm sure, but at the end of each chapter I found myself wondering why I kept reading when all the immediate problems had been solved. Perhaps I had not looked for it hard enough through my apathy, but I could not find a connecting plot thread or an overall conflict to bring unity to the book.
I hate to leave books unfinished, since I never get back to them. Case in point: Lord of the Rings. I have not finished that series, despite having seen the movies more than once and read The Hobbit multiple times. I have even read the Silmarillion, but I "took a break" from the main series a quarter of the way through Return of the King and have never stopped that break. Someday I will pick up that volume and read it right through to the end; but until then, it will serve as a warning when ever I want to stop a book partway through. "Remember the Lord of the Rings!"
In this case, however, I permitted an exception. Having logically proven to myself that I could legitimately stop reading a book I was so little enjoying, I switched to Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. That book is incredible! I do not think I exaggerate when I say that it is one of the best-written books I have ever read. I love all the characters: sympathetic or not, they are colorful and interesting. Jane herself is the best of all, with all her various emotions and ideas clearly explained and described. The plot is unified, too, and the descriptions are moving. I consider a book to be very well-written when I find that it makes me at various times angry, amused, worried, excited, and sad. (No, Charlotte Brontë's publisher is not paying me for saying this.) Jane Eyre does all of this, holds my attention, and does not leave me with any sense of regret for how I have spent my time. Long live Jane Eyre!
