Stephen King could take a page from John Green

 Stephen King is one of my favourite authors and until recently, the only author I've read on a regular basis (excluding of course, my yearly refreshment course on Harry Potter)

If you don't know of him, please politely climb back down into that hole you've been living in.

I've noticed a trend in my last ~10 years of reading his books. He always writes about writers. For instance:

1978: 'Salem's Lot

1987: Misery
1990 Secret Window, Secret Garden

1997: Desperation

1998 The Dark Half

1998: Bag of Bones

2005: The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower

2006: Lisey's Story

 

I recently was reminded of this trend as I watched the "horror" flick on television based on the story Bag of Bones. The fact that he often writes about a male author that often shadows his life leads me to believe that he is writing less fiction than we may think. This doesn't mean I believe in his world of aliens and ghosts.. but something surely is amiss with him. In more recent years his writing has become, for lack of a better word for is, BORING. Likely due to the medication he's been prescribed. (Lisey's Story is the one book that I own and still have not read it cover to cover)

Speaking of reading, a book I recently picked off the shelves at a local Chapters is "The Fault in Our Stars" by John Green. 

I felt a little creative today so I doodled my own version of the cover. Except mine actually has a lovely yellow sticker on the front that says "signed copy". 

Let me preface my review by the fact that it is categorized as teen fiction in the bookstore. 

That doesn't really apply to anything, I was just shocked at the level of vocabulary in a "teen fiction" so much that I am feeling I should especially dot my t's and cross my i's while writing about it. (Scratch that. Reverse it.)

The author himself if quite unique. He's part of the vlogbrothers (look them up on youTube), leader of nerdfightaria (google this) and will always remind you to DFTBA (don't forget to be awesome). Look these terms up if you're interested in becoming a nerdfighter, donate to a great charity (they always have something going) or purchase neat swag. He's also the author of Looking for Alaska, the book I will probably read next.

I am going to reread this book soon, and this time look up each word that I don't recognize. For instance, hamartia. This is one of the words that particularily stuck in my mind. It means:

(Literary & Literary Critical Terms)  the flaw in character which leads to the downfall of the protagonist in a tragedy

 I won't spoil the story, but the basic plot follows a 16 year old girl, Hazel, who has cancer. But this isn't really a cancer book. It's a romance, a tragedy, and a comedy. I haven't laughed and cried so much in a single weekend in a long time. 

For those of you who might not want to purchase the book, I'll be happy to lend you mine. 

Thanks to Sam who awkwardly did homework on the opposite side of the room and tolerated my sudden mood swings while reading this book!

Avoid Ferris Wheels

I had a weird dream the other night.

I was with my sister, Shelly, looking for a bunch of dice. Now, I need to make a horrible confession. At one point in my life, for only a few months, I played dungeons and dragons. No I'm not proud.

Anyways we were looking for these D+D dice, which are multicoloured, and there are many shapes and sizes. I went out on the back porch of my father's house (which is strange because we tore down that porch about 10 years ago) and found some dice in a ceramic pot half filled with rain water. I showed my sister and she exclaimed that this was only half of the collection and that we needed to find the purple velvet bag filled with dice.


It was distressing. We searched everywhere. Eventually we gave up and went to a theme park by the ocean....mixed with Niagara Falls.

There was a terrifying roller coaster that we went on. It was a log boat ride like the one they have at Wonderland, but it was on Niagara Falls (the actual waterfall). We floated along, barely restrained by one flimsy lap bar, and gradually picked up speed. We were racing by the time we came to the very edge of the falls... and the boat's nose started to tip over the edge....and we heard a loud CLUNK!!!! A chain held us at a specified distance from the dock, which was precisely the distance required to leave us hanging at a 45 degree angle on the edge of the cliff. A motor whirred to life and began cranking us backwards against the current until we arrived safely at the dock again.

After that bone chilling ride we decided to pick a safer one. The ferris wheel looked pretty peaceful, although it was dangerously close to a cliff and looked like it could fall into the ocean with a slight breeze. My sister and I were loaded into the bucket seat and the ferris wheel started turning. When we got to the top of the ride, Shelly suddenly found the velvet bag in her pocket....and dropped it into the ocean.

We watched it sink and we became aware that the ferris wheel wasn't moving anymore. We heard the sound of metal grinding on metal... and then... we were falling. The bucket seat had dropped out from the wheel structure! We plummeted to the ocean at a mind-numbing speed... and just as we were about to hit the foamy waves below I felt a blast of heat and felt the sensation of my back adhering to the backrest.

The bucketseat...was... a rocketship? And we flew off into the sunset...


 Also I haven't named a Reader of the Month for November, so I belatedly nominate Joel, who helped me critique Skyrim for my last post. Thanks Joel!

SICK

 I just got home from Nicaragua.

My month long stint was amazing. We worked with kids, teaching them English and learning Spanish in return, and we volunteered at Project Bonafide.

One day in particular was very memorable.

I spent one entire day entirely bed-ridden, sick with some sort of flu.

I woke early in the morning before the sun has risen. My stomach hurt something fierce and it seemed... swollen.

When I pressed on my gut, I suddenly realized.....I need to get to the bathroom ASAP.

Now, in Nicaragua at our homestay in the village of Balgue the word "bathroom" is very loosely used. What you may consider a bathroom would include porcelain facilities, silver faucets and fluffy towels.

This was very much not the case.

The "bathroom" was located outside of the house and consisted of a shabby outhouse containing a rough cube of cement with a hole in which to do your business. The baby goat accompaniment comes complimentary.

I grabbed my flashlight and hurried out to the bathroom, clutching my stomach. 

I tore open the door, sat down, and...well.... I'll spare you the gorey details. 

What I will tell you instead is that I felt like a Mr.Freeze (you know those sweet frozen treats) that someone grabbed around the middle and squeezed until both ends burst simultaneously.

And really, in this "bathroom" there were no such facilities to accommodate both ends of me erupting at the same time.

During my first visit I was able to clamp my hand over my mouth long enough, my cheeks expanded to their maximum with vomit which caused me to want to vomit even more.

I managed to walk back to my bedroom and pass out for an hour or so....

My second visit was not so successful. I attempted the first technique of clamping my mouth shut and instead vomited into my hands. I sat for a full minute with liquid seeping between my fingers until I decided to just drop it on the floor.

This time on my return trip the family had woken up and I had to tearfully explain in broken Spanish and gesturing that I had blown chunks all over their bathroom floor.

I slept for a few more hours, waking in between to swallow some water and gastrolyte...and a few nibbles from a granola bar. I woke with a start around 1:00 and rushed outside again, startling the very fat pig into running away.

During my third excursion I was DETERMINED not to dirty their freshly cleaned floor again.

I firmly welded my hand to my mouth, and managed to vomit forcefully (and painfully) through my nose. It splattered all over the wall, and in my gasp of horror I let loose the rest of my snack.

Now let me tell you for the record, it is absolutely NOT a good idea to vomit through your nose. If you've ever experienced the bad breath that accompanies being violently sick you would not want that smell any closer to your nose (nevermind THROUGH it).

By the end of the day I was able to force down some chicken noodle soup ( my host family made it especially because of my sickness) and I managed to survive to work again the next day.

Safely back in Canada!

AND of course it is FRIDAY. This week's Constant Reader is Chad, who sent me an encouraging message about the blog while I was away.

Thanks so much Chad, I love getting feedback!

Remember y'all that I pick a Constant Reader once a week based on people that comment, LIKE, FOLLOW, or message me about the blog.

On my way to the loony bin...

I have some pretty vivid dreams.


I had an especially frightening one the other night, but I think I need some back story here.

On Wednesday night I went to the bar for a band-night fundraiser. There was

a guy there wearing a black fedora and trenchcoat, and had had cool loopy

-chainey earrings. I decided that I was going to meet him. At some point in the

night I approached him (playing pool by himself) and joined him for a game. 

We talked about Tim Burton. He was really nice actually.

It made me kind of sad that no one else had talked to him the whole night, and Lisa gave me a weird look afterwards and said, "Who was THAT?". 

I said he was someone interesting that I had wanted to meet. 

 "He looks interesting all right," was her judgement-laden response. 

So in my dream I repeated that night, but instead of catching a bus home I walked to my old elementary school. In a dark classroom the former bullies of my life were gathered; they were all talking about the fedora guy and laughing at him. I finally stood up and told them all to shut their f*&$ing mouths. I ended up crying and telling them how bullies like them ruined my life and I stormed out dramatically and paced the hallways of the abandoned school

The halls were longer than I remembered, and the walls got progressively dirtier and dirtier. The paper crafts on the walls became crisper and faded as I walked. On my left hand side were corridors every 30feet or so, extending about 30 feet in and ending in a set of white double doors that were closed. (these had shiny brass handles, but each successive corridor looked shabbier). 

I came to one of these corridors and I could see the one double door was open. I went down this corridor. Upon closer inspection the door was broken down and splintered. I walked into the room...

And it was magnificent. White Victorian furniture with golden brushed paint, two huge arching staircases and a beautiful chandelier; all clean and crisp and wonderful. It smelled faintly of lilacs, and the floor was rich hardwood with a thick red and gold carpet in the centre. In the centre of this round carpet was a white table with a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

I would see multiple doors leading from this room and there was a living room, a kitchen, and a glorious bathroom.

I started to run across the wide room to the furthest door; the bathroom. I could see a white tub with gold claw feet....

And then my foot fell through the floorboard. It fell in deep, and I looked down to see the floor was softened with water damage, and dark splinters of wood were deep in my flesh. I turned to look around the room and suddenly the furniture was sodden and worn, the table was covered by a dustcloth, and the chandelier was coated with cobwebs.

I turned sharply to look behind me, and there was a man standing there. Dark hair slicked over like a 50's gangster. He had a tiny pointed mustache.

I yelled, "IT WAS YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!"

I tore my foot out of the hole in the floor, stomped over to him (he smiled coyly this whole time). My fingers ran through my hair until I found the fracture in my skull, and my I plunged my fingers deep into the hole there, pulling out a dully gleaming piece of metal and held it in my forefingers to show him. It dripped with my blood.

Upon closer examination it was a piece of the man's dental work, and I could see the missing teeth it had once replaced. His coy smile wasn't really a smile after all, it was that the flesh of his cheek had been ripped from his face, exposing his white teeth. 

He stepped towards me, wrapped his arm around my waist, and everything was clean and crisp again. He was unblemished and handsome. He led me up one of the curved staircases to a bedroom that had obviously once belonged to a young lady.

He led me to the closet and showed me beautiful yet old fashioned clothes. Large skirts, light petticoats, fabulous hats with feathers. He told me the girl that these belonged to never had any money, but she always had someone looking after her to insure she never looked the part of a beggar.

He made me pick something out; it was a hunter green dress and he took me downstairs and out the back door. There was a lucious green lawn with white fountains and statues. We walked down a gravel path lined with white stones to the water's edge.He helped me onto a fancy boat and told me we're going to meet the president so I needed to look my best.

We then sped off across the perfectly flat lake, and when we neared a huge white boat. I looked down at my dress. 

It was completely in tatters, moth eaten and threadbare. The worst part was 

the white section that ran down the front was entirely soaked with blood. I screamed at him to stop but he was laughing manically and speeding up towards the much larger boat. I edged onto the side of the speedboat and jumped off, hitting the water like a concrete floor, knocking my breath away.

My dress (and multiple layers of fabric beneath) instantly soaked through, adding intense weight to my entire body, and the shredded fabric wrapped itself around my legs, binding them. I screamed silently and sunk deeper and deeper into the blue.