A (Sort of) Review of Eleanor and Park

Confession: I didn't love Eleanor & Park. I enjoyed it. I respected it. I appreciated the unfortunately unusual/refreshingly realistic diversity in race, class, and body image. But it didn't spark anything particular for me. I know that's a terrible thing to say, when every YA book out there is now selling itself "for fans of John Green and Rainbow Rowell", when every YA book blogger is falling over themselves to write a glowing review of it, when John Green himself gushes about it in the freaking New York Times. I wanted to love it, I swear. But I only liked it. And I think I finally figured out why.

For me, I think it comes down to reread-ability. Though this is something I do all the time, rereading the romantic parts of my favourite novels, I had never considered it as an actual measure of a book's quality. But I was talking to my friend the other day and it suddenly clicked. You see, I was lending her Fangirl, a Rainbow Rowell book that I actually did love, telling her over and over how much I loved the romance and the writing and how I just had to underline certain lines and reread certain parts again and again and again like a crazy person. And I realized that I've never done that with Eleanor & Park. I finished it, filed it away on my bookshelf, and only took it out so I could lend it to that same friend when she explicitly requested it because she had heard so much hype about it online. I barely thought about it after I finished the last page. Nothing drew me to it again, which is strange, since it's not like all the books I do chose to reread are of better--or even good--quality. Since I've come home for Christmas break, I've reread Simone Elkeles' Perfect Chemistry, Caridad Ferrer's Adios to My Old Life, and Lauren Morrill's Meant to Be, all of which are of lesser literary quality than Raibow Rowell's YA debut. Yet even now, as I pick up Eleanor & Park to make sure, one last time, that I do not want to reread this book, that it hasn't simply been my laziness or the plethora of other books I have to reread or the various distractions of life, it proves me right. Because once again, I begin flipping through, rereading sections and snippets, and nothing grabs me. Just like before. Nothing's changed. 

Sometimes, I can't stop myself from rereading certain scenes of books even before I've finished the freaking book. This happened with Leah Rae Miller's The Summer I Became a Nerd, a book which completely snuck up on me and completely stole my heart and has remained a monthly, if not weekly, reread since. Sometimes, it happens a few weeks or even months after I've finished the book, as was the case with Stephanie Perkins' Lola and the Boy Next Door. Immediately after finishing Lola, I wrote a review (back in the days when I used to regularly write reviews of books I read, if you can believer it!), definitively ruling it as a lesser follow up to Perkins' stellar debut companion novel, Anna and the French Kiss. Now though, as a lot freaking (tragically Isla-less) time has passed, I think I love Lola more than I love Anna. I have a few more issues with Lola's plotting and character development, but, I have to say it, the romantic moments are better. Or, at least, more reread-able. As fantastic as Anna and Etienne's moments are, Lola and Crickets somehow manage to be so insanely sweet--and hot--that I just have to reread them. I swear, that book contains the best collection of romantic moments I have ever come across. Or reread. 

In both these circumstances, rereading had a huge impact on my overall opinion of the book at hand. Just as the lack of rereading hugely influenced my (unpopular) opinion of Eleanor & Park. This is kind of fascinating to me, a habit I had never really tracked or analyzed before. Typically, you read a book, review it even, and then consider your conclusions on that book as final. People don't typically write book reviews months or years after they read books. I certainly never did. For me, if I didn't review a book within five days of finishing it, I knew I'd never review it. But maybe I should have. Lola and the Door would certainly have faired better. And I'm sure many other books would have as well. 

If Anyone Is Still Reading

It's November.

That means American elections and fundraisers for prostate cancer and national novel writing month.

For me, though, it mostly means it's been two months. Sixty days since the divorce. And it still hurts like hell.

These past two months I haven't been writing on this blog at all. I've barely been reading. I've quit almost every club I was in at school. I'm not living. I'm just surviving. And it sucks.

For those that are interested in the book stuff, in the last two months I've read The Boy Recession by Flynn Meany (not nearly as good as it could've been), My Life in Black and White by Natasha Friend (fine, but not great), Pizza, Love, and Other Stuff That Made Me Famous by Kathryn Williams (good. Sweet.), Decked with Holly by Marni Bates (surprisingly, really, really bad. Silly premise, bad execution, terrible ending), and 52 Reasons to Hate My Father by Jessica Brody (Fine. Better ending than I expected).

For those who are interested in my actual, you know, life, I don't know what to say. From the outside, I imagine it looks like I'm coping fairly well. I go to all my classes, do all the assignments and tests and projects. I'm cooking for myself and cleaning for myself now too. I have old friends and new friends this year. I'm still keeping up with my friends back home. Besides the clubs, everything's basically staying afloat. For now.

But inside, of course, everything's falling apart. In so many ways. One day I hate my mother, the next day my father. I get mad at myself for accidentally remembering my old house. I get mad at my friends for not understanding or not asking enough questions or making stupid comments.

And before anyone tells me to see a therapist or whatever, I'm already on it. It helps. Some. Though he has this odd fascination with my relationship with my mother. Seriously.

I feel like I should say something significant or insightful or substantial here, but I don't think I have anything. Yes, I'm struggling to rebuild my identity now that I've lost my family, my neighbourhood, and basically my city/hometown. Yes, I relive our last few days together over and over. Yes, yes, yes to all the bad questions. Yes, it still hurts. Every single day. Lots of crying. Lots of pain.

Mostly, I'm afraid. Afraid of the pain of the future. Afraid of our first Christmas apart. Afraid of going home in December. Afraid, most of all, that everyone and everything will move on, and I'll be stuck here, alone, still hurting and mourning, and everyone look at me like "it's been 1/2/10/15 years, get over it already".

This is a really down post. I'm not completely sure why I decided to write it tonight of all nights or why I wrote at all. I guess part of the reason is explanation. A message to say that I'm not gone forever. That I may be back. One day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next year. Whenever I've figured things out a little bit more. Whenever it hurts a little bit less.

Thanks for reading. If anyone is still reading.

The Most Completely Awesome Reason to Read

For a while now, I've been writing really downer posts (parents getting divorced and all that), so today I am delighted to bring you a positive, upbeat post about an awesome reading experience I had this week. Oh books, how I love you.

For the last week and a half I've been on vacation in Los Angeles, which has been totally awesome, for a number of reasons (Studio tours! Celebrity trivia! Visiting the Kodak Theatre!), one of the most awesomest of which was the Emily Giffin reading I went to last week. It was held at an amazing independent bookstore called Vroman's.

(I am somewhere win this picture! But even I can't see me, so I don't think you'll be able to!)

The first part of my awesome night occurred in their unbelievable teen section. Now, it isn't any bigger than average or anything, but, can you believe it, it actually has a good selection of teen books! Going through the shelves, I nearly screamed with all the incredible, impossible to find in Canada, books they had. Moreover, their YA inventory had clearly been selected by someone who understood the genre--not just what's popular, but what's good in YA. I so wish I had a bookstore like that near my house. Instead, all I have is lousy Indigo. Blech.

It was so cool going through the shelves and feeling like the person who had picked the books had the same love for them as I did. And, of course, it was so great to be able to pick up some titles I had been dying for:

Then, I went and sat down for the reading. There was a whole stage set up, and I expected Emily Giffin to enter from behind the curtain, but instead, she just walked up through the crowd, no big deal, acting like a normal person, with no superiority complex at all, which was great. I kind of expected her to seem like an untouchable celebrity, but she was actually a real person, which was refreshing. I don't know if this unusual--another draw back of living in Canada is a lack of author readings--but perhaps not, because when I told this story to various people they all looked at me like I was crazy for thinking an author could actually be a celebrity. Though, to them, I say, look at how nerd fighters treat John Green, and try to prove me wrong.

From there, Emily Giffin was great. Hilarious, smart, insightful, other awesome qualities like that. But to me, the most enjoyable part of the whole evening was when she referenced her other books--Something Borrowed, for example--in quick little ways. "I met a couple who were such a Rachel and Dex!" she said, and I couldn't help but smile at that. But that wasn't the coolest part. No, the most completely awesome part of the whole night was looking around me and seeing that the other seventy people in the room were smiling and nodding and laughing too. They too had loved her books. They understood the references just like I did. It was so amazing to me to look around at this room full of forty year old women--I was, by far, the youngest person there--and feel so instantly connected to all of them. I loved that feeling so much, and I wish I got to experience it more often.

She signed my books and I struggled to find something to say, finally muttering something about Baby Proof that she didn't even hear, and then I headed back home.

Going into the night, I had been kind of nervous. Celebrity-type people tend to do that to me. But I didn't need to be, not for one second. These were my people, who loved the books I loved. This was a world where I felt like I belonged, where I laughed and smiled and had a great time.

Over the past year, I've really focused on the ability that books have to bind people, to make us feel understood. That night, at that bookstore, it wasn't just the books that made me feel that way. It was the community of readers. I sincerely hope I get to experience such excitement again soon.

For now, though, I'm sure I'll return to my sad, tear filled posts which have a much smaller number of uses of the word "awesome". Sorry.

This Pain Is Not My Fault

In books about divorced parents, doctors and psychologists and other fancy, well informed, degree earning people often talk about how the kids often blame themselves for their parents divorce. 

Well, I don't blame myself. In fact, in this super awesome roller coaster ride known as The Year My Parents Divorced, I'm currently stuck in a loop of absolute frustration, asking the same question over and over again:

What did I do this deserve this?

Because I don't blame myself for my parents divorce. I believe they are two people with certain flaws that create a lot of friction--two people, who at some point, may have belonged together, but have not gotten along for a long time now. I believe that whatever is happening between them is because of them--their flaws, their judgments, their decisions, both right and wrong--and not me. I am not the one who didn't do the dishes or who acted unappreciative or who went a step too far too many times. I'm sure they'd both like to tell you that this situation is not their fault. But all I am sure of is that this year, this pain, is most definitely not my fault. 

That idea really frustrates me. If I didn't do anything wrong, if I had absolutely no choice in this matter, why am I being forced to sacrifice and feel hurt again and again and again? I have no answer. Ultimately, all I can think about is how completely unfair this all feels. 

From thought, I've only spiralled into a thousand thoughts of how my life sucks, how things that I've accepted about myself and my life for so long are actually really unfortunate. Like the fact that I have never had parents who loved each other. Ever. Not really. "Why!" I want to scream. Why does my life have to suck like that? And why, oh why, do I have to go through all this alone? And why does everyone else get to have siblings and I don't? I would give anything to have someone like that right now, someone to go through this whole mess with, someone who loves both my parents the way I do. Because, from now on, I am, officially, legally, fully, the only person who loves them both in the whole wide world. And that feels very lonely. 

I don't know if this is just me--I suspect it's not--but I've always gone through life assuming that things were generally, ultimately, fair. Not always, of course--cancer isn't fair, poverty isn't fair, a million things aren't fair--but divorce isn't a chance thing like that. It is the direct result of decisions made by people. People who aren't me. Which, in my view, isn't fair. I can't help but feeling life isn't being fair to me right now. 

I want to say that I'm not writing this post to whine. There would be not point in that. And, obviously, as lives go, my is probably not more than a little unfair. I was born into a life filled with loving, fairly well off parents, in one of the best countries to live in in the entire world. I am healthy, smart, what have you. I know that. But I wanted to write this post without that element of perspective. I wanted to document my exact feeling at this exact moment, two weeks before the big split, to document how it felt being sad, scared, and frustrated, in the eye of a tornado that is currently ripping through my life. To me, right now, there isn't much of a thing called perspective. All I can see is the wind whipping around me at a million miles an hour, stirring up pain and creating nothing but debris. I wanted to document the fact that right now, I feel like a piece of wood, sucked up by the wind, waiting to be flung off in an uncertain future. 

I wanted to prove that this frustration I'm feeling is very real and very valid to me right now, no matter what a grander perspective might suggest. As Augustus Waters says:

This pain, in this moment, is real. And I guess I'm going to just have to feel it and question it and experience it. This is my life right now. 

Move Over, Bad Boys

Recently, I've fallen in love with a new kind of leading man. He's so far from perfect. When you first meet him, he seems awful, fatally flawed, morally reprehensible. He is repellent, unattractive, and abhorrent. And then you realize, he's only human. And you can't help but love him for that.

These leading men aren't bad boys, like these guys:

They aren't an image or a stereotype. Instead, they're more of a surprise. When you first meet them, you judge them, quickly disapproving. But then they do something so sweet or they seem so vulnerable, that you're forced to reevaluate them. Bad boys are trying to the wrong thing, while trying to break all the right rules. These new guys are just trying to do what feels right or seems right to them in that moment, even when they have no idea what that is. They panic, they screw up left and right. But it isn't intentional. It's a flaw, a flaw that contributes to a fully realized, real, human character that you relate to, that you root, a character that you eventually learn to love with all your heart. 

The first one I met was Adam on Girls, portrayed by the actor Adam Driver. 

In the first few episodes of Girls, I thought Adam was so gross. His sex scenes with Hannah (Lena Dunham) were horrible. Us viewers had to watch Adam demean Hannah over and over, use her, and abuse her feelings time and time again. After his first scene, I'd written him off as the decoy boyfriend. He was lecherous, so creepy, and so disgusting; there was simply no way Hannah could ever stay with such a horrible person. I thought Adam was there to develop Hannah's character, to show us how she learned to stand up for herself, and learned to respect herself enough to end such a damaging relationship. 

But I was wrong. Adam Sackler was no decoy boyfriend. No, he was here to stay, flaws and all. Slowly, as the episodes went on, and I got to see more and more sides of Adam, I realized that he wasn't this one-dimensional point on Hannah's journey; no Adam was a real person and a permanent character that I had to learn to accept, flaws and all. 

I'm not one to change my opinion quickly. In fact, for a while, I felt almost tricked by the show. I wanted to hate this guy, but now they'd made me like him! It was wrong! 

No it wasn't wrong. It was good storytelling. It was excellent character development. And the reason it felt so wrong was because it was so foreign to me to see such an imperfect person play such a desirable, romantic role. I was used to the perfect guys. I didn't know what to make of a guy with flaws. 

Adam sat in the back of my brain for a long time after the season ended, only to return to my consciousness recently when I was watching the MTV show Awkward. That was where I met my second imperfect man (or, in this case, teenaged boy): Matty McKibben (Beau Mirchoff). 

Early in the series, we learn that Matty is ashamed of his relationship with our main character, Jenna Hamilton (Ashley Rickards). The pair is constantly hooking up in private, but never act like a couple in public. Matty makes Jenna into a shameful secret, and, as a viewer, you have to hate him for that. 

So, just like I did with Adam, I wrote Matty off as a decoy boyfriend. Just like I expected Adam to be a "character moment" for Hannah, I thought Matty would become a "growing point" for Jenna. But then, slowly, I started to see the charms of Matty McKibben. I started to understand how sweet he was to Jenna in private, and, more importantly, how confused he was about his a possible relationship with her in public. I learned that Matty really liked Jenna, he just didn't know how to express it exactly. I learned that Matty McKibben was a real, confused, teenage boy who had some serious growing up to do. 

After a season a piece, I feel in love with Adam Sackler and Matty McKibben. And I realized that my love for their characters was greater than my love for your bad boy Chuck Basses or your perfect Pacey Whitters. With characters like Chuck or Pacey, I could tell you, vaguely, that they had flaws. With characters with Adam and Matty, I know what those flaws are, and I've learned to love them. I've learned to love all of who they are, not just their images or their perfections. Most of all, I've gotten to experience the joy of a well developed character arc, with real mistakes, and fulfilling moments of redemption. According to Joseph Campbell, a hero isn't a hero without some sort of great journey and great moment of redemption. Adam and Matty have taught me that this shouldn't only apply to our heroes and heroines, but also our leading men. Every character deserves to be more than a name or an image. They deserve flaws; they deserve real, meaningful, clearly defined character growth. They deserve to be human, just like every one of us watching and admiring them. Just like us viewers deserve to find more relatable leading men just like them. 

With that, I salute you, Adam Sackler and Matty McKibben, and I hope I get to know (and love) many more (fictional. Or possibly real.) men like you. 

Are Academics Worth It?

That was the question Sarah Strohmeyer asked in her new novel Smart Girls Get What They Want. I lightly touched on the question in my review, but, as a life-long "smart girl", I thought it might be interesting to explore the answer further.

I mean, of course I want the answer to be yes. I don't want to think that missed out on anything or wasted any opportunities. No one wants to think that, right? Which is why I have my list of reasons why my academic experience was great.

First off, the fact that feel that made the most of my education. I tried as hard as I could in every class. I genuinely wanted to learn, and I made sure to learn everything I could. I memorized every list, but I also learned every lesson. As a result, I feel fairly good about my knowledge and skills in every subject from English to math to biology. I like feeling intelligent and informed. I feel like I learned not only how to succeed and get good marks, but also how to overcome challenges and keep trying even when you think you will never improve.

Moreover, I love the feeling academics gives me. I love the feeling of good test mark. I wake up in the morning remembering the unexpectedly high essay mark I received the day before. And, for me, it is not just a hobby or a passion. It is an identity. It is the thing I'm good at. Some people are outgoing and know how to say the right things and impress the right people. Some people are good at sports or drama or some fancy musical instrument. I am good at school. I am the IB kid, the perpetual Honour Roll student, the "smart girl". That who I've been for so long. I don't know what I'd be if you took that away from. I suppose you could view that as a negative. But I'm just so happy that, through academics, I found so many positives. Academics allow me to feel smart and confident and happy. To me, that is not a negative.

Furthermore, academics provided me with a community. In Strohmeyer's novel, the main characters fear that they will have blank yearbooks. Mine was full, every year. Of course, that was large bit of luck on my part. I ended up with the same twenty kids in every class, every year. While that certainly had its drawbacks (which could fill a series of blog posts) it also had so many benefits. I knew those kids and they knew me. I filled their yearbooks and they filled mine. I still see them all the time. And I only became one of them because of academics. Perhaps it was pure luck, how it worked out; all I know, is that I am tremendously thankful for that academic community.

Those are all great things. But they all came at a very, very high cost. The most obvious is time. Like I said before, every minute you spend studying is a minute you're not having fun. That is sacrifice, and it sucks. To be a strong academic student, you have to put in so much time and effort. You lose friends, you lose sleep, you slowly lose your mind.

But you also lose a million things you never ever had. You lose opportunities for new experiences. Here's one: your first job. When I was in high school I was in such a tough academic program that I would've never been able to juggle my coursework with a job. As a result, I am already behind in the job market. While most people my age have years of part time work on their resumes, I only have Honour Roll Certificates. Which makes it really, really hard to get a job now.

But that's not the biggest thing you're giving up. No, the biggest sacrifice I made as an academic student was my social life. Unlike Strohmeyer's Gigi, I didn't have amazing best friends in high school. I had a few friends, even good friends, but not like Neerja and Bea. I certainly didn't have a Mike. Nor did any of my friends. No one dated in my high school class. As a result, we are all now in university, excelling in our classes, but feeling extraordinarily out of place in our social groups. Everyone else has ex-boyfriends and "experience" (whatever that means). Most of us have never gone on a date or kissed a boy or had a boyfriend. We are physically nineteen, but our experience levels with dating are lower than an average fourteen-year-olds. That makes us feel embarrassed and ashamed; I tell you, it near destroys our self esteem.

We often say that we aren't "real" teenagers. We never went to the high school parties or had the high school boy drama. We feel like we're living our social lives four years behind everyone else. That there, that's a big reason academics are not worth it. At least not for us.

So, are academics worth it? I think I'll allow myself to go with the easy, regret-free answer: yes. But don't press me on it and ask if I would "do the same all over again". Because I don't think there's an easy answer to that question. I've done well on all the tests and essays, acing every question. But that's one I think I'll leave blank.

Book Review: Smart Girls Get What They Want

Summary: Gigi, Bea, and Neerja have always been best friends--and book nerds. They've always studied the hardest and achieved the most. But, suddenly, they find themselves asking: at what cost?

Review:

I did not connect with this book.

In high school, I was a complete nerd. An A-plus student always; honour roll regular and scholar extraordinaire. And still, I did not connect with this book.

And I don't know why.

On its surface, I think Strohmeyer poses some interesting questions, ones I have often asked myself over the years: Are academics really worth it? What do you really get out of it? And what do you miss out on because of it? And, on the surface, I love that Strohmeyer is celebrating smart girls so much. It's a positive message, one which popular culture so rarely champions; it's music to my ears.

I was Gigi in high school. Just without the best friends. I studied like mad day and night. I prepared for every question on every test, in every subject. I fit my life around my academics, instead of my academics around my life. I rose and fell with every test mark, every essay critique. And, as I look back on high school, I often ask myself: was it all worth it? In her basic premise, I think Strohmeyer understands that worry. In her execution, however, I did not feel understood at all.

Sometimes, when I read books I feel like the author is able to read my mind, like they're somehow able to know me in ways no one ever has. I love that feeling; to me, that is the magic of reading. While reading this novel, I expected that connection. I yearned for it. This was a situation so close to my own experience; the connections should have sparked on every page. Instead, to me, the words failed to ignite. Instead of elation, I felt frustration, over and over and over again.

It didn't feel like Strohmeyer had been a nerd; it felt like she had studied nerds. She got a handful of moments right--Gigi's obsession with Bones, the late nights working on papers, the utterly amazing moment in the bookstore with Mike, when Gigi describes her love of romance novels. And the friendship between Gigi and Bea and Neerja, while not very similar to my experiences at all, was certainly sweet and genuine. I loved how Gigi considered her friends feelings and sacrificed for them. That felt real and just so right.

But Strohmeyer also got so many moments wrong. Some parts felt simply tone deaf to me. Gigi's fear of presentations was rather absurd, in my opinion. I am super shy and awkward and terrible at giving presentations. Or, at least, I used to be. But then I had to do them so often, I just didn't care anymore. Seriously, in grade nine French class I had a teacher who made me do a presentation every single week in a language I didn't understand at all. Teachers do not care if you are bad at public speaking. They make you do it in every single subject. I gave weekly speeches in English and French. I did skits in biology. I even had presentations in math and gym classes. No one would spare me, no matter how much I hated it each and every time. Which is why I did not buy Gigi's explanation that teachers did not make her do presentations anymore, because they knew the result. No, for Gigi to get as good marks as she did, she would have had to do what I did, time and time again: put the mark before the fear. She would have had to invent a version of herself that could get up and speak in public. If she wanted the 90%, that's what it would have taken. I know--I've been there.

Beyond that, there were lots of smaller things that felt off to me. The fact that, as they became increasingly involved in extra curricular activities--not to mention romantic activities--there was no mention of how their grades were affected. Which is wrong. Every moment they spent having fun or whatever was a moment they didn't spend studying. If they were giving up their lives for academics, they should've had to give up some of their academic achievements for their new lives. It's a basic equation; it's the only thing that makes sense. Furthermore, I was quite bothered by the idea that smart kids had to be well versed in high culture. There were numerous times throughout the novel that a character would be considered dumb and then--Oh My God!--it was discovered that they read Anna Karenina, so they were actually smart. Now, I know a lot of nerdy, academic kids. And most of them watch shows like Gossip Girl and read so-called "lighter" books. Seriously, when you spend all your time analyzing poetry and understanding complicated math formulas and learning about European history, you just want to relax at the end of the day. You do not want to read insanely complicated Russian novels. On a literal level, that did not make sense to me. On a philosophical level, it just annoyed me. I hate culture snobs. I hate that this book validated them so much.

I'm ranting and ranting about minute details, I know. I apologize. This is just a very hard book for me to judge. Because I so very much wanted to like it. I wanted to connect with it. But try as I might, I just couldn't. So, ranting and roaring over, I guess I'll just say that this book didn't really work for me, but that, in no way, should stop it from working for you. At its core, Smart Girls Get What They Want is a semi-unique book with a very positive message. Perhaps you will be able to connect with it better than I did. Perhaps it is just too close to my experiences for me to judge. What do you think, readers: have you ever felt disconnected from a book because it was too close to your life?