Congratulations on finishing the kitchen. The backsplash looks great and definitely more your style than what was there before.
I woke up this morning with a headache, which is unusual for me. I’ve thought of all kinds of reasons for it: maybe it’s because I just started using Splenda in my coffee again; maybe it’s the new cleaning products I used yesterday; maybe it’s the dust that got kicked up by those cleaning products.
Maybe it’s the painting I did yesterday. I put a couple patches of color on the walls in the office, and so far so good – although it’s not as red as I’d always imagined. But we’ll see; that’s still in process.
Maybe it’s too much caffeine. Or too little. Or … well, it could be anything, really, or nothing.
To be honest, I suspect it’s the result of a stressful dream life last night. Have you ever read a book or seen a movie, and you knew, the further you went in, that it wasn’t a good idea? Maybe it’s the kind of thing to give you nightmares, but often it’s just that it puts images and thoughts in your head that you really don’t want there. They might not really be nightmarish, but they’re unpleasant in some way – crude, tiresome, stale. This is what has happened with the latest book I’ve been reading. So no more of that one for me, although I might still skip to the end to find out who the bad guy is.
I’m kind of conflicted about this problem. The literary scholar in me is embarrassed to even consider not finishing a book simply because it offends what most people would deem ridiculous sensitivities. That part of my brain, the Critic, says that this book is solidly written, clearly evocative, and obviously popular, and that an aspiring writer should have an awareness of what sells in the current market. That discomfort is no reason to abandon a book.
The other part of my brain, the … I was going to say Feeler because it’s about how I feel, but that’s too condescending. To be honest, I think this is probably the Holy Spirit, pointing out to me that I don’t need to be filling up my head with nonsense like this, regardless of how popular it is. Regardless of how much my Critic might enjoy it (not a problem with this particular book, but a problem I had in trying to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer).
So what’s making me conflicted is that I imagine the range of things I’m pretty sure I’ll fully enjoy is shrinking considerably. And I’m really worried about becoming provincial and parochial, dismissing things because they’re outside my comfort zone; that’s something I’ve always fought against in myself and others. But at the same time, I can’t sleep after some of these things, and I enjoy my sleep and my peace of mind.
To be fair, we’re not talking great literature here. Maybe the calculus would be different if this book was Joyce or Wharton or Henry – authors who aren’t easy and in some ways are outside my comfort zone, but who are offering something besides escapism. This book is just a bit of genre fiction I picked up for pleasure.
Wasn’t expecting to have a philosophical crisis over it.