by dawn ~ June 20, 2009
I was driving to the the Fourth Street Fantasy Convention this afternoon and, again, because the Twin Cities are so full of life, I saw things that I wanted to capture in words (since driving and photographing, especially with my big tank, would be dangerous). I’ll share a few things, then I expand with my own expository on some of the issues.
- Since I’m staying in Como Park, I’m right off of Lexington. Lexington was backed up almost to Larpenteur with people going to the park. Bikers, walkers, sunbathers, and zoo-goers were flocking to the absolutely gorgeous Como Park. This is one of the most beautiful parks I’ve ever seen. It has gorgeous buildings, rolling green hills covered by multitudes of trees and other vegetation, and captivating bridges. I’m often transported to a different time when I pass through this park.
- After passing through the park, going toward I-94, I passed through a different neighborhood. It’s doesn’t have the finely manicured lawn and gardens with impeccably maintained homes of the more northern Como Park adjacent neighborhoods. The lawns are longer, flowers are leggy, and homes may need a good painting. But this neighborhood makes me think more of childhood memories (although I never lived in a neighborhood like this — ever). I can imagine children riding bikes down the sidewalks, kick-the-can happening in the streets, and the local dog following the child with the dripping ice cream cone, hoping to get a taste.
- For only the second time in my life, I passed through the I-94 tunnel. I love tunnels. I was so excited to pass through it, and since traffic was backed up due to road work, I was able to enjoy it even longer.
- Every time the Basilica comes up on the horizon, I gasp. It is so stunning and large and jumps up out of nowhere. Along those same lines, I feel the same way about the Mississippi River. Today, surrounded by lush green vegetation, I could imagine Huck Finn cruising down it.
Now. I have some other thing to say:
- Are those teenaged girls absolutely insane? Do they not know that lying in the sun can lead to skin cancer? ARGH. I wanted to go be an old lady and admonish them.
- Drivers in the Twin Cities are as passive-aggressive as they are when speaking to them. Speed up, slow down, speed up, slow down. Put on your damn cruise control and go a steady speed!
- The further east I went, I noticed how white the and more expensive the cars got. Suddenly I was surrounded by BMWs, Saabs, Mercedesssss, and gone were the Hondas, Nissans, and Chevy vans (seriously). It’s a bit disconcerting, to say the least.
Ok. I’m done being a cranky old woman. I’m gonna hang out at the con now, and learn more about expository, sex, and all kinds of other things.
by dawn ~ May 30, 2009
I took a break from writing to go to lunch with some friends. It’s a windy day, but the sun is shining and it’s lovely. As I drove to and from lunch, I saw people doing things that made me smile — there are those quintessential human things that do that, you know? So a few snaps from my drive across the cities:
- Lunch at Loring Pasta in Dinkytown. Piano man used the acoustics to his advantage and filled the joint with glorious music.
- Piano man invites anyone in town for the conservatory show to play his piano. A young woman takes her place on the platform and plays a Beethoven that would knock your socks off (if you were wearing socks in summer — which is kind of dorky looking, especially if you wear sandals — I’m just sayin’). She was shy at first, but once she got into her groove, she took over the piano.
- Walking back toward the East Bank campus, an older man on a tricked-out bike pulls up to the light we’re waiting at. The back tire on the bike is the fattest I’ve ever seen, and he has a boom box strapped to the handle bars. Better than that, though, is that he’s wearing a tux and a top hat. Very dapper.
- While driving home, I see a semi-truck driver pull over at a Dairy Queen, jump out, take photos of the Dairy Queen sign, and jump back in his truck and drive off. He maneuvered quite well and quickly for such a large rig. But I really wonder — what were photographs were about?
Everywhere people are out: walking, gardening, sitting at cafes with friends. Beautiful flower gardens leading up to lovely shaded Victorians were tended by people of all ages. Parks and lakes were crowded with people enjoying the Saturday sun.
And even though it stuffs me up, watching the puffs from the cottonwood trees float by as if pushed by fairies is a joy.
Yeah. This place ain’t so bad.
by dawn ~ May 29, 2009
Sound Unseen screened rip! a remix manifesto, a film by Brett Gaylor, last night in a small, intimate theater recently established (this was the premiere showing) in Minneapolis, filled almost to capacity.
View the film at http://www.ripremix.com/. Pay what you think it is worth (and it is worth the money, I promise), then can rip it, do a mashup, or simply watch it. Just don’t sell it.
Figuring prominently in the film are Lawrence Lessig (@lessig on Twitter), Professor of Law at Stanford Law School, Cory Doctorow (@doctorow on Twitter), science fiction novelist and blogger, and GirlTalk (aka Gregg Gillis), mashup artist, who not only give us information about remixing and mashups, but give us background and historical references to copyright laws. Each of them also shows how complex this subject is, from Lessig commenting on the illegality of segments of the video, to Doctorow discussing the Dickens / Twain copyright issues of the 19th century, to GirlTalk’s previous career in a field steeped in intellectual property issues (biomedical engineering).
The movie is informative and entertaining. The music is amazing, the sound bites are funny, and Gaylor discusses the reasons behind his advocacy of a remix manifesto. What he doesn’t do is discuss in depth the middle of the road between complete copyright control and no copyright control and what the differences are. There is a sense of US versus THEM to this film, but in the end the lines of US and THEM are definitely blurred.
At the end of the screening, the audience was given the chance to talk to the filmmaker over Skype. The conversation was lively and interesting.
In other news in the copyright fight, BoingBoing reported today the USA, Canada, and the EU attempted to kill a treaty to protect blind people’s access to written material. Doctorow writes
At issue is a treaty to protect the rights of blind people and people with other disabilities that affect reading (people with dyslexia, people who are paralyzed or lack arms or hands for turning pages), introduced by Brazil, Ecuador and Paraguay. This should be a slam dunk: who wouldn’t want a harmonized system of copyright exceptions that ensure that it’s possible for disabled people to get access to the written word?
Doctorow amends the piece and says there is victory (for now):
Victory! — the treaty proposal survived this meeting and will be back on the agenda at the next one. We’ve got a couple months to lobby our governments and make sure that the next time they show up, they don’t embarrass us by opposing this.
See the the final conclusions of the SCCR Eighteenth Session at Knowledge Ecology Notes.
And finally, the Chronicle of Higher Education, news was posted about different copyright law curricula being offered in higher education. The author, Marc Beja, discusses the Recording Industry Association of America’s (RIAA) curriculum for teaching copyright law, and the response of the Electronic Frontier Foundation in releasing their own curriculum. He writes,
The foundation’s program, “Teaching Copyright,” includes a Web site and five 60-minute lessons that the foundation hopes will give students what it calls “the real story” about their rights when it comes to downloading movies, music, and other media from the Internet.
Interesting that Brazil figures predominantly in both the rip/remix issues and the copyright issues. While Lessig was in Brazil talking about Creative Commons, he said
I come from the land where we talk about being free. I come from a land where we are lost. You are our brother in this debate, and you must remind us of what we have lost.
Brazil, again, has reminded us. Now it is up to us to listen.
by dawn ~ May 14, 2009
The link circulating amongst many authors on Twitter these days is a blog post by Neil Gaiman in which he addresses a fan’s concerns over authors producing works on their fans’ schedules. In fact, John Scalzi addressed the very same concern in his blog a few months ago.
I’m not an author. I don’t pretend to be (unless you count those behemoths that I have to write in academia — which most people don’t). But I am a literary fan. Books have been my salvation, my joy, my escape, and my home since I was a young girl (I was that kid who sat at the breakfast table, and if I didn’t have a book in front of me, I read the cereal box over and over and over until I could practically recite it.).
The point is, I see books as a gift. Do I get excited to read an ongoing series if it’s done well? Hell yes. Do I expect it? No. It’s not really about me, is it? It’s about the validity of the books, their characters and stories, and if an author has it in himself or herself to continue with that particular theme. Do I wish that some books did have sequels? Sometimes. But I also think there is a deliciousness in not knowing, in allowing my own imagination to lead the character somewhere. I read books for a good story (and no, I’m not counting those books that I read for my degree), interesting (not necessarily likeable) characters, and the ability to let my imagination roam.
It’s a symbiotic relationship for me. The authors do all of the hard work, I get to enjoy it and take the story from there.
–
Willow, my amazing niece, likes books. Lately, she has taken to reading Edgar Allen Poe – did we mess her up somehow? I think she’s turning out to be odd just like her father and I are. Heh.
Anyway, I like to send her books. She likes it if I read them before I send them, so I usually do. The two most recent books I sent her (well, I sent her three — including Blueberry Girl (a delightful book) — but I’m only looking at two here) were John Scalzi’s Zoe’s Tale and Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book.
Zoe’s Tale
I’ll admit, I haven’t read other books in the Old Man’s War series, but have been reading Scalzi’s blog for quite some time. One of the reasons I picked up this book was because Scalzi said it could be read as a stand-alone, and because it has a teenaged girl as the protagonist. Since it is up for a Hugo (and I need to read those anyway), and it is geared toward young adults (remember, Willow is a precocious 10), I thought it might be a good read for her.
I liked it. It wasn’t a difficult read, but it was interesting and engaging. From what I understand, it tells the tale of The Last Colony from a different perspective, but you don’t get the sense that it is connected elsewhere while reading the book. Some of the dialogue seemed a bit simple given that these characters in their late teens, but overall it wasn’t distracting. The only point that did distract me is that Zoe’s boyfriend, Enzo, who is a rockstar poet from his planet, can write sestinas in an hour. I kept thinking, well, he’s a teenager, they probably aren’t that good — but he was invited on this adventure because of his poetry. A sestina in an hour? C’mon.
I do think Willow will like it, and it will be her first foray into more scifi type of writing.
The Graveyard Book
After having read Coraline (which I had gotten her for her birthday), seeing the movie, and then telling me how good Neil Gaiman is (smart girl), I thought she’d enjoy The Graveyard Book.
I kind of cheated on this one. Well, not really, but kind of. I read it — but I read it along with Gaiman. It was fun to hear the voices in his voice, but to read it with him. I stopped when each video stopped, making the book last the entire video series (which, honestly, was not easy at all). As in so many of his books, the graphics are absolutely delightful, gorgeous, and enhance the tale.
I fell in love with Bod. How can you not? He’s a sweet boy. He does his absolute best in trying to be a good boy — but still a boy nevertheless. He has to get into trouble.
The language is delightful. I could picture every scene in the book in full rich detail in my head.
It left me wanting more of Bod.
But even if I don’t get more, he will live on in the discussions Willow and I have about the book after she reads it. And, after all, that is the delight of reading.
by dawn ~ May 10, 2009
After I wrote my post on faeries, a friend sent me a link to the comic strip PartiallyClips. In this particular strip, the characters are talking about magic, and how magic would be a useless discipline, like humanities or communications–although I argue that communications is in the “humanities.” Later in the week, PhD posted a strip about budget cuts and how the first to go were the humanities characters. I started thinking about two things: first, the idea of magic within the humanities, and secondly, the idea that humanities are an expendable discipline because no one quite understands them.
Magic scares people. It isn’t easy to explain, and it is often wielded by those on the outer edges of society. In much the same way, the humanities scare people. The humanities are about people. We extract information about people, analyze it, and reproduce it in different forms. This is scary for some. It is disruptive and worrisome. But it’s also the way humans are.
It is said that Socrates claimed that “the unexamined life is not worth living” (I say this speculatively, because there is some question about Socrates’ actual existence). We have been examining ourselves since the beginning of time. Is this why it is so ridiculed and feared? Have those in the hard sciences decided that we know everything there is to know about ourselves, whether it is philosophical, artistic, or linguistic? Is it possible to know everything? And if we look at it from a hard science perspective, understanding that we are still trying to understand the full capacity of our brains, isn’t the argument furthered that there is always something to learn about the human condition?
If there was a magic discipline, it probably would be the humanities. The humanities bring us the literature, art, dance, music, thoughts, and so much more that allow us to dream about the impossible. Do you think we could have gone to the moon if we hadn’t ever dreamed about what existed up there first? Would we have cared?
Maybe I’m biased — ok, I am. I love working in a field that looks at how humans use language, how it develops identity, and how all of it changes dramatically over time. I love understanding how images and text work in conjunction to create something more powerful than if the two stood on their own. I love it. It is magic. And it’s also science. And it’s also human.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
by dawn ~ May 6, 2009
For the last month, I’ve been pretty much bed-bound. I’ve been very sick, venturing out only to teach, then heading right back home to bed to sleep. It hasn’t been a whole lot of fun.
In all of that downtime, I spent a lot of it online to amuse myself (as if I don’t spend a lot of time online anyway! Hah!). I followed link after link, learning about new people, following their blogs, their twitters, their other social networks. And then, out of the blue, it happened. I mean this kind of thing NEVER happens to me. It just doesn’t. I don’t get starry-eyed over many men, let alone those with some celebrity. But it happened.
I got a crush. On someone TOTALLY out of my league. I mean, we will never meet. Ever. Well, maybe someday, but you know what I mean. We move in completely different circles.
I was telling someone about this embarrassing, secret (not-so-secret anymore, is it?) crush. He said he could see why I developed this crush. The man is obviously intelligent, seems well-read, seems to be comfortable in his skin, can articulate himself in the written word (my favorite type), and is interesting. Then he said to me (as he stood in his office on campus (UMN campus, East Bank, if you must know) looking out a window), but you are surrounded by intelligent, well-read, articulate men. You’re in the perfect place for it! You’re going to school at a top university, pursuing a PhD in a field that is full of well-written men. Maybe you should look closer to home, he says.
Uhhh…what? That would require me actually TALKING to someone. And as anyone who knows me knows, I’m not the most outgoing person. I’m pretty introverted. Talk to a man — who may be potential partner material? Eek! I mean really. I can talk to male colleagues, professors, students, etc. But…seriously. I don’t talk to THOSE men.
The days wore on. I read more about my secret crush (and to those of you who know who I’m talking about, please don’t say his name on this blog — it would lead to my certain humiliation, and I don’t need that right now). I read more and more. I followed more links. And I still liked him — for his expertise in his field. But I realized that it would be an unrequited crush, and not worth spending too much time thinking about.
Plus, you know, it would be hard to compare any mere mortal to him. He is, after all, a celebrity.
by dawn ~ May 3, 2009
I have been thinking about storytelling quite a bit lately. I’ve been thinking about the importance of storytelling, of sharing information via tales and stories. I’ve been thinking about the modes of storytelling, too.
When Willow was four, we took a vacation to southern California together. As we drove across the hot, barren Mojave desert, she sat in her child seat in the back of the car and told me stories about the companions we had on our trip.
“Can you see them, Aunt Dawn?” she would ask. She would point to the distant mountains. “See? They are right there, keeping up with us. Running along the mountains to go to California with us.”
I know she saw them. And in some ways, I began to see them, too. I can still remember them. Horses and children running parallel to the car in the setting sun of the mountains of the desert
In this day and age, there are a million ways to tell a story. We are not limited to moments where an entire clan is situated around a fire, a dinner table, or any other gathering place. We read books, we pass things along to one another verbally, we write in blogs, on Twitter, on Facebook, and we make audio and video stories. I have experience in all of these, and I think if you took all of my stories and put them together, it might be an interesting tale. But I’m curious, would it be one full of delight and wonder, or would it be one full of the same thing that all autobiographies are full of — I’ve had to struggle to make it, I overcame huge obstacles, and I’m now successful at X, Y, and/or Z? I have a feeling, unfortunately, it would be the latter. That saddens me.
When I lived on my few acres in Arizona, Willow would spend a lot of time with me at my house. We were surrounded by others who had horses, llamas, dogs, cats, turkeys, chickens, goats, and many other animals. I had one dog. And while she loved him, it wasn’t quite the same as having a “cool” animal. So she gave me some cool animals.
All of a sudden I had horses. She told me that they were really hers, but that they wanted to stay at my house so I didn’t get lonely. She said they were great friends and they liked to run together. She asked me to feed them and make sure they were ok. She said if they weren’t together, they, too, would get lonely like the horse down the street who chased after cars along his fenced area.
I saw her horses. I encouraged her to share this story with me often. It’s good to dream.
I have always delighted in being an adult who sees the world through rose-colored glasses. Who can believe in things that defy our scientific knowledge. But when I write, that doesn’t come out. I write in a very dry and humorless way, I think. Maybe that is from years and years of academic writing. Maybe it’s from writing and editing in technical and professional areas.
Willow and I went to many movies together. It was rare if we didn’t come out and imagine living within the space of that movie. My favorite, though, was “The Spiderwyck Chronicles.” We had read all of the books before going to the movie.
After that movie, she kept asking me if I saw faeries. She told me that they were real, and that if I was a true believer, I could see them, too. I told her that I was sure I did, but it was when the sun was setting in the grasses and they sparkled in that golden light.
She said I only half believed. If I really believed, I’d see them all of the time.
Maybe I do, and I didn’t realize it until that moment.
But that’s boring! Really. Sure, I can make a set of instructions that will wow you, and make it easy for you to program your VCR / DVD player / computer / rice cooker / or any other thing you want to program. I can do that. It’s easy for me. I’m good at it. But is it fun?
“My friend and I are witches,” she said to me.
“Witches?” I asked. She nodded. This was not long after we had been to see book 4 of the Harry Potter series, and she was in the middle of reading them with her family.
“We can cast spells, but they are only good spells. We can make you a witch, if you’d like. Do you want to be a witch?”
“More than you know.”
I’m thinking about this because I recently had student tell me that maybe I should be a creative writing and/or digital media instructor instead of a technical and professional writing instructor. I think this is because I emphasize creativity. Don’t give in to the boring, I suggest. Try creating your resume on a website, a video, a wiki, or anything else you can come up with. Correspondence? Oh, yes…what do you have in mind? Using Twitter or IM’ing? Texting, maybe? It doesn’t have to be digital. Use your imagination.
We turn on Van Morrison and The Chieftains. Willow and Justice have spent the night and we’ve just finished breakfast.
“Let’s put on a show!” she exclaims.
I smile. I remember when I did that with my siblings and cousins. The adults would politely sit while we play-acted or did ice skating shows for them.
“What would you like to do?”
“We’re dancing an Irish jig!” she yells. She starts kicking up her heels. Justice joins in. I join in. We’re dancing so hard and fast that we’re all gasping for breath. But we’re smiling the whole time. Perma-smiles that make our cheeks hurt.
We’d collapse in a heap, hear a new song, and jump back up, giggling wildly.
I am 41. They are 4 and 9. But that didn’t matter. We were having the times of our lives.
It’s not that easy, I’ve found. Somewhere in between childhood and college, students lose the belief that their creativity is important. I want them to believe. I want them to know that that side of them is important, too. That creativity will go a long way in a job.
I hope, for their sake, and for ours, that they can see where the faeries play. And to cherish that sight.
by dawn ~ May 1, 2009
I can’t believe I haven’t ever written this post. You know, the post about the music of our lives, those pieces of music that have defined us and led us to the places we are now. Do you have those?
Music has defined my life. I still get excited to get new music, to share it with others, to dance around my living room to the beats and rhythms of music I love.
Memories are like dreams now, hazy and starting to fade. But the connections to music are what keep them alive, keep me grounded in who I am and where I’ve been. I could list at least a hundred songs or groups in a minute to signify different times in my life, but there are certain moments and artists that are especially poignant for me.
When I was in high school in Las Vegas, I was on the speech and debate team. We were a fairly successful team and traveled quite a bit. I remember being at UCLA for a tournament. I had just completed my oratory (but don’t ask me what topic — I have no idea). I was getting ready for my extemporaneous competition. I remember the green grasses, the marble columns on the buildings, and I remember ivy. It was so green. And what music makes me remember? Prefab Sprout. That’s what I was listening to that day on my portable tape player. Prefab Sprout. (Which, as an aside, instigated my purchase of a Prefab Sprout CD in Tempe a few years ago when visiting Zia’s with my brother and his family.)
During my 20s, I was going through a particularly violent part of my life. I started moving around quite a bit, and I ended up in Boulder, Colorado, living in a motorhome behind my workplace (it was my boss’s motorhome — he rented it to me). I would sleep on that hard, thin little mattress, headphones on, listening to Tori Amos sing her songs on Little Earthquakes. I credit her music with getting me through an incredibly difficult time. It helped me want to get out of that period in my life. Funny how I credit music with that, but I listened to it every single night. I would cry myself to sleep listening to it, and dance around listening to it. It had a huge impact on my life.
This all brings me to tonight. I got the new Indigo Girls Poseidon and the Bitter Bug deluxe CD set today. It reminds of their older stuff — more acoustic, more like contemporary folk music. I can already tell (after a full 3 listens of the CDs) that it will be one of my favorites. It’s beautiful. I knew I loved it when I was driving home from getting some groceries and I started crying (sap that I am).
I’ve written this before, but I think it bears mentioning again. If you can get into the deep of it with me, if I’m crying or laughing or, preferably, both, then it’s a winner. I’m yours.
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by dawn ~ April 29, 2009
There have been moments in-between. The moments where I feel the most lucid, where my head isn’t filled with theory, or concepts, or longing for family and Arizona and sunshine, or any of the millions of things that fill my head so much that it hurts constantly.
Those moments are precious.
This morning I looked out the big window in my living. I love this window. It’s what keeps me sane sometimes. Right now, it looks over green grass, bird feeders, a line of trees, and, ultimately, a little pond. Today the grass was a beautiful new spring green. The trees are starting to fill with budding leaves. The sky, since the window faces the west, was tinged with pinks and blues from the sunrise, but mostly overcast. It was an odd color that brought out the greens in a really amazing way.
And in those moments, I love Minnesota. I love the way it embraces life after a long cold winter (and truth be told, I LOVED the winter here — loved it).
I was complaining to my brother a few days ago that we seemed to have bypassed spring. We went straight from winter (below 30F) and straight into summer (getting into the 70sF). I wondered where those 40F and 50F days were, the ones that get you excited about the warming weather. He told me that’s what I get for living so far north.
We took a slight turn and came back to those spring days. We are getting the gorgeous spring rain showers and thunderstorms that herald in new life.
Nature, I find, gives me the moments in-between. It reminds me, as it did in Arizona, that everything is cyclical, that it all works out, provides, and replenishes eventually. I’m filled with moments of peace when I watch the large male turkey during the winter, the beautiful robins in the spring, and the way the sun ripples across the water and ice in all seasons.
These moments, these in-between moments, encourage me and give me hope.
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by dawn ~ April 27, 2009
It began long ago. Isn’t that how this starts? Or, perhaps, not so long ago, but still far enough in the past that it’s becoming hazy and dimmer as the years go by. When you read this, those of you who know my voice, do you hear it? Do you hear the inflection, the pauses, the stutters, the sighs? Do you hear the way my voice rises and falls with thought and inspiration and consideration?
I’m sure many of us hear a “voice” when we read. It’s that voice we apply to a reading to give it character, to make it come alive. Often, for me, it’s not my “inside my head” voice, but the voice of some narrator type mixed in with character voices.
Where does this come from? Is it from the foundational readings we had as children when our parents read to us? In my case, I’m not sure. I don’t remember being read to very much. I remember doing a lot of reading, but not being read to.
What I do remember is that sometime in my mid to late 20s when my youngest brother, Shadow, and I worked together, we traveled throughout Arizona quite a bit. During a few of those times, we read Raymond Carver’s short stories to one another. I loved that. It was fun to listen to the stories while we drove to a town down a long highway.
I don’t remember listening to many books on tape. They just didn’t seem that good to me. There was something that was too distant, too removed to get me interested.
That changed when I joined an audio bookclub at my last job. While I didn’t like most of the books we listened to (that’s bound to happen in a bookclub since everyone has such different tastes), I did enjoy books that others recommended to me. The first book I remember listening to that turned me around was Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. I already owned a few of his other print publications (the Stardust graphical novel, the Sandman series, etc.), but I was blown away by this audio version. I could not stop listening. This book came alive in the same intimate way that the readings with my brother came alive. It was rich and beautiful and amazing.
I figured I would stick with Gaiman for Neverwhere. This time it was even better. Gaiman read it, and was able to introduce the pauses and changes in speed in just the way it should be read. The underworld of London was right there, in my mind. I pictured the London above that I knew, and then translated it, through his storytelling, into the London below. It was, in a word, magical.
I know, I know: magical and Neil Gaiman. It’s not all that original, is it?
But what these two books did for me is open up an entirely new way of enjoying that aural intimacy of books that I had come to love. I have listened to hundreds of books in this format by now (a few favorites: Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake — Campbell Scott is an amazing narrator, Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto, Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns (I cried through both of them), Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go (haunting) and the Hugo Award nominee, multi-authored/multi-narrated METAtropolis).
While I haven’t liked everything I’ve listened to, nor have they all brought me that same intimacy, it is those books that do that allow me to be excited about “reading” again. I will never lose the love I have for holding a book, but I think that there is something to be said for listening, too. It allows you to open your mind to a different way of reading. An aural experience versus an optical experience is different. It is an intimate encounter to have someone reading a book directly to you, as if you were his or her only audience.
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