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I bring this upon myself
Nov. 9th, 2008 06:28 pmSnow today. It didn't stick to the ground, but the real honest-to-god flakes swirling through the air were depressing enough as they were. I'm not ready for four-five months of winter!
Without fail, whenever I get overwhelmed or stressed out, I turn to books. Not just any books either. I check out stacks of YA fantasy novels and schlocky chic-lit (or morbid horror stories, or classics I've not yet gotten to, or authors that people have recommended, or whatever's on the "New Fiction" shelf at the library... but mostly fantasy and romantic swill and teenage angst) and just devour them.
Case in point: I just finished reading a truly nauseating book entitled "Me and Mr. Darcy". It was basically what one might call 'published fanfiction', and featured a hopeless Mary Sue as the main lead. The young woman, manager of a bookstore in New York and jaded by love, seeks solace within the pages of her beloved Jane Austen novels, proclaiming Mr. Darcy as her only true love. She travels to England, has a romance that directly parallels the plotline of Pride and Prejudice, defies time and reality by meeting the real Mr. Darcy before deciding that he's hopelessly closeminded, and ends up with a journalist named "Spike".
I first realized this woman was a complete ninny when she found Mr. Darcy attractive "in spite of his fancy dress costume". The author of this book had CLEARY never laid eyes on a man in breeches and coattails in real life, or she would have realized that there is little that makes a man more attractive than nice regency clothing. And let's not gloss over the unconscionable crime of referring to Mr. Darcy's clothing as "Victorian". VICTORIAN!!!
I should take this as a lesson to stop reading what are clearly worthless books, but it's a habit I can't bring myself to break. It's easier to read this rubbish than to think about next week... and the week after... and the week after...
Without fail, whenever I get overwhelmed or stressed out, I turn to books. Not just any books either. I check out stacks of YA fantasy novels and schlocky chic-lit (or morbid horror stories, or classics I've not yet gotten to, or authors that people have recommended, or whatever's on the "New Fiction" shelf at the library... but mostly fantasy and romantic swill and teenage angst) and just devour them.
Case in point: I just finished reading a truly nauseating book entitled "Me and Mr. Darcy". It was basically what one might call 'published fanfiction', and featured a hopeless Mary Sue as the main lead. The young woman, manager of a bookstore in New York and jaded by love, seeks solace within the pages of her beloved Jane Austen novels, proclaiming Mr. Darcy as her only true love. She travels to England, has a romance that directly parallels the plotline of Pride and Prejudice, defies time and reality by meeting the real Mr. Darcy before deciding that he's hopelessly closeminded, and ends up with a journalist named "Spike".
I first realized this woman was a complete ninny when she found Mr. Darcy attractive "in spite of his fancy dress costume". The author of this book had CLEARY never laid eyes on a man in breeches and coattails in real life, or she would have realized that there is little that makes a man more attractive than nice regency clothing. And let's not gloss over the unconscionable crime of referring to Mr. Darcy's clothing as "Victorian". VICTORIAN!!!
I should take this as a lesson to stop reading what are clearly worthless books, but it's a habit I can't bring myself to break. It's easier to read this rubbish than to think about next week... and the week after... and the week after...
