Reading, Writing

The Monster In Jack.

It’s been a cold winter for Toronto, with wind frigid enough to freeze your nostrils together. Perfect weather to bundle up under a warm blanket, sip on some canned hot chocolate (because let’s be real, I’ll probably NEVER make anything from scratch ever), and read a cheery tale of mayhem and murder at the behest of a sentient hotel of evil.

Published in 1977, The Shining was Stephen King’s first bestselling hardcover and helped put him on the horror genre map. Three years later it was made into a movie that, upon having just finished the book, deviated greatly from the central themes of King’s actual novel. (Let’s set aside the author’s own feelings about Kubrick’s version of his story, you can sift through the Google results at your own leisure.) I’ve read enough of his work to consider myself one of his Constant Readers, and this book has jumped up my list of favorite novels to sit somewhere near the top.

Spread out on the couch in my living room with the TV playing in the background, I’m having trouble even knowing where to start. I chose The Shining for the fifth book on my 20 In 2015 list. I finished it a couple days ago and knew instantly I’d need a few days to bounce back from it. King is the master of taking otherwise unsympathetic characters and finding a way to humanize them. I never expected to see so much of myself in Jack Torrance.

It’s a simple enough concept, and I’m sure by now most people are familiar with the story: down on his luck after having been fired from his teaching job (because he lost his temper and beat the everliving shit out of a student), Jack takes a job as the winter caretaker of The Overlook hotel. Like most hotels, the place has got a few skeletons in its closet. During the winter months, the hotel gets snowed in and the only road leading into town is closed, effectively cutting the family off from civilization until spring thaws the earth. A former caretaker once went insane and murdered his wife and daughters before killing himself, a fact that the hotel manager shares with Jack during his interview. Jack assures him he can handle the long cold winter. Turns out, he can’t.

Jack struggles with a dark past. He is a recovering alcoholic, determined not to repeat past mistakes like breaking his then-three year old son’s arm while disciplining him. He’s a wounded man trying to become a better person but anger burns constantly under his surface. When describing the attack on his former student or the abuse of his son, King writes that it’s like he goes into a trance, seeing red and only partially aware of his actions. I’ve never heard consuming rage described so well. I saw my own past issues with anger manifested in Jack, and that frightened me. Seeing the world through his eyes was a disturbing look into my own psyche.

It’s hard not to have mixed feelings about him. Ultimately he wants to be a good man and take care of his family but his own twisted upbringing has tainted his worldview and added to his anger problem. He tries to keep himself under control but the evil inside the hotel senses this weakness and exploits it.

I can relate to his situation. My mind is The Overlook and I’ve spent a long winter trapped inside it with only my echoing thoughts for company. I’m prone to depression, especially in the winter, and a lot of factors in my life have led me to feel trapped within my own life. Ultimately, I seek a redemption of sorts, much like Jack at the end of the novel, when he manages to regain control over himself and stop the entity controlling him long enough for his family to escape. In his final moments, I felt bad for him. No one is ever all bad or all good and Jack is a shining example of that (see what I did there?).

Wendy desperately wants to have a normal, happy life with her husband and child and she embodies what hope looks like in a dysfunctional family. Her only option when she begins to sense the darkness in the hotel is to go stay with her mother, with whom she has a strained relationship. Her self-confidence issues stem from a lifetime of being taught that she’s not good enough and is partially to blame for her sister’s early death. Her mother has spent her life grinding her daughter’s self-esteem down until there’s barely any left and her struggles with Jack’s alcoholism have only emphasized her perceived flaws. She loves her family but recognizes when things start to go downhill and tries to convince Jack to abandon his post and flee the hotel. Again, it’s easy to sympathize with her. I’ve been in similar situations where you just want to hold on and wait until things get better. Her unwillingness to give up on her husband and the strength it takes to defend herself and her son when Jack tries to attack them are something to be admired.

There’s a moment in the book where the hotel elevator begins to run on its own and Wendy begs Jack not to leave her and Danny alone to go investigate. Jack responds that it’s his job and Wendy wails, “DON’T YOU LEAVE US HERE ALONE”, to which Jack coldly replies, “That was an incredible imitation of your mother,” and I had a moment where I froze and reread the dialogue a second time, because it packed such a punch. King has an amazing ability to write dialogue I can actually hear inside my head, and this particular exchange made my blood run cold. Jack knows how Wendy feels about her mother and still takes that dig at her. Anyone who’s spent too much time with another human being knows how much a person can become annoyed at another person. Cabin fever is a real thing, and whatever crawls inside the walls of the hotel feeds off the negative energy between Jack and Wendy.

We, the Constant Readers, get to sit back and watch as Jack mentally unravels and falls prey to the hotel’s whims. It’s a devastating process, and all through it I found it incredibly difficult to blame Jack for his choices. He’s under tremendous pressure, as we all have been, and I drew so many parallels between his life and mine that reading this book shook me to the core.

Who among us hasn’t made mistakes or taken wrong turns in life? Who is blameless in the pain of others? I’ve been down some dark roads in my time and it can be hard to keep your head on straight and your tongue still. There’s something evil inside all of us, but most of us can keep it under control. Confronted with the forces inside the hotel, any one of us might fall victim, and that’s what makes this book so terrifying. When I finally put it down, I knew I’d have to take a few days to get over the emotional punch it delivered straight to my gut.

The Shining is easily one of my absolute favorite Stephen King novels, it’s a fucking masterpiece in emotional and mental destruction. Reading it in winter seems to have only amplified its effect.

The monster isn’t the thing lurking inside The Overlook, it’s the thing lurking inside Jack Torrance.

Reading, Writing

Twenty Books In 2015

It feels like I’ve been reading for a million years. I was one of those weirdos in school sitting by the fence, nose buried constantly in a book, hardly ever speaking or making direct eye contact with other people. By the time I was in second grade, I was reading at a twelfth grade level, according to those standardized tests they make everyone take so the special children can learn how to be full of themselves early on. The entire point of my saying this is not to wordsturbate all over the place about how I love books and books are my life and SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE ALERT. The point is to admit that for most of my adult life, I’ve spent a lot less time reading actual books and a lot more time reading funny things on the internet.

I’m not going to sit here and wax poetic about the appeal of a physical book or talk about the so-called evil of e-readers. Personally, I’ve become a bit of a tech junkie as of late and as far as I’m concerned, any way folks are consuming books is just fine, so long as the words are still getting devoured and processed and writers are still managing to break even and pay their bills. My mom bought me a tablet for my 27th birthday and I’ve been using the thing to read books like a woman possessed. I’ll still be reading funny things on the internet because they’re amazing and make me laugh, but on top of that I’d like to crack a few spines this year. (HAHAHAHAHAHA BOOK SPINES, GET IT?!)

There are a shitload of things I’d like to accomplish this year. If you’ve been following this blog at all (and why wouldn’t you? Don’t you love me?!) then you already know I’ve been having a bit of a rough go of it when it comes to depression and dealing with all my lovely repressed-and-rearing-their-ugly-heads-now feelings. One of those things on that monumental list is to read more books. So I’ve decided to challenge myself to read AT LEAST twenty books in 2015. And what kind of writer would I be if I didn’t WRITE about what I’m reading?

(A bad one.That kind of writer. Obviously.)

When it came to deciding what to read, I called upon my brilliant and well-read group of friends for suggestions, figuring that with so many different tastes in books, I’d get a nice selection from which to choose. My friends didn’t disappoint (because they’re amazing and wonderful and smart and I love them, they’re SO FINE) and now I find myself staring down a list that might well grow beyond twenty and carry me into 2016. And better yet, I’m genuinely EXCITED about something! Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I let myself feel excited about anything?! It’s great!

My self-imposed rules for the 20 books are simple.

1. It MUST be a book I’ve never read before. Otherwise I’d just read Jitterbug Perfume 20 times and be done with it.
2. I MUST track my progress using Goodreads and hold myself accountable.
3. I MUST post book reviews. (Written or maybe a YouTube video if I’m feeling dashing that day.)

The third rule is a new one. I’m into the fifth book on my list already, so I’ll be starting with that one. Lucky for you, it’s The Shining, which I actually thought I’d read before except I hadn’t and now I’m ashamed to call myself a Stephen King fanatic. Of course, my reviews will be rife with spoilers, so keep that in mind if I end up reviewing something that WASN’T published in 1977. Or that you haven’t read. Whatever.

If you’re interested in challenging yourself to read however many books this year, GREAT! Tell me about it, we’ll keep each other motivated/trade book suggestions. Obviously I’m going to tell you to read Green Grass Running Water  and the aforementioned Jitterbug Perfume, because I’m biased and those are my favorites.

Friend me on Goodreads so I can snoop through your shelves too. Because I’m nosy.


Vacation Roundup.

I’ve been sick my entire vacation. Not sick sick, just a minor cold, but still.

October 1st, I woke up with sinus pain and a head that felt two sizes too big. I spent the first two days lying on my couch drinking orange juice and watching Breaking Bad episodes. Last weekend, in spite of my lassitude, I made the two hour trip from Toronto to Cannington to visit my mom, aunt and grandmother. My first night there, I slept right through until 2:30PM the next day. Coming home was fun — every trip north results in me being laden down with more stuff than I started out with, largely due to the fact that I left behind some of my stuff when I moved out of my Mom’s house and she took it with her when she moved in with my aunt.

I went up with a backpack and came home with a backpack, carry-on sized suitcase, and an overstuffed reusable shopping bag.

I read my family the articles I’ve written recently. My grandmother’s reaction was the best: “You just make that up in your head and then write it down?!” She seemed to be flabbergasted by my ability to fuel rage and snark from my head onto the keyboard. It was cute.

I started to feel better, so yesterday I hauled every piece of fabric I own down to the laundromat. It’s actually embarrassing how long I’d gone without washing my bedclothes. I only own one set right now, so it’s not as if I can rotate them and always have clean sheets. No, I have to strip my bed and leave it barren until I can muster the strength to haul ass down to the laundromat and over-stuff the commercial washers.

I probably should’ve bought a new set when my sis came to visit and we went shopping…

Speaking of which, on Friday Ashley came to spend the night at my apartment. Since I’ve moved in here, she’s only been by once or twice, and never alone. Don’t get me wrong — I’m fine with her boyfriend, but sometimes a girl needs some sister time. There are things we can only talk about when we’re alone, due to shared history and comfort level. We made pizza and drank nearly an entire 26er of Bacardi. I’ve never really been a rum girl myself, but turns out it mixes quite well with Coke Zero. Who’da thunk it? I had a wee bit of recreational plant matter in my apartment so we had a bit of that but wound up too knackered to play Candyland or a game of cards, so we settled for watching Californication and drooling over the much-older David Duchovny.

I also managed to burn through nearly $300 at the mall. Found myself a really nice pair of old man slippers, too! Never underestimate the power of the men’s slipper section. I just wanted a plain pair of old fashioned slip-em-on slippers, not an elaborate, appropriation of culture pair of Walmart moccasins. I love slippers, because I am actually 100 years old.

By the time I got home from Ideal Laundry yesterday, I had begun to feel like shit again. I appreciate my cold’s courtesy in letting me finish my biggest chore before springing up to ruin my day again. At least now I have an excuse for sitting around all day reading and watching movies.

On the subject of reading, in the past ten days I’ve finished both Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean At The End Of The Lane and Stephen King’s Doctor Sleep and every time I finish a book, I put it down, sit for a minute processing, and then feel horribly depressed because it’s over. I have a stack of books on top of my refrigerator (I still haven’t bought any shelves) and no idea which one to read next. I tried to read E.M. Forster’s A Room With A View but couldn’t manage to get past the first chapter. Apparently I don’t have a taste for classics, with the exception of Oliver Twist or old children’s books like Heidi or Black Beauty. I felt the same way about Love In The Time Of Cholera. I don’t like it when books defeat me — I hate starting a book and then giving up on it so maybe I’ll try again.

I also managed to write a few songs. Two of them are basically finished and the other ones are nearing completion. Unfortunately, since my cold has now moved into my throat, swallowing is difficult, singing is damn near impossible, and when it is possible, it doesn’t sound good at all.

So, that was my vacation. While I wish I had been feeling top-notch for the whole of it, I’m at least grateful that I didn’t have to work while feeling ill. I go back to work Friday afternoon and I really hope this cold has cleared off by then.

If anyone wants to come over and make me some soup, you’re more than welcome.