hardcover vs paperback

Just over one and a half years ago, I wrote a post about reading quirks. One of the things I talked about was my preference for paperback novels over hardcover ones. But since I’ve been reading this simply elegant hardcover copy of Tender is the Night (and also since reading a hardcover copy of What I talk about when I talk about running), I’m finding that this could very well be changing.

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bite size

Anyone who has ever had a meal with me will surely know that I am a slow eater. I know very few people who eat as slowly as I do (maybe only one other person? or two?) Recent conversations, over the last few weeks, have led me to wonder about the origins of this quirk, and to really analyse my penchant for slow eating.

Often I hear people say that eating slowly is a good thing because it gives yourself time to realise when you’re full, and hence not overeat. This might be well and true, but I don’t consciously eat slowly – it’s not a purposeful decision that I’ve made in order to attain some sort of benefit. In fact, I generally feel like I actually eat at a reasonable pace, and perhaps everyone else just eats too quickly, causing me to become an outlier on this bell-curve, and making it seem like I eat really slowly.

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a fictional life

I was thinking about writing stories, and why I write, and I had this thought that maybe I write stories as a way to make my thoughts and emotions more accessible to others, in a medium that’s less confronting because it’s more detached.

But then I thought about it some more, and I thought, no, it’s not really detached. Story-writing is very personal, and that whole statement seems contradictory for some reason.

Maybe I need to add in the word “seemingly” – it is seemingly more detached. I can tell people that my stories are “pure fiction”, all the while knowing and believing that all fiction is autobiographical to some extent. (I really wish I remembered where I got that quote from. Goodreads tells me it’s from author P.D. James.)

I suppose it makes sense to write about things that are important to you, or that you’re deeply interested in. It certainly would not make sense to write about things that you care very little about, or that you have zero interest in.

The more I write (and the more I read), the more I want to write, and the more I think what a wondrous thing it is that I can write and that I love to write. How lucky am I? Now if only I could make a living out of it, then I’d be set.

starlight

Isn’t it funny, the multitude of ways in which we are encouraged to make wishes…

We make wishes when we blow out birthday candles, and when we blow away the seeds of dandelions. I believe the general idea is that if you get all the candles, or all the seeds, in one go, then your wish is supposed to come true. We also make wishes on stars, be they shooting stars or first stars. And there’s always the traditional wishing wells/ponds/fountains. All of these I learnt about, and participated in, in my childhood.

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compelled

I’ve been reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night over the past few weeks, and while I usually wait until I finish reading a book in its entirety before writing a post (except that time I was compelled to write about The Narrow Road to the Deep North, and possibly a few other books way back), I’ve been getting this feeling like I need to write this now or else I’ll forget things and won’t be able to adequately communicate my thoughts on the book afterwards.

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right here

I just realised that it’s been just over a year since I went to my first concert to see The Script. Last year, I went to two other concerts as well: Maroon 5 and Hozier. I enjoyed each of them for different reasons, and I’m not willing to choose a favourite (but, deep down, I feel like The Script would win).

Earlier this year I was lamenting the lack of good concerts for the year ahead. To be perfectly honest, I did think at one point that maybe it was a good thing, so that I wouldn’t go to concerts, and then I could save up money for other things. I’d basically resigned myself to that dreary but probably more sensible fate when, one day, listening to the radio, I heard an ad announcing that Rudimental were coming to Australia, and that Jess Glynne would be their support act.

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