Cleolinda everywhere

All right. Have finished American Gods. Don't quite know what to think of the epilogue in Reykjavik and all yet, but okay--sign of a good read, that you keep thinking about it. Highly recommended.

Here's how dumb I am: Vladimir sends me this copy from Zagreb late last year, as previously mentioned, and I get to Neil's autograph--as you will recall, Vladimir is Neil's Croatian translator--and I go, "Huh. Cat eyes. Random. Okay." Yeah. So I'm taking a break from reading to eat dinner (yes, I try to read books in as few sittings as possible; it's just a compulsion I have), and I'm talking to Vladimir on IM, and he says, "What'd Neil draw in your book again? I think I remember..."

"Uh... cat eyes?"

"No, it wasn't cat eyes. Go check again."

"Well, I'm pretty sure it was eyes, but whatever, and one of them is OH MY GOD."

ODIN!



And seriously, it is a great book. It's the kind of book that--well, put it this way: I read Lolita and I love Lolita, but I read it when I was about eighteen and it seriously messed up my writing style--for a while I was obsessed with crafting little Fabergé egg sentences instead of actually telling a damn story. Nabokov can do that to you--I think the way Vladimir put it was that his style is "overbearing," in terms of being an influence. Gaiman is the kind of writer who makes you want to put the book down and lock yourself in front of the keyboard for a few hours. He makes you see all kinds of things that are possible to do as a writer, and makes you want to try and see if you can do them. It's not a style he has that you want to copy--it's a complexity of character and story that you want to live up to. It made me want to sit back down and hammer away at Black Ribbon, where Nabokov just made me want to write what was, in my hands, nothing but exquisitely phrased whining (bless). I had the same reaction to Gaiman's Stardust, too--his writing makes you feel brave enough to try your own things out. Can't quite explain it any more clearly than that. And really, I think that's the kind of writer I'd want to be. Not necessarily the writer who sells the most or the writer with Harold Bloom's seal of approval (and never the twain shall meet on that one, trust me), but the writer who makes people want to read, and makes people want to write.

Still not feeling too good. Doing that sleepy-but-can't-sleep thing. V. annoying. May start journalling like Bridget Jones. ("0 units nicotine, 0 units alcohol, 2 units caffeine, 5 units Fritos. And birthday cake. Shut up.") Maybe not.

Keep thinking about Digest. Then thinking about it exhausts me, and I go lie down again. This is not good. Weirdly, I don't feel particularly depressed. (Quick interjection: thanks so much to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. 'Twas very sweet of everyone. J) But when I get avoidant about something, it takes a lot of heaving and pushing to get me back on track. Hmm.

Bookapalooza 2003: Today's book was Stardust, which Vladimir sent me for my birthday. For all this talking about Neil Gaiman (he's currently translating--I forget what he's translating. Endless Nights? My brain is shot. All I know is, Neil apparently liked his translation of the names. Destruction? Is "Smak." Which is so awesome. Everytime I type "SMAK!" now, just know that I'm bellowing "DE-STRUC-TIOOOOON!" in my head in a total Transformers voice. We now return you to your regularly scheduled journal entry), I had never actually read one of his books. I have Stardust and American Gods and Endless Nights now, but I wanted to start with something light while I was feeling glumpy, so we went with Stardust. ("We," she says.) And it was great. Beautifully illustrated, too. My only complaint was that things wound up a little too conveniently at the end, but I won't get into that here.

Would it be completely lame of me to wear my $8 Nenya to ROTK tomorrow afternoon? And my bookmark-dangle One Ring on a chain around my neck? Because, let's face it, opening day only happens once. I'm no Jason, but still...

All quiet on the poetryslamming front. Guess I'll find out how that went down on Thursday. I think my poems, uh, sparked enough discussion that the mod hasn't felt any need to mention my entry again.

Anyway, going to try to sleep now. Or play solitaire all night. Or something.