books – Tipsy Typer

2020 Reading Challenge

The pile of books I own but haven’t read would astound even the most astute hero. Hermione Granger, Belle, and Rory Gilmire might all hesitate before attempting to climb my particular TBR mountain. To give you an idea, I could start a new one every single day for the next 4 years and still not reach the bottom of the stack. I know: it’s one part impressive, one part startling, and two heaping spoonfuls of overwhelming.

Every year I make my pledge to Goodreads and write out my own little reading challenge for the year. For those who don’t feel the need to obsessively track every book they have ever read, Goodreads let’s you set a personal challenge every year and keeps track of it throughout the next rotation around the sun. I am a diehard, I will admit it. There is something so satisfying with watching your total tally tick slowly upwards knocking down my mountain one paperback at a time.

And yet, every year there is a single glaring issue with my plan: I continue to collect more than I read. This past year, for example, I bought twice as many books as I was actually able to finish. And then in December I gave myself a panic attack realizing how long it would take me to even find the halfway point of my current pile. How large would it grow to next year? And how many gems were stagnating in my personal catacombs, forever waiting for me to grace them with my attention? It was time for a change.

This year I’ve decided to try something a little bit different. Instead of following a pre-perscribed challenge full of obscure criteria surrounding colors, birthdates, or numbers of penguins on the cover (I can’t say I’ve actually come across this particular gem in my challenges, but I feel like it will be my personal mission to create it myself at some point this year). I’m making my own personal goals to follow through on. So without ado: the TBR-Crushing m
Master Plan of the book fiend.

Goal #1: End the Year with Less Books than I Started

Its a shocking concept, I know! Actually read the books I buy? What? I’ve never considered this before! I’ll be honest, I will never be able to stop getting new books. I’ve tried that path, and it didn’t work. I love being able to pick up the newest book in a series I’ve followed for years, or try my hand at a little nugget that alights my interest like an ember sparking dry grass. I don’t want to deny myself these small pleasures in a world that has so much to offer. So instead, I’m going to focus on actually reading books as soon as I buy them..if it seems worth reading right that moment, then I can get it. It jumps to the front of the line. No wasting time and money on things that look tangentially interesting- or even worse, things that I want to be interested in, but I’m really not. If I read every new book I buy, plus a few from my tombs- poof, I will end the year with less than I started. Even if it’s just one less- that’s still better than I’ve done for year.

Goal #2: Be Willing to Say Goodbye

I am a sucker for finishing what I have started. I can’t help it. I have slogged through books that put me to sleep, taken my headphones out without realizing I forgot to hit pause on my audiobook, and flat out didn’t care to go backwards before. I am learning that just because I own it doesn’t mean I have to like it. And if I don’t like it, I don’t have to waste the precious time I could be spending on one of the other hundred(s) waiting in line for their own chance to be seen. Not every book will light a spark in every person. I don’t have to try to be the right person every single time. I can say goodbye and set them down in the DNF pile to give to someone else who might appreciate their charms.

Goal 3: Quality Beats Quantity

I will admit- I have rushed through my share of books in an attempt to increase my tally, to make my little dent a bit more noticeable. I have picked out my quicker reads and left larger tomes locked away just to hit my numbers at the end of the month. I’ve turned reading into a task to be checked off of a list at the end of the day. I forget to find enjoyment in what I love. I commit the worst crime of all (even worse than bending pages to mark my spot). I don’t absorb or retain the words because I’m in such a hurry to get through them. So this year- I set my Goodreads goal low. I take breaks when I catch myself getting caught up in numbers. I prioritize other things: like my writing, or a bit of yoga to give my poor little brain a rest. No more distractions with books; it’s time to let them inspire me again with all of the beauty they have inside.

Goal 4: Variety is the Spice of Life

There is one goal that will not change: variety in my reading. I still want to experience pieces of the world that I wouldn’t normally, to learn about people with a very different perspective or experience. I want to soak up everything that books do best- teach us about one another and ourselves. But I’m not going to force myself into a rigid structure. I’m going to follow the flow of my interests wherever they take me- goodness knows I have enough fodder to keep myself inspired no matter where my imagination roams. This is the one thing that I always did right.

Goal 5: Share what I Love

I am not a huge fan of writing book reviews; I know, it’s a bit silly when you realize that I have a blog dedicated to creating and consuming books. But I have always hated the idea of being critical of another artist’s work, primarily because I know what it’s like to create. Book reviews and opinions are so subjective, and I wouldn’t want to turn someone away from a book that could wind up being their literary soulmate just because it didn’t speak to me personally. That being said, when I find something that sparks my interests, I am the type who will gush about it, yelling from the rooftops. So from now on: I will spend more time sharing the things that spoke to me, telling you all about the books that touched me, made me reconsider my life, or just plain taught me something interesting and new. After all, when you love something, the best thing you can do is give it wings to fly.

So cheers, my dears- to another trip around the sun. May we find inspiration and adventure beside newfound characters. Mau we find comfort in the tried and true friends of years gone by. May we explore and experience. But most of all- may we enjoy this journey.

Squiggly feelings and sleepless nights (hello anxiety, my old friend)

Have you ever leaned back in your chair too far and felt that jolt when it seemed like you were falling? Have you ever missed a step when you were walking down the stairs and suddenly your stomach was in your throat and your heart was pounding in your ears? It feels like that. But it doesn’t go away.

Have you ever watched a scary movie and felt your body tense waiting for something to jump out at you? Only it doesn’t, so you just keep peeking through your fingers and holding your breath? It’s like that, but without the giddy excitement of knowing that the monsters on the screen can’t hurt you.

Have you ever been driving down the road when your seatbelt locks up for no reason, as though it thinks you are about to crash even though everything is fine? And you have to sit there, locked in for a while, unable to really move? That’s what it’s like.

You are fighting phantom enemies with a smile on your face because no one else will understand. You are calm as a cucumber on the outside while your stomach is full of squiggly jumbled lines, your heart is pounding, hands sweaty, and you just can’t catch your breath. It is a strange moment when you find yourself trying to convince your own brain that you are okay, that everything will be fine, that you will survive this false alarm it has raised.

What people don’t realize about anxiety- I know when I’m being irrational. I know when my brain is looking at shadows and screaming ‘monster.’ But I can’t stop it. It’s not just a thought process; it’s a physical response. It’s like a migraine; I can feel it coming, but I have no power to change it. It is a tidal wave that rolls over me, washing me out to sea. And it’s so damn exhausting trying to paddle back to shore against the current.

I am not always like this. I can be the girl who (outwardly) rolls with the punches. I can be the girl who kicks ass, takes names, and dances backwards in high heels. I can be the girl who argues the intent of Nochlin’s essays on institutional powers, debate the merits of Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff. I am the girl who can be serious, or funny, sarcastic or plain annoying. I am the girl who can be a lot of different things.

But I am also the girl whose heart was hammering so loud in her chest that I thought it might break the skin. I am the girl who discreetly made her way to the bathroom to fall apart in the middle of the workday. I locked the door, slid down the wall and sat with my head in my hands, eyes shut, gasping while trying to remember how to breath as the panic rushed through my veins, leaving me weak and terrified. Then I stood up, brushed myself off and went back out with a forced smile. I made coffee, joked with coworkers and answered the phone that just wouldn’t stop ringing. No one knew. Not a single soul realized that I was broken and terrified inside. Not one person noticed the way my eyes darted, the way I continually tapped my fingers and toes to expel the excess energy, not one person noticed the cracks showing through my carefully placed facade. No one knew that it wasn’t the first time. No one knew that it wouldn’t be the last.

I’ve had anxiety for a long time; it ebbs and flows, some moments in life are much harder than others. Some days I face my ‘normal levels,’ usually surrounding social situations. And then there are times where I spend months in a constant battle of wills with my own brain, phrases like ‘self-care’ and ‘I’m just tired’ forever on the tip of my tongue. As I write this, I can feel the squiggles inside squirming. I am jumbled up and desperately hoping I can keep my head above water. I’m writing this in hopes that I can bleed some of these emotions away; if I can capture them with words and release them into the world, diluted and harmless- then perhaps I may find a moment of peace. Perhaps I will be able to sleep for just one night.

If you don’t know what it feels like to see your own worst enemy in your eyes; then I am thankful. I hope you never do. But I sincerely hope that you remember those like me who do their best, even when it isn’t good enough. It is exhausting to spend your day hiding your monsters and your nights trying to slay your demons. It is exhausting when you lose power over your own thoughts, over the very things that make you who you are. It is exhausting to always say ‘I’m sorry’ over things you can’t control.

I had many reasons today to be anxious; I have been feeling that shadow creeping over me for some time now. I knew that today would be difficult. And yet, do you want to know what pushed me over the edge into a full blown attack? Keep in mind that I know it will sound silly; as I said, I am well aware when my fears and anxieties aren’t rational. But I can’t stop them. The little barb that managed to rip open the storm clouds overhead was a tiny thing- I finished my book and didn’t have another one to start.

At face value, it’s comical really. But the truth behind it is a bit deeper. My books are my escape hatch out of a world that I can’t control and into a realm that makes sense. There is order in my books, I feel grounded in them. They give me something to cling to in a world that sometimes appears far too foreign to me. They are my touchstone. They distract my brain when it wants to scream and wail; silencing these damned thoughts and giving me a respite from the anxiety that plagues me. When I feel the pressure that foreshadows an anxiety attack, I dive into the pages of another story to keep my brain from focusing on those imaginary little demons it conjures. When that life preserver was ripped away, I found myself drowning again without the hint of land in sight. My brain started screaming, and I was brought down to my knees.

That’s what it’s like; that’s how frustrating and irrational it is. I am normally a strong person who can carry the weight of my own little world, and yet when anxiety strikes all rationality goes out the window. I can be knocked to the ground by a missing book, by a ringing phone, by an oddly-phrased compliment. Anxiety and panic can be debilitating; though many don’t fully grasp what it means for those of us who continually struggle day after day. For those of you who do not face this battle, be thankful. I am so glad you will not find yourself in these trenches. But please, have compassion for those of us you find here struggling. To my brothers and sisters in arms; you are brave, you are strong, and you are not alone. We are in this together, allies in this war against ourselves.

A Blind Date with a Character (when we all look the same)

I’ve always been in love with the concept of a blind date with a book. The book is almost always wrapped up in plain brown paper with a description written in sharpie on the cover. You read these little hints, and you never know what book you are choosing until you’ve selected your perfect little match and finally get to unwrap it. You almost always discover a little gem you would have browsed right past on your own.

This is a beautiful concept that I would love to see more of in the world, but recently it got me thinking. What if we did ‘blind date with a character?’ What would it look like if we chose our favorite characters from our favorite books and wrote a little blurb about them on the brown paper cover?

My fear is that everything would look the same. Our men would probably be white, straight, young, able-bodied, good looking, physically strong. Our women would probably be white, straight, able-bodied, good looking, preoccupied with love. I read voraciously, and while I notice slight differences in the personalities, the stereotypes are still present. There are variations and outliers. But the main plots center around characters like this.

Truthfully, it breaks my heart. We all deserve to see ourselves in the books we read, the movies we watch, the songs we listen to. These imaginary worlds we escape to have infinite power to make us better people, to show us sides of life that we might not see, to show us that we are capable of far more than we thought we could be. They remind us that the world is much larger than the little piece of it we claim, and that we belong to something much bigger than we could imagine. They remind us of our shared humanity and grant us the gift of compassion. So what happens when we are only told one story? When we only see the humanity found in people who look or live like we do?

Name one book who’s main character is overweight where the sole focus isn’t her dropping pounds to look like ‘those other girls.’ Name one book about a person with MS. Name one book about an Asian girl who wants to go to broadway, or a black girl who wants to be a NASA scientist. Name one book with a boy who is desperate to teach a younger generation about the art of meditation and humble living. Name one book with an old man who is raising his granddaughter on his own. Name one book about a Muslim man or woman advocating for equal rights, or a gender fluid individual trying to make their place in the world. Name one book that focuses on mental health, or chronic pain. Name one book where the nerdy boy or girl with glasses that fog up in the rain saves the day. Name one book that is different.

The only books that I can point to as examples of these are all nonfiction. The irony is not lost on me that every single example I can give comes from real life, but not from our fictional literature. And I find this troubling. The world is so much more than the stereotypes and story tropes we have created. So why don’t our books reflect this rich culture?

Most studies have centered on diversity within children’s literature, so I’m going to focus my statistics in this area, though I think there is a strong correlation that can be found in young adult and adult books as well. According to the Cooperative Children’s Book Center, diversity in children’s literature was pretty stark. Based off of ethnicity alone, representation was as follows in 2015:

American Indian/First Nations: 0.9%
Latinx: 2.4%
Asian Pacifics/Asian Pacific Americans: 3.3%
African/African American: 7.6%
Animals/trucks/etc: 12.5%
White: 73.3%

To be clear, these are specific to children’s literature and do not discuss other subsections of minority literature, such as sexual orientation or ableism. But it’s a good starting point when analyzing our own work. We spend far too much time telling a single story when the world is full of so much more.

As a writer, I am also guilty of this crime. I don’t show enough representation in my character groups. While I try to have some diversity, I am painfully aware that most of the diversity is found in my supporting cast. My main character is all too often a girl who looks a lot like me. This isn’t inherently wrong, because everyone deserves representation, but women like me oversaturate the market. I can see my physical likeness in a book whenever I want. I’ll probably have to follow along with a love story in the process, but I am present in the pages. How lonely it must feel when you never get to see yourself? Why can’t I ever find a girl who struggles with debilitating anxiety and panic attacks when she enters a room? Why can’t I find a book about someone who has been physically injured and doesn’t know if they will ever feel normal again? Why can’t I find a representation of my less common traits? It isn’t fair to us as writers or readers when we don’t get to fitness the full picture of the world we inhabit.

When you don’t see yourself in the pages of a story you can’t help but wonder why. What is wrong with you that made your traits undesirable to a writer? What flaws do you possess that make you less important than the people who get to see themselves. I struggled with anxiety and depression- these aren’t struggles that the heroines in my stories face. The absence of them adds to the sense that there is something wrong, something ‘other’ about me. When we continually write about single characters, we are doing ourselves a disservice. We represent so much more than one story.

Now, the contributing factors to this issue are complex and interconnected. Perhaps it is the fact that there is not enough ‘minority’ representation in the literary world (though I see issues with this mindset). Perhaps it is the makeup of the publishing industry itself choosing books that look like them. After all, studies have been done in this area too.

And then we come to the issue of recognition in terms of prizes and awards given within the industry itself, as well as time and money spent on advertising the books that we create. Large literary awards lean heavily towards male authors and male characters. When you review the gender-split of winners for the major literary prizes over the past 50 years, you will see that female representation makes up only about 10-35% of the winners in each contest group. In fact, the ‘most equal’ award presented was the Man Booker Prize, which sat at 35% representation of female winners, the Pulitzer cane in a close second with 34%.

This correlation is also present in the gender of the characters written about in the winning books. In the instances where women do win, they are usually writing from a male perspective. When looking at the Man Booker Prize (our most ‘equal’) you will see that out of the past 15 years, 80% of the winning books were about male characters, 13% were about women, and the remainder was split with two main characters of opposite genders. If you review the results from the Pulitzer, out of the last 15 years, not a single book written by a woman about a woman made the list. Not one.

It appears that the issues regarding representation go much deeper than simply reflecting on what people are writing about; the publishing and publicizing industries still hold a lot of biases that we see in our culture on a daily basis. These don’t disappear overnight. And while self-publishing can help with the availability of more diverse books in the market, it is difficult when your readers cannot easily access or find your special work. The problem needs to be solved from the ground up; more readers demanding representation and more writers willing it provide it, in spite of the challenges that may be faced during the publishing process.

We are writers. It is our responsibility to tell the stories that the world needs to hear. We’ve always told stories, we’ve always had the ability to bring people together or tear them apart. There is great power with this concept, with this ability, with this passion. We must be self-critical and aware of our place and our role.

Representation matters. It mattered when Wonder Woman, Black Panther, Shuri, and Daredevil showed the disproportionately represented that they could be heroes. It mattered. It mattered to me when I saw a woman who looked like me play a role that traditionally went to men. It mattered to my friends when they saw someone who looked or thought or acted like they did in a role that was usually meant for someone very different. Representation matters. It always has, it always will. And as writers, we are in the perfect position to bring these stories to life, to inspire the love and passion that burns in the hearts of those who see our creations within themselves.

National Book Lovers Day

To all of my nerdy little bookworms out there; you daytime dreamers, wordy warriors, turning pages as unknown worlds stretch out before you and dancing with the characters of your favorite fables: today is for you, my bibliophile friends. Happy National Book Lover's Day!

The telling of tales is an intriguing human phenomenon that has propelled our culture to greater heights throughout our existence on this lovely planet. Even today it is the focal point of our society, though in a myriad of forms. Books, movies, television, the nightly news, music, magazines, and in many cases art itself- they all work to tell you a story, as fleeting or tangential as it may be. This is a uniquely human trait that is so engrained in who we are that we don't even notice it half of the time. We are constantly sharing stories; when we greet one another and ask how our days were after long hours spent at work, we are telling our story. We share events and news items like the social currency that they are. We tell tales- both real and imagined; and we grow outward like the branches of a tree with every word we revel in. All humans are born with an innate love for the art of storytelling, whether they are conscious of it or not.
Yet today, this beautiful day we find ourselves in right now- it is not a day meant for everyone. No, my dear friends, today is for people like us. Today is for those gorgeous souls who have fallen in love with the smell of aged and discolored tomes found nestled in a bin at a garage sale; for those who adore the feel of paper running under fingertips. Today is for those who spent childhood nights hidden under covers with flashlights and their favorite paperback as their only company; for those who still fall asleep with the remnants of a plot line running through their heads. Today is meant for those of us who swoon when we enter bookstores and count out the pennies from our last paycheck because we want just one more. Today is meant for those of us who trade titles like others trade phone numbers. Today is the day to celebrate the worlds we have discovered through the written word. Today was meant for people like me who found our hearts tucked into the well-worn pages of a tattered paperback. We are the masters of the page, the swashbuckling adventurers, the finder of secrets and keeper of keys. We are the dreamers of the daylight; the intriguing readers of books.
I can honestly say I don't know what my life would look like without the books that help color my existence. I thank my lucky stars to have been born into the world long after the Gutenberg Printing Press gave us its first creation (in 1455, to be exact). In honor of the day, I think a few fun facts to astound and amuse are in order. After all, it seems surprising to me how little I know about something that is such a large part of my life.

The average number of books read per year is 12, although this number is considered to be skewed by the more avid readers; the most common number reported was just 4. The average CEO, on the other hand reads about 4-5 books every month.
Finland is the world's most literate nation.
In 2005 a study was conducted to determine which countries read the most. India came out on top of the pack with a whopping 10.45 hours per week. Sadly, the US came in on the lower end of the spectrum with a mere 5 hours and 42 minutes.

There are over 129 million books in existence (keep in mind that this number was as of 2010; obviously it has only grown since then).
Bibliosmia: the love of the smell of old books (I'm actually really excited that there is a word for this).
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was the first book ever written using a typewriter
The covers of the first printed books were considered to be artwork; they were ornately decorated. The names of the authors did not appear on the covers until more recent times
President Theodore Roosevelt read one book per day
The longest sentence ever written is 823 words long and can be found in Les Miserables.
The most money ever spent on one book was $30.8 million; It was Codex Leicester by Leonardo Da Vinci. Naturally, it was purchased by Bill Gates (don't worry, I don't think he broke the bank with that one). This is the most famous of Da Vinci's scientific journals and is filled with his handwritten notes and ideas. The notebook itself is only 72 pages long, which means that for each individual page, Gates spent about $427,778.78. What do you do after spending a small fortune on 72 pages? You scan them and turn them into screen savers, naturally.

Charles Dickens' house has a secret door that looked like a bookshelf. Some of the books displayed on this false shelf included: The Life of a Cat (in 9 volumes)
In 2007 Steven King was mistaken for a vandal when he made an unplanned stop at a bookstore in Australia and began signing copies.
The very first book printed in Oxford contained a misprint (it was incorrectly dated as 1468 instead of 1478)
Books used to be shelved with the spine facing the back of the shelf and the pages pointing out
On average, a person browsing in a bookstore will spend 8 seconds looking at the front cover and 15 seconds perusing the back
Women buy 68% of all books sold
At what page do must readers lose interest? That unlucky number is 18.
The three most read books in the world are: The Holy Bible; Quotations from the Works of Mao Tse-tung; and Harry Potter. (Okay, sadly I have only read 2 out of 3- looks like I have something new for my personal reading list).

The purpose of the Penguin paperbacks was to make books as affordable as cigarettes
Nancy Pearl is the only librarian to have an action figure made after her
The term 'bookworm' is coined after after actual insects who feed on the binding of books
Steven Blumberg was a bibliokleptomaniac (oh yes- this is a real word, meaning a person who steals books- be honest, we all have that one friend who never returns them). He stole over 23,000 rare books from 268 libraries, clocking in at an estimated $20 million value. His life would make one fantastic movie, as his methods included some true 007 style when we would climb through ventilation ducts and elevator shafts.
If you read one book every day, it would still take you over 600,000 years to finish everything in the Library of Congress (which is still continuing to grow). The moral of the story: you never need to complain about not having something good to read- the possibilities are truly endless

And now, my dear friends, I am off to go celebrate this little holiday by doing what I do every night: read "just one more chapter." Cheers, my friends, may the wine (or tea, or water) be delicious, may the words come easy and may the books inspire your soul.

Reading Dangerously

Books have the ability to shape minds and sculpt opinions, they are as diverse as the people we share this beautiful world with. They can change us if we are willing to step out of our comfort zone and challenge ourselves and our beliefs. What we choose to read will show in who we become as people, and, as creators, it will become apparent in what we bring into this world. Whatever your chosen medium is, you have the power to make an impact with it, to become timeless and honest. I want to write books that change people, I want to pen articles that make others question what they thought, or provide them with a glimmer of hope that they are not alone, that they have an ally in a world that has too few. I want to write Dangerously, and to do that, I must read the same way.

When I was in high school we had weekly opinion pieces to write and then group debates on a myriad of subjects we originally knew nothing about, and a few key topics our teachers were brave enough to let us choose ourselves. One of their favorite things to do: make us argue a side we deeply opposed. Why? Because it forces you to learn, it compels you to challenge your own views and opinions and, in effect, discover a sense of compassion for those you disagree with.

It is no secret that we live in an interesting time; though not as unique as we may imagine it to be. We have hot button issues that compel passions within individuals that are unrivaled. Passion is a double-edged sword, and in a world of misinformation, skewed propaganda, and sensationalization: passion can be a unforgiving and dangerous blade. It seems that searching for information and challenging our own thoughts has become too difficult a task. It is far too easy to get swept away in the sea of words we have billowing out around us.

At the end of 2016 I started working through some of the books I’ve left idling on my shelf, books that ignited a curiosity and passion inside of me, some of them made me question my current belief system, and others managed to reinforce my opinions with information that I did not previously possess. They gave me a fire, and a deeper understanding of the world around me. And they reminded me of how complicated and colorful our world really is.

I believe in tolerance and compassion, but there are many cultures and social issues I still only had limited knowledge of. I felt unable to voice my opinion in fear that I was missing something. At the same time, I feel we all have a social obligation to help one another and defend each other from unwarranted hate and preconceived notions.

It was my desire to challenge and educate myself that led to a very specific goal this year, one that I suspect will continue far longer than these 12 coming months. The challenge: to read dangerously, to confront my own views and biases and force them to make a case, to expand my knowledge and, with that, my understanding of this complicated world that we live in. It is a year to remember those long-forgotten facets of our history and find the correlation with our current troubles. It is a chance to propel ourselves to be better people.

I was originally thinking about monthly themes, and while I may eventually transition that way, right now I am simply enjoying the extensive and random selection of books I own but have been sitting unread. I have books covering all subjects: history, religion, race issues, sexuality, the sciences, biographies of strong women, athletes, and world leaders, philosophy, classics and modern tales that shape us in unseen ways. I have books that I suspect will support my current beliefs, and ones that I have a strong inclination will test them.

Now, I have hopes that this will be somewhat interactive, though I think it will evolve a bit as we go. I have just finished Voyage of the Damned, a phenomenal book I will be doing a follow-up post on in the coming week (spoiler: I highly recommend it). If you would like to see the 2016 books that inspired this, feel free to peek here: Tipsy Typer’s Top Ten Year-End Literary Lovelies.

My current selections include an overview of world history in the form of The New Penguin History of the World because, well, I am a bit rusty and I’ve tried to read this lengthy tome many times- darn it, I will do it this time! Also, I am finally reading The Quran; I’ve always had an interest in religious studies and have read the texts of other religions, but have never made it to this one. Thus far it has been very eye-opening in terms of some of its similarities to a few other predominant religions. I think a big part of understanding and having compassion stems with educating yourself on what is important and fundamental to other people. Religion is a driving force for many, and learning to respect that and understand the similarities as well as the differences will go a long way on our road to acceptance and appreciation. I also just started a promising new read that follows my underlying theme: Threading My Prayer Rug.

But I want to ask you all: what suggestions do you have for me? What books have changed you, expanded your views or made you ask questions? The genre, the subject matter, geared towards children or adults- there are no boundaries, any book that made you feel something, learn something, or challenged you in some way; I’d love to hear about it and add it to my list. And if you care to immerse yourself in your own Reading Dangerously challenge, feel free to comment; I think sharing this experiment with others would only help us all grow.

Cheers, my friends, may we forever find the strength within ourselves to keep growing and changing.

Tipsy Typer’s Year-End Top Ten Literary Lovelies

Books have always been my saving grace, my escape from a world gone wild. Whenever I am overwhelmed, in need of comfort or inspiration; I turn to those familiar worn pages. They are constantly changing and questioning my world view, pushing me to become a better version of myself. Books are a large part of my life, and as such, they are also one of my biggest investments. When my bookshelves started overflowing, I plunged into the realm of the ebooks (people can’t question your purchases if they cannot see them piling up in the corner of your room). Which is how I wound up with 481 books owned and unread at the beginning of 2016.

So this past year I embarked on a grand literary adventure: to start reading some of these little lovelies I have waiting for me. In 2016 I set a new personal record: 205 books read, checked off the list, coded and catalogued. Now, this was in large part due to my fascination with reading some shorter titles that are geared more towards young adults and children (surprisingly pertinent lessons can be learned from the works we abandoned as we entered adulthood), and my discovery of audiobooks to go with my long commute and a job that allows me to listen to whatever I want when it won’t interfere with my work product.

This has been a year of transition and change for me, a year of challenging myself and my own opinions, of expanding my views and opportunities. These books were an integral part of my personal journey, and so in tribute, I am going to mention a few; my top ten. Deciding the titles that would make this list was an incredibly difficult decision for me, as I had fond thoughts of most of them. But after some time debating and evaluating, I finally managed to whittle down the numbers. With that, I present to you: Tipsy Typer’s Year-End Top Ten Literary Lovelies (note: these were not all written this year, they just happened to be read by me this year). They are in no particular order, so here goes:

In the Country We Love: My Family Divided. By: Diane Guerrero
Invisible Man, Got the Whole World Watching: A Young Black Man’s Education. By: Mychal Denzel Smith
The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates. By: Wes Moore
I am Malala. By: Malala Yousafzai and Christina Lamb
Wild. By: Cheryl Strayed
Kingkiller Chronicles (Book 1: The Name of the Wind. Book 2: The Wise Man’s Fear). By: Patrick Rothfuss
The Martian. By: Andy Weir
The Elephant Whisperer. By: Lawrence Anthony and Graham Spence
AWOL on the Appalachian Trial. By: David Miller
I Ching. Author unknown

And then, because I really struggled with this decision, I’ve decided to include 10 honorable mentions that were so unbelievably close to being on the top list that I actually swapped a few of them out. Multiple times.

Tipsy Typer’s Just as Awesome Honorable Mentions that Probably Should Have Made the List (again, in no particular order):

The Little Prince. By: Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Wishful Drinking. By: Carrie Fisher
This is Your Brain on Parasites. By: Kathleen McAuliffe
Catch Me If You Can. By: Frank Abignale
Driving Mr. Albert: A Trip Across America with Einstein’s Brain. By: Michael Paterniti
American Gods. By: Neil Gaiman
The Art Forger. By: B.A. Shapiro
The Girl on the Train. By: Paula Hawkins
Ready Player One. By: Ernest Cline
Dead Mointain. By: Donnie Eichar

Every book I have read this year has left me with something, has impacted me in some way. That’s the beauty of books; they change us in ways that we don’t always immediately recognize. And judging by the mountain of exciting pages I have in my to-be-read pile (currently numbering at 633), I believe I will have another year of memorable forays into the written word. If you get a chance to peruse any of these beauties, I know you will not walk away disappointed. So tonight I raise my glass and send a cheers out to the authors who have inspired me this year, as well as those who I know will help me navigate through 2017. I couldn’t do this lie without you.

Tsundoku: How the Japanese have named my soul

Language is a beautifully complex creation of the human mind. Individual cultures and the languages that they speak feed and thrive off of one another. Therefore, it is not so unheard of that many of these dialects will evolve in different, though similar, directions. There is a beautiful thing when you find a word that does not easily translate into your own native tongue. Usually it is something that you deeply understand, a word that makes you go ‘aha! why don’t we have this already?’ Take ‘mamihlapinatapei,’ a Yagan word that is best described as ‘the wordless, yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start.’ I’m guessing this is a look that you can picture right now. And yet in the English language we have nothing simple to describe this scenario. And then there is the Yiddish word ‘shlimazl’ which roughly means a perpetually unlucky person. What about ‘jayus,’ an Indonesian word that means ‘a joke so poorly told and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh.’ Personally, I am an expert in the jayus. In fact, I think that’s going to be a new staple in my vocabulary. I find the study of languages and their eccentricities and divergence to be deeply fascinating. And while I could probably go on for pages upon pages with different examples, I am going to leave you with the one that started this whole article.

You see, apart from my quickly worded jayus (I don’t know if I used that correctly, and I can’t help but wonder if there is a plural form of this), there is another word I discovered that touches me on a deeply fundamental level. Tsundoku is the Japanese word that encompasses a difficult aspect of my life. This is my chosen art form: it is the act of buying books that pile up unread on your shelves. If this were a crime, I would be serving a life sentence.

It’s not that I don’t respect the books, no, that was never the issue for me. It is that my love for them goes so deep that I cannot say no when I see something that I want. Especially when it happens to be on sale. I have always had an obsession with books, even when I was a little kid- I owned more than I was able to cram into my overflowing bookshelf. They were stacked beside, on top of, and in front of one another (and this does not include the pile usually precariously placed beside my bed). As all small children do, I eventually grew up, and a glorious thing happened. I got a job. And with a job came money. What was a young enterprising eighteen year old woman to do after buying a few stylish work outfits? Run down to Borders (oh yes, how I miss this chain- I don’t know how they could have possibly gone out of business considering I might as well have set up my direct deposit to go straight to them). Obviously, this was before I grew up enough to have a mountain of bills to chip away at. But the love for the crisp paper and dark ink has never abated. Granted, it has expanded- with limited storage space and a frustration with mounds of clutter, I have evolved into an e-book carrier on top of my vast array in my actual bookshelf. It’s a good thing too- it is much easier to stay on my fiancé’s good side when my literary loves are only taking up space on my tablet as opposed to drowning him in even more cleverly placed bookshelves.

I am not even remotely ashamed of this love of mine, I display my books proudly, I keep my myriad of reading devices beside my bed or in my purse at all times. You will never find me without something to read within my reach. But there is a bit of a flaw in my plan. You see, I can buy these little paper lovelies much faster than I can actually read them. And when I see something that I like (especially on sale, oh, may the book gods have mercy on my soul if I walk into Barnes and Noble and see the clearance section, or, even worse- a special deal on my kindle. One-click shopping was the most ingenious evil that I have ever encountered). But when I see something that I like on sale- I can’t pass it up. I am physically unable to ignore the deal. Because there is a whole new world within those pages, and who am I to deny myself- nay, my craft- the opportunity to open my soul to a new creation? So I buy it. And then it sits on my shelf. And eventually I will read it, but you don’t know if it will be in a day or three years from now.

This has been an ever growing problem. One I attempted to remedy once upon a time. My piles were growing too large, so I told myself that I would have to read ten books for every one that I bought. This lasted about a week. And then I went I into ‘book debt.’ Promising myself that I would read them eventually to make up for what I bought. Eventually I gave up completely. I even went so far as to write down my entire ‘to-read’ list. Ironically, that file corrupted and I can’t look at it anymore. Probably a good thing because I know that my input is still vastly larger than my output.

So you see, I have discovered my soul in the language of another tongue. It’s beautiful, it’s prophetic, and it’s also reminding me to start working through that list I have. I will be brutally honest- if an asteroid hit the Earth tomorrow and I were trapped in an underground bunker for the next three years, I would still have enough to keep me occupied without begging to be released onto the unlivable surface to trek my way to the nearest library.

Harry Potter is back (with a Cursed Child)

I couldn’t tell you where I first discovered the little paperback; I don’t know if a friend suggested it, or if, more likely, I spied it’s cartoonish cover on a nondescript shelf and found my interests piqued. After all- a boy with wild black hair and a lightning bolt scar sailing across the cover on a broomstick- what wasn’t to love? I don’t remember where I sat when I read the first page; as I have re-read it so many times that a multitude of images flash before me when I try to recall the moment. But I do remember the first time I read the very first words themselves, “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.” By the time I reached the last sentence of the first chapter, I was tempted to raise my own Capri Sun in solidarity with the wizards, chorusing ‘To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!’ I was hooked faster than you could say Quiddich. And thus was born a literary love that still captures my imagination the same way it did when I was eleven years old and desperately awaiting my own owl.

J.K Rowling brought us a magical world full of hope, promise, curiosity and valuable life lessons. She brought to life a world of her own imaginings in such a beautiful way that even as adults, we find ourselves desperately attempting to recreate it. Don’t believe me? Look to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, or what about the Hogwarts Extreme events where you can actually take part in role playing at a re-creation of the infamous school? Movies have been made to emulate it, parties are thrown in it’s wondrous themes, the internet is full to bursting with fan fictions, stores are inundated with memorabilia, cookbooks tout nearest recipes to the treats and drinks mentioned within those fluttering pages. And lets be honest- how many of us kept holding our breath waiting for an owl to deliver a very special letter, no matter what age we were? Harry Potter brought light to a dark world, it brought people together on a level that is still hard to find. And now a new generation is coming to love it.

This post was originally meant to be a book review on ‘Harry Potter and the Cursed Child,’ in fact, the first draft was already typed out and ready to go. But I couldn’t seem to bring myself to hit that little blue ‘publish’ button. So here I am, starting over. You see, reading the newest installment of the book that inspired so much passion within my younger self brought with it a slew of emotions that I am not entirely sure I know how to process yet.

Don’t worry- there are no spoilers coming to ruin your reading, this is a safe zone; consider it Grimmauld Place. As I read the newest installment, I found myself fighting two opposing feelings. To start; I was deeply disappointed with the portrayal of my childhood heroes. There was an air of depressing adulthood hovering around them that ruined my illusions about their happily every after lives. I don’t know about you, but I like to envision that after the dust has cleared, my favorite characters will still be the strong, admirable people they had become as we delved through those pages together. In this regard, I found them lacking- but that was just my own personal opinion. I will simply leave it at that and move on. Then there was the second feeling, the one that really took root in the second half of the play: once again I was able to experience the story with fresh eyes, not knowing what would happen next. It was the same excitement I felt whenever another new release came out; the same kind that sent me to the bookstore for a grand release, begging my parents for the money to purchase my very own hard cover copy which I would immediately run off to my room to read in complete silence. I remained fully immersed in the wizarding world that felt like a home away from home until the last page. It is a rare treat to find a book that will call such feelings to a soul. I was thrilled- I liked the main characters and had a genuine interest in what would happen to them. As for the Cursed Child, there were plot holes and character inconsistencies uncharacteristic of the author that has penned so many of the stories that I love, but I kept reading because at the heart of the story the crux was the same; it was a magical remembering of a bygone era in my own life. I can forgive much because it is Harry Potter, but on the flip side of that coin, I also know that I inadvertently hold it to a higher standard simply because I know what Ms. Rowling is truly capable of.

In spite of it all, do you know what the book really showed me? It showed me how much I missed the originals, how deeply I craved to find another literary world that I could fully immerse myself in like I did once upon a time when I was a child. I was always a deep lover of books; walking away from our regular trips to the library with a stack nearly as tall as myself (and I am not a short girl). It reminded me of the joys that the written word can bring you, the opportunities that it opens up, the lessons that it teaches. I missed it. And for just a little while, I was able to have that back- even though it wasn’t exactly the same.

There is something special about an author who can bring an entire world to life, that can make so many people feel so much for a few fictional characters. When friendships broke apart, I felt the heartbreak. When relationships formed, I celebrated with my own joy. When mysteries showed themselves, I pondered their answers long into the night. When people died, I shut the book and grieved. There are still scenes that I cringe to revisit, though I know I must re-read every word. And when victory was clutched from the hands of defeat, I felt the same pride welling within myself. As I said- it takes an author with a true talent for the craft to inspire such strong emotions using only the written word.

I always wanted to be able to write like her, with the same attention to detail, the same well plotted story line, connecting all of the seemingly insignificant dots throughout the thousands of pages that make up the series. I practice and I try, hoping that some day I might create something that is only half as magical. That is what it is really all about- this world of the storyteller. We want to reach people on a deeper level, we want to speak the secrets of their souls that they didn’t think anyone else understood. We want to give people an escape from a dark world, something to hope for, something to bond over, something to draw us all a bit closer to one another. Words have power- you don’t have to recite a lengthy political article to show people a way of living that they have been blind to. You have to simply tell them a story, something profoundly entertaining, and bury your meaning deep within. They will learn something without even realizing that it is happening.

As I said, I had originally meant for this post to be a book review- proclaiming the successes of the play and the sheer downfalls that left me feeling empty. But instead, I think my time is best served reminiscing over something that I loved; something that millions of others loved too. It is easy to poke a hole in another’s work, to shine a blinding light into the plot holes, emphasizing the inconsistencies. But look at all that has been accomplished. This week an entirely new generation got to feel the same excitement that we felt as children waiting in line for our own copies of the book. We got a chance to relive that same thrill ourselves. For the first time in a long time I had the unmatched joy of cracking open to that first page and finding characters that I still cherish waiting there inside for me. In spite of the things that I may not have been a fan of- that right there is what it is all about.

And if by chance Ms. Rowling finds it in her heart to grace the world with a prequel series about the Marauders- well, that would just be icing on the cake. So tonight I raise my glass and say Cheers to Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and thank his creator for a childhood full of beautiful memories and wondrous adventures.

Inspired Work: You Write What You Read

My advice to all writers: read voraciously. I know, it is hard to find the time when you are busy with your regular life as well as the actual act of writing- but the fastest way to hone your craft is to take in the art form of others. Don’t stop with one genre- read them all, dabble in them the way you would dabble in chocolates, leave no stone unturned. And don’t stop with just novels: there are newspapers, magazines, textbooks, blogs- so many things out in the world for us to enjoy, grab them with both hands and run with them. Find your voice by listening to the voices of others. Not only will you discover the style best suited to you, but the content of your work will be richer and more diverse for it. The ideas of others will feed your imagination. We are not islands unto ourselves, we are best when we are challenged by other beings.

Artist tend to view the world through a different lens than most, we want to pick it apart down to it’s elements in an attempt to understand it, and then piece it back together again without a crack. We watch people and events and allow our experiences to bleed over into our work giving the world a fresh perspective that only we can provide. We soak up the world; isn’t it only fitting that the words we absorb will also influence our constantly churning minds. Consciously or not, we tend to write what we read.

For example, if you immerse yourself in the world of old Victorian classics, there is a good possibility you will begin to see some flourishing descriptions wiggling into your work, with an eloquent style of speaking that could be considered slightly stiff to the modern pop culture novel. Or you may go in the opposite direction and find yourself entrenched in the most current paranormal romance, in which case you may find a touch more humor imbedded in your work, or a cruder dialect and detailed descriptions of physical activities. We tend to inadvertently use similar word choice or stylistic tendencies when we read specific types of literature over a long period of time.

When I decide to attempt working in a new genre, I like to immerse myself in it, to glean the style most suited to myself while still delving within the correct parameters for the work. Let’s take my current project for example: this is the first time I have ever tried my hand at an urban fantasy. I have read other books in this genre, and I knew the general style. But the last project I worked on was a sequel to a twisted fairy tale- which was distinctly different (that in itself found inspiration in several marathons of the tv show Once Upon a Time). So I started reading, watching and listening to everything I could get my hands on that would put me in the right frame of mind. A few of the prominent influences: the Sookie Stackhouse series by Charlaine Harris, the Belador series by Sherrilyn Kenyon, The Blood Gospel by James Rollins and Rebecca Cantrell, American Gods by Niel Gaiman, Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice, among others. And those are just the books: I tend to watch shows and movies that fall into the same category as well.

I am addicted to learning new things, and I love when I can carry that into my writing. I am constantly trying to push the boundaries of what I know. So I make a point to read new science articles and history books. I can’t tell you how many ideas started with a tiny spark from an article that I read or a historical connection that I made. It’s exciting when you learn to tie fiction with reality in a seamless manner. I’m subscribed to several science e-mail lists and magazines, I read opinions of current events, I follow other blogs of varying subjects, I have mountains of books falling in every genre. We live in a world where virtually everything you could possibly learn is at your finger tips- a lot of it for free. Why don’t we take more advantage? Don’t feel like reading? Watch a show, a documentary, a pod cast. Listen to an audiobook (Audibles was surprisingly life changing for me). Take the time to absorb the world. You wont regret it.

The written word is a gateways into other worlds, new realities to color our own experiences and our work. Delving into the imagination of another will help you make new connections in your own. Your work will be stronger through the work of others. Strong writing is usually a reflection of strong reading. You can twist your style, play with the words to find your own unique voice. You can dabble and play, have fun with the craft and revel in the hard work of others that carry within their hearts the same literary calling as yourself. Read voraciously, open your mind to the world and the ideas it carries within. You will be better for it, your work will be stronger. Never stop learning, never stop reading.

Red-Nose Day: rediscover childhood joys

“The most radical act anyone can commit is to be happy.”

-Robin Williams (Patch Adams)

Red Nose Day is here, a time for merry-making and frivolity! And all for a good cause. For those who don’t know, Red Nose Day is a fundraising event geared towards raising money for children living in poverty. It is a brief moment in our busy lives where we lackluster grown-ups can rediscover the giddy memories of a simpler time and strive to help those in need, so they can afford the same opportunities many take for granted. It is giving us an opportunity to help others create the same find and carefree memories to cherish when they join the adult masses of the world. Children shouldn’t be worried about finding food, or worried about their health care or education- that is our burden to bear. We can’t let them down.

In the spirit of the event, I thought it could be fun to take a moment to reminisce about a simpler time. As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up and be in charge of my own life. Now, granted, I must admit that I do occasionally imbibe in that long-coveted childhood dream of ice cream for dinner- these days it tends to feel more like defeat than the glorious victory I once thought it would be. It seems that youth is wasted on the young- oh how I crave those simple memories some days, before responsibility came pounding at my door and barged in uninvited.

Not that I don’t still find a way to ‘relive’ my childhood on occasion. I will be the first to admit that I don’t say no when the nephews want to play ‘action figures.’ Okay- full disclosure- at my last office I even had a shelf full of the little things. They were much coveted by my co-workers kids when they came to visit, but like the Grinch- I was unwilling to share my prized possessions. And sure, you can still find the sporadic Disney movie mixed in my recently watched list on Netflix. My poor fiancé has learned that Beauty and the Beast playing is usually a sure sign that I’ve had a rough day and need to immerse myself in animated comfort.

my old toy shelf at work. poor kids cant reach, hehe.

But my biggest guilty pleasure- the one I relish and refuse to admit to the rest of the world? Re-reading my old tried-and-true favorite books growing up. Oh yes, there you will see my literary roots, the books that fed the writerly obsession that has guided my life. You can still even see the seeds of these past inspirations nestled in my most current work. So why not share my past joys with all of you?

These are some of my favorite books that filled my days as a clueless little lass (in no particular order or specified age), these are the ones the I still search for to add to my extensive book collection, and the ones I run to when I am in need of chicken soup for my soul.

The PhantomTollbooth
Bunnicula (if you haven’t read this, please, please go out and find it- it’s a hidden gem)
Animorphs
Harriet the Spy (and yes- I did own one of those black-and-white marbled notebooks for my very own spy work)
Ramona
Ralph S. Mouse
Wayside School
Scary Stories
Goosebumps (especially the choose-your-own adventure books. Spoiler: I usually died the first six rounds)
Dear America series (bonus points if it included the Titanic, oh be still my beating heart)
Nancy Drew
Walk Two Moons (first book to ever make me cry)
Amelia Badelia (the adorably literal woman who open my eyes to the strangeness that colors the English language. I will never forget ‘hitting the road’ and ‘letting the bread rise’
Anything Dr. Seuss
And while I’m at it: anything Shel Silverstein (my goal: own a signed copy- very hard to find, even harder to afford)
And of course- Harry Potter (still obsessed, probably bordering on unhealthy. But I grew up with them. Still waiting on my letter- the owl post isn’t what it used to be)