Yesterday I bought The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson with the intention of reading it sometime in the next month or so.
I haven’t stared it yet, but there it sat on the edge of my desk, gloriously, almost mockingly, 1,253 pages long. This morning I brought it along to the library with me. It is to be a writing day since I don’t have work, and so Sanderson’s great tome will motivate me. It’s a little like staring at a picture of Schwarzenegger’s Mr. Universe days while doing push-ups. You try not to look at your own muscles, but it is motivating in a self-deprecating way.
Whatever works, I guess.
Now back to the story…
As we look back on our lives we often see the things that have converged to make us who we are now, or at least, who we are becoming. A lot of what we see seems, in the growing proximity of time, grander and more earth-shattering than it is. Simple idea. I’m not trying to dress it up in poetics because I don’t know that I’d be able to lift the hypothesis out of its dusty box of cliche.
But I like to ruminate anyway.
Perhaps one of the reasons why we tend to aggrandize the things in our past and give it stronger meaning is because the things that stick to the Velcro of our memory are already the extremes: embarrassing moments that make us cringe to recall, but everyone else has gone and forgotten; or the blissful days of kindergarden summers that have heightened in our subconscious to become sunny moments of heaven. Who knew cartoons and bad cereal on a Saturday morning could inspire such longing memories?
This seems to go for books as it does for cartoons and Lucky Charms (which are gross now. Don’t pretend as if you like blue and yellow sugar clumps in your milk). One of the earliest books that found me interested was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, which my mother read to me each night before bed. I would have been about nine-years-old at the time, and until then I would not have considered reading a past-time worth perusing. Continue reading