How depressing is that? There's even a psychological term based on the statistics. They call it the Sylvia Plath effect, in which creative writers are more susceptible to mental illness. I'm not really shocked by this information, in spite of the Wikipedia catalogue of authors who committed suicide. All the writers I know are a little... quirky. Well, mental illness be damned - I like blogging.
It was The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath that the girls and I happened to be discussing this morning at the Picton Harbour Inn (they have a really tasty breakfast and good coffee; try the Eggs Benny). My personal opinion of the book was that it was too simple. I get that it was written from the perspective of a young woman with very little life experience, but I like a story that makes sense to me. First off: How did they find her in time when she took a bottle of pills and buried herself alive in her basement? Secondly, why did she start hemorrhaging after losing her virginity and why did she send the cherry-popper a bill for her hospital stay afterward? My friend, Sheri, agreed with me on both these points I believe.
Sheri is probably the most practical of all of my high school friends. She's a nurse with endless knowledge about how society operates. If you want to know how to buy a house, get a passport, apply for college, plan a wedding or host a dinner party for 14 or more people - you would ask Sheri. She's also a very nurturing mother. Not one of those mothers with a "sink or swim" attitude, who lets her children learn the hard way. She's there at every step of their development, attending school board meetings, meeting all the teachers and reading all the correspondence no matter how mundane.
She's also a bleached-blonde bombshell with grey eyes and skills that would put Dyson's Root Cyclone technology to shame.
Regarding The Bell Jar, I guess I missed the point of Plath's plight. What I was supposed to feel was "Esther's dawning awareness of the limited female roles available to her and her increasing sense of isolation and paranoia." (1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die... oh, the irony)
In the 50s and 60s, I guess a woman could only hope to get a job as a secretary or a house wife. I don't know. I wasn't there and I don't watch Mad Men. I know that in Prince Edward County, women either work in nursing homes or look after other people's kids. Either way, it involves wiping shit from someone else's ass and I am not interested. We still have the same three stereotypes as they did 50 years ago: good girl, slut and bitch. I wonder which one describes me best ;)
That brings me to my friend, Christine. That's a horrible segue to be introduced with. lol. She's definitely all three though and I'm sure she takes pride in all of those roles (as she should). Christine brings some semblance of order to our book club meetings. If it weren't for her, we would just talk about our kids and our jobs (or even worse: our glory days) and never get to the task at hand. All I could think about when she was asking us our opinion of the books was how much I love her hair, the interesting little bauble on her necklace and how I'd like to lay my head on her big boobs.
Christine and I grew up in the same family, although we aren't blood related. So, The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls was very poignant for both of us. While Walls' 2005 memoir brings dysfunctional families to a whole new level, almost everyone who reads it will be able to recognize their own brand of crazy in some of her characters. For example, Christine learned to sink or swim in a pond in Yerexville the same way Jeanette Walls learned to swim in a hotel pool. And, my dad let me and my brother go deep in the woods with a hatchet and a box of matches to fend for ourselves during camping trips (best times of my life, btw). But, after I read the book, I didn't even want to keep it in my house. For me, the injustice of it all was too much. The old man pimped out his own daughter, for chrissakes. And, all he has to say is, "I knew you could handle yourself." Nuh uh. Fuck Rex Walls and his pipe dreams. It's the same reason I didn't like The Lovely Bones. No redemption. No Revenge. I need closure.
I like the books my friend, Becky, suggests for me. Becky's my alter-alter ego (after Angelina Jolie), with her acoustic guitar, her tousled dark hair and her smiling Irish eyes. Becky is the girl in all the old Celtic ballads. She's like Ke$ha on Clonazepam. Anyway, she told me to read Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson and it is one of my favourite books.
Our next dilemma is what book to read. We want something a little lighter and fluffier, although we are currently leaning toward Room by Emma Donaghue and The Secret Daughter by Shilpi Somaya Gowda. Please leave any suggestions in the comment box below or on my Facebook page.
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