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Today has been a productive day. Roomie and I weeded through the teetering stacks of our DVD collection and culled fifty or so for a trip to the Sam Goody. Even if they take less than half at a couple dollars a pop, it'll still be more than we had. Most of them are horror movies I bought in the hopes of a good scare; alas, all I got was ripped off.
I'll have to do the same for my book collection one of these days. I have books bursting from every nook and cranny, slithering from beneath cheap, vinyl loveseats and sliding behind the foldout that had become a repository for our stuff. I have two copies of House of Leaves, for fuck's sake, and two copies of The Silmarillion.
I actually read three hundred pages of Leaves before I hurled it across the room because I got frustrated with a long footnote that interrupted the story proper with a mind-numbing bibliography that seemed to contain every book written since the dawn of time. Pity, too, because the idea of getting lost behind the walls of your house and pursued through same by an unhinged, shotgun-toting loon was deliciously creepy. Leaves is a case of literary conceit ruining a good story.
On the subject of stories, Sheldonbun is still not done. He would be if I'd get the lead out of my ass, but I'm just spinning my wheels, which sucks, because I want to be finished. I've already begun to exhibit the nesting symptoms that presage the beginning of a new fic. Over the past week, I've been collecting information on elves and the geography of Middle Earth.
The story of Eol and Aredhel and Maeglin? Awesome. As is the saga of Maeglin and Tuor and Idril, which, by the by, will be the name of my Elvish OC if I ever get there.
I'll have to do the same for my book collection one of these days. I have books bursting from every nook and cranny, slithering from beneath cheap, vinyl loveseats and sliding behind the foldout that had become a repository for our stuff. I have two copies of House of Leaves, for fuck's sake, and two copies of The Silmarillion.
I actually read three hundred pages of Leaves before I hurled it across the room because I got frustrated with a long footnote that interrupted the story proper with a mind-numbing bibliography that seemed to contain every book written since the dawn of time. Pity, too, because the idea of getting lost behind the walls of your house and pursued through same by an unhinged, shotgun-toting loon was deliciously creepy. Leaves is a case of literary conceit ruining a good story.
On the subject of stories, Sheldonbun is still not done. He would be if I'd get the lead out of my ass, but I'm just spinning my wheels, which sucks, because I want to be finished. I've already begun to exhibit the nesting symptoms that presage the beginning of a new fic. Over the past week, I've been collecting information on elves and the geography of Middle Earth.
The story of Eol and Aredhel and Maeglin? Awesome. As is the saga of Maeglin and Tuor and Idril, which, by the by, will be the name of my Elvish OC if I ever get there.
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