Resurrection

You might say the first half of 2011 has not been a blogging success, and you would be absolutely correct. I had been happily consistent with Paperback City towards the end of last year, but this year I have been overtaken, thwarted by other plans, distracted, lazy.

Since we last spoke back in January, I have written much but read less. I finished a complete first draft of a novel, for one thing, and I’m surprised about the odd gauntlet of emotions it generated. I was proud of myself, enormously inspired and excited. I was triumphant. And then, looking down at my manuscript – printed at last and tied together with red ribbon – I was gripped with indescribable fear. The hard part wasn’t over at all. A draft is nothing. Now I would have to let people read the damn thing and have them point out all the flaws in my paper baby. Worse still, the prospect of fixing it. The rewriting, the editing. Correcting my meandering nonsensical plot and excising big chunks of my ham-fisted prose. It’s a daunting, unpleasant exercise.

Three months later, I still haven’t started.

I couldn’t find my reading groove at the start of the year, despite some shining moments. After the pure escapism of John Darnton’s Neanderthal, I worked my way through a mixed bag of reading that included: Megan Abbott’s steamy 50s genre piece, Die a Little; Margaret Atwood’s big Booker winning saga, The Blind Assassin; Jasper Fforde’s colourful Shades of Grey; and the newest Sookie Stackhouse book, Dead Reckoning by Charlaine Harris.

Closing down sales at both Angus and Robertson and Borders stores severely wounded my bank balance and forced me to implement a book buying ban until the number of unread books on the shelves at home reaches ten or less. This struck me initially as a stroke of genius, a worthy challenge indeed, something even to blog about. But then, overwhelmed by choice perhaps, or procrastinating as ever, I mounted a revolt against my own regime, opting to immediately shun new books in favour of a time honoured favourite.

I decided it was time to re-read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which was like catching up with an old friend. I am amazed as ever by the complexity and completeness of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, and the deft hand with which he manages his enormous cast and intricate plot. The Fellowship of the Ring remains my favourite of the three, particularly the last half as the fellowship travel through Moria and Lothlorien, to break apart at the Falls of Rauros.

I found I did read these books differently in the shadow of Peter Jackson’s movies, and for the most part I really didn’t mind. That said, I’m not sure I’ll ever quite forgive the exclusion of any sort of resolution of Faramir and Eowyn’s stories. I can’t help but feel that having them merely share a coy look for one brief moment at the end of The Return of the King is somehow doing them, as two very interesting characters, a great injustice.

I’m not sure what’s next on my reading list, because Tolkien is often a hard act to follow. I’ll do my best though, to let you know.