Thursday, March 18, 2010

The Potting of Pride and Prejudice

The summer of 2009, it was a summer unlike any other. Unknown universes were unveiled and magical mysteries unfolded. The allurement of alchemy overrode the angst of war, loss, and grief. Rapt with revelations on this encouraging experience, fresh friendships were formed and romances were resisted, relinquished, and reignited. I fell in love without ever betraying my beloved or abandoning my abode. It was a gem of a journey and an escapade of emotions . . . yet my defiant discrimination almost averted this apex of all adventures and slapped away its sway on my soul.

I had my Pride; I ignored the peer pressure attempting to erode my Prejudice. I originally snubbed my friends' supplications and was determined to never allow such novel nonsense into my life. Yielding to its youthful objective and cutesy pop culture was not an option; I chose to keep such childish chronicles out of my existence. My rigorous rejection, however, was unfounded, idle, and misguided. I was suffering from the sickness known as PRUBON by refusing to peruse the pages of this story I selectively slighted, and had I not indulged in the insightful influence of my friends, I would not be telling this tale to you today.

I was never inspired to write before being introduced to the charismatic characters in the previously implied plot. Without my fumbling attempt at fiction, I would never have been confident enough to accept the encouragement of a friend, the one who induced me to ink out these essays. Writing was not an art I ever had any desire to do. Until now, never did I have so many intrinsic ideas burst in my brain, finding me on a frantic search for paper and a pen to jot them down, leaving me with numerous notes throughout the many nooks of my house, where they remained until I picked a time like now to sit down and translate my musings into these black and white quirky quips. Without the alluded anonymous author's astounding ability to flood one's spirit with such stories and to create the ultimate art in written word, it was unlikely that I would have ever clicked the keyboard to eke out this Webwork of a Wacky Woman.

I am forever grateful that I have stopped saying no to this highly suggested saga and find it odd that I've ever refused to read this recommendation, because if you have read Words Like Violence, you know of my affinity for fiction and that reading is the one avocation I adore the above any other. It's the one that has been with me the longest and the one that has kept me afloat above all other hobbies. It is thanks to this aforementioned unnamed narrative and its novelist that I am reminded why I hold no deeper affection for any other pastime. Reading is something that takes me to another place, lets me live vicariously though others lives, yet allows me to remain on my couch with my cup of tea in my home where I'm at ease, and no narrative has led me on such an enjoyable excursion as the tale about which I've been telling you. It bears all the effects elaborated above and more. I've become so besotted with this beloved set of books of which I am about to bestow to you, that I have not found any fiction to satisfy me since. I've been on a quest to cure my addiction to this mysterious story since finishing its final pages, but have been unsuccessful at quenching my thirst. This only rain I have received in this drought is a myriad of mediocre fiction and some literary supplements to guide me on my second passage through my favorite fantasy known as Harry Potter.

As I putter through the process of Repotting Harry Potter, I need to give gratitude to its author James W. Thomas, who is now accompanying me on my repeat ride of the infamous HP. It is thanks to him that I know I have been afflicted with ailment of "Presumptive Reader Unworthiness Based on Non-reading", otherwise known as PRUBON. It is he to whom I amplify appreciation for uncovering the elements I have missed on my original excursion and exemplifying exactly why I have come to love this notorious narrative first place. As I have hurried through the pages to see the next sequence of events on my first passage, I become fanatical about Rowling's fiction, and thanks to Thomas I become shamelessly smitten with her smartness on my second. J.K. Rowling's talent to craft characters with such care, giving them distinctively different prolific personalities is beyond extraordinary, and her attention to the finer facts is flabbergasting, only leaving me thirsty for more . . . wondering what genius and inspiration beguiles such brilliance.

I am mesmerized by what her muse may be, and as such have been led to Harry Potter's Bookshelf by John Granger. It is an anecdote about the books and authors that potentially encourage Rowling's writing ways. It is here that I find out Jane Austen and her entire collection of chronicles is amongst Rowling's favorites, and that HP has many parallels to said plots. Austen is another author whose books have found me ill with PRUBON and leave me with no choice but cure this condition which has left me bereft of such brilliance. I do what I must and dive head first into Austen's most popular plot we know as Pride and Prejudice, a book that never would have been pleasing placed between my paws if it wasn't for Rowling and her tremendous talent. After finishing this fiction, I find it to be deliciously delightful, and almost as intriguing as HP itself. Sadly though, my hunger is still not satiated, so my quest commences once again to read more books I once rejected and to never allow such PRUBONic sickness reenter my system again. Wuthering Heights, here I come.

So if you have rejected the recommendations of a respected comrade, I implore you to Pot away the Pride and Prejudice that keeps you from a particular plot . . . put your presumptions aside. You can't possibly deem a narrative non-readable and unworthy if you haven't even touched its tale to be told, and if you never give it a shot you'll never know where you'll end up on the other side.


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