I finished The Maltese Falcon in a couple of hours - it was a lot shorter than I expected it to be.

Reading that book was a fascinating experience, because it is the fount whence the cliché figure of the hard-boiled detective with a drinking problem sprung. I had to keep stopping to remind myself that at the time this was written, all of its features were new and edgy.

Sam Spade is a supremely interesting character, not the least because you can never tell when he's going to haul off and smack someone in the face. I lost count of the number of times he decided he didn't like what someone had just said and simply solved the problem by decking them. (Or maybe he didn't exactly solve the problem, but he made himself feel better - I know this because the one time he didn't hit someone, he complained about how he hates letting people get away with stuff like that character had without hitting them.) But he's also interesting because the narration is third-person, and you never actually get inside his head. I finished the book still having no idea how his brain works, and that meant I could never tell what he was going to do next. Even at the end, I'm not actually sure what his plan, if he ever had one at all. It certainly made for suspenseful reading.

There was also that hilarious moment where he gets the Mysteriously Beautiful Woman(TM) alone and asks her for the full story. She goes on for two pages and he laughs and calls her a liar. Then it goes like this:

MYSTERIOUSLY BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: How can you say I'm a liar?
SAM SPADE: Because you are. Now tell me the truth.
MBW is backed into a corner. Then - an idea!
MBW: *innocent aura* I'm so tired of lying all the time! What is truth? I don't even know!
SS: *smolder*
MBW: *smolder*

OBVIOUSLY PLACED FADE TO BLACK (Whatever could they be doing??)

Also, Sam Spade drinks so much I'm surprised he's ever able to do any detecting at all. Just sayin'.

So I just finished Jodi Picoult's latest book, House Rules.

The first thing that I will say is that it was not, despite what I immediately thought when I saw the title, about gambling.

The book deals with a teenage boy with Asperger's syndrome; he's high-functioning, very intelligent, and obsessed with crime scene investigation. Given that almost all of Jodi Picoult's books involve a trial of some kind, it's not too hard to extrapolate that someone close to him is going to end up dead, and the crime scene points to his involvement, thus creating drama.

I appreciate what Picoult was trying to do here - I really do. She made an effort at showing the way autism affects a family and giving her readers a window into the mind of an autistic boy (the book is written in several voices, like several of her works). It's clear she researched her topic, and she tried very hard to give the book a twist at the end, like she tends to do.

Except this was more a half-twist. Maybe a third-twist, even, because I saw it coming even before the trial portion of the book began. And really, what good is a twist when you're ready for it - expecting it to come with a comfortable resting heart rate and breath that is decidedly not bated?

Also, I had a problem with her portrayal of the autistic protagonist, Jacob. He was very, very hard to care about. I understand that making a character lovable when one of his central characteristics is his difficulty forming bonds with others can be hard - but I know it can be done, because I've read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. I was mildly interested in his fate, but I never felt him to be in any real danger - I just felt the book lacked tension. The characters seemed like types - the overlooked younger brother, the mother who gives up everything for her child (is there ever not one of those in a Picoult book?), the benevolent yet justice-loving cop. The attorney was a possible exception - he was young and unsure of himself and everything her past attorneys haven't been. But for the most part, this felt like a tame little jaunt through Recycled Character Land.

Sadness. On the bright side, I got The Maltese Falcon out of the library and am hoping that one is a little less disappointing.

So I haven't written in here in goodness-knows-how-long, and I really ought to again, given that this is an excellent way to keep a record of my existence and it also may motivate me to start writing fiction again. I have also decided to change things about for myself ever so slightly. My new rules for myself are as follows:

(1) I will post at least twice a week.
(2) Every time I post, I must end by saying a reason I am happy.

My hypothesis is that when a time comes when I am sad, I can flip back through my entries and find lots of reasons why being sad is a silly thing and I should abandon it forthwith.

I may post again later tonight, but for now I will sign off (and get dinner).

Today I am happy because I have a moose named Rupert.

Sometimes you just want it all to stop.

It's been a while since I've written. Since that time, I turned down the newspaper position (though I'll continue to write stories for sports when needed, I'm really hoping to move to the features desk), and I only have a few regrets - mainly, that I took the easy way out. Who knows? I'm certainly glad not to have the newspaper looming over me almost every single night...

I feel a little bit messed up (and by "a little bit" I mean "extremely") - like I don't belong here. My usual self-esteem issues, and not something worth writing about.

However: I do have something worth writing about. It happened several weeks ago, but the glow of the achievement still shines in every moment of my existence.

My 101 Things to Do list has stalled a bit, though I guess that's natural at the beginning of the school year. But still, I've gotten a few things done: I started work at the Rep, I tried a Philly cheesesteak (which was delicious, by the way), I saw the first Rep show (so that I'm on track to see all six - Passion Play was great, by the way, though the symbolism got away from me a bit by the end). However, none of these can ever compare to my crowning glory, the one thing that had to be done for this to be a success. I achieved the unachievable, surmounted the insurmountable, and I did it right here in New Haven.

I have petted a llama.

( Witness my jubilant triumph. )

I don't have even the slightest idea what to do.

I thought I was sure about wanting to edit for the paper this year. However, I'm realizing now that I'm no longer writing articles every week that I don't miss it at all. I don't really miss the stress, or the long afternoons waiting for sources to get back to me, or the constant feeling of another story hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. And I have no reason to believe editing would be any better; it's a big time commitment, and I'll probably have to give up something like German in order to have enough time for everything.

But... I don't want to regret having given up an opportunity like this in a few years. What if I miss out on something fantastic because of pettiness or fear of too much work? Am I giving up a lot of possibilities for the sake of instant gratification? Am I just being lazy? Am I making a poor decision based on my own whims rather than seizing a chance that could benefit my future? Is it possible I could handle the workload without dropping anything, and I'm just being a coward? Isn't being unhappy for a year worth it if it means I'll get a step up in my adult life? Haven't I been working toward this all along?

So why does the idea make me so unhappy?

(My userpic is very much used in irony at this point.)

So, after almost a full week of running a fever, dealing with chills and aches (of the head and sundry other places), and feeling just generally (to use the accepted medical term) icky, I'm well enough to interact with people on a regular basis again. With that in mind, I decided to pick up some extra hours at work by standing outside the Yale Rep theatre building and directing patrons to the University Theatre, as that's the location of the first production of the year. Easy enough - just wear usher black. I can do that. I have plenty of black clothes, right?

Well, yes. I have plenty of black clothes. At home. In Wisconsin. Where they are doing me very little good.

So as we speak, I am prepared to sally forth wearing a pair of black pants about an inch too short and a pajama shirt. With a hairband around the back to tighten the shirt, it doesn't look terribly bad... it merely looks like my taste in clothing runs a little toward the sleepwear-esque. Of course, this is assuming no one looks at my back. I could always press myself up against the building and refuse to move. I could claim that I suffer from paranoia and need to reassure myself no one is sneaking up on me.

...I think I need to borrow a black shirt before another one of my nights to usher comes up.

The fact that I'm up at 2:10am on a Saturday night doing homework indicates to me I may be looking at a replay of last year.

To put it another way, I may not get quite so much sleep as would be ideal.

I'm going to get some sleep pretty soon, I think, but I'm getting up at six or so to do some more work... and also to bid on a red trench coat on eBay that would be perfect for my (desired) Halloween costume.

I miss my laptop far too much.

So I'm a couple days into FOCUS now (the service / orientation program I'm helping to lead this year, after having been a participant last year), and I'm... really wishing it were over.

I love the panels. I love the cleanup at the park. I love the service work and the tours of the city.

But I can't handle this massive group of people.

I don't do well in situations like this... I need one-on-one time, or at least someone I already know. I can't make friends as quickly as I need to here, and it's making this very hard on me.

Four more days, I guess. And as much as I love the program... I don't think I'm coming back to it next year.