Some scribblings from the bus...

Funny, how you can find potential story characters absolutely EVERWHERE once you start looking for them.  I’m back to paying attention on the bus again, disguised as your everyday passenger absorbed in headphones and the occasional book… but inside I’m taking mental notes, plucking idiosyncrasies here, interesting facial features there, a snatch of dialogue eavesdropped from a conversation just behind my seat, a pair of astonishingly beautiful eyebrows…  And I feel like I know all these people that I’ve ridden this bus with for the past two years, though it’s really just crisscrossing, sharing the same space for a little while before we all scatter to our separate lives.

The man in the cardigan and pressed slacks, the one with the warm eyes.  He looks like the kind of person who notices things.  His name is Ernie, I just found out today.  It suits him.  Before that, I’d been thinking of him only as The Gentleman because of the way he always waits at the very back of the line for everyone else to board before getting on the bus himself.  A few times I tried hanging back, wondering if he’d possibly get on before me… but no, each time he’s nodded oh so graciously yet insistently.  Go on.  Find a seat.  I’ll wait.

The… I don’t know what to call them individually… it’s practically impossible NOT to think of them as a group… the… oh dear.  This delightful gaggle of women (some of them might be professors, almost all of them work at the university), they sit behind me in the very back every morning and are the absolute loudest people on the bus.  I can turn up my music as high as I want and still hear everything.  Sometimes it’s outrageous.  Sometimes it’s just plain old funny.  Always lots of raucous laughter.  One time they got into a spirited discussion about the evils of antibacterial soap, and (unbeknownst to them of course) I jotted the whole thing down then and there… I wish I could find those notes.  They are a blunt, sharp-humored bunch.  VERY smart. 

Then there’s Ponytail Man.  Well, he used to be Ponytail Man until one day he boarded the bus with that long blondish ponytail missing and a normal, everyday haircut in its place, but to me he is and always will be Ponytail Man.  I’ve sat behind him and next to him a couple of times, close enough to glance at the books he always carries with him in that beat-up camouflage backpack.  Lots of Japanese manga, not translated.  The cute schoolgirl and giant robot kind.  More Japanese books.  It makes me wonder if he’s learning the language or is perhaps already fluent.  He reads those a lot, and sometimes Louis L’amour paperbacks.

There’s a new boy who gets on the bus in the evenings, at the stop right after we pass the grocery store.  He’s lithe and thin, with muscular, tanned arms and a pair of the skinniest legs I’ve ever seen (pants a little too short, rolled up; boots a little too big, the leather work kind).  He looks like he grew up running through cornfields and playing baseball.  Lanky blonde hair, impossibly dark eyebrows.  The other day he pulled out a newspaper and read it the entire way into town, half-smiling, utterly absorbed, like the newsprint was telling him secrets.  He’s a cross between Peter Pan and Almonzo Wilder, with (I think) a touch more of the former.  I’ve started calling him Peter Pan in my head.

The beautiful black baby (well, not really a baby anymore, probably two or three – and not really black, more like chocolate – but “the chocolate toddler” sounds quite strange indeed) who I see occasionally in the mornings with her mom.  They get on at the stop just after the train tracks, the mother loaded down with diaper bag and stroller, baby in tow.  She (baby) is now big enough to sit in a seat of her own, chubby legs outstretched, body bent forward in an effort to take it ALL in – passengers, the view from every window, the driver.  All with that wide-eyed, solemn gaze.  When they get off just before we reach the mall, the crowd in the back of the bus gets a little quieter, waiting.  Mother and baby disembark, the baby straining to hold onto the diaper bag while still peering around to get a last look at all of us on the bus.  She has no idea she is queen of the XB.  And they get off… we’re all still waiting.  Will she?  Will she do it?  And, without fail, just as the mother hoists her onto her hip and slings the diaper bag over the other shoulder, she does, she strains back toward the departing bus and waves regally with one tiny hand.

Two Weeks In

(Not actually my library, but I wish.  It looks like heaven.)

It’s officially starting to feel like college season.  Textbooks scattered across the floor; notes to myself strewn over the desk like falling leaves (most of which don’t make sense after I write them); a lone coffee pot sitting expectantly beside my math folder; a page full of fragments, doodles, and beautiful words (if I ever scrounge up the money for another tattoo, I’ll have TONS of ideas); and my perpetually overstuffed green backpack slouched against the chair.  This, all mixed in with remnants of summer: a box of seashells bought on a whim from a flea market (what I’ll do with them I have no idea), my now-broken Chacos lying in a heap beside the fan, a paper bag of tea from Central Market on the bookshelf, and letters and photos from camp.  Lots of them, everywhere.  I like my clutter.  I think it reflects a healthy sense of creative chaos. 

     

Anyhow.  College.  As I might have mentioned in a previous post, my college experience is a bit different than the norm.  I’m taking online classes through a community college three hours away.  I’ve been to the actual college once, over a year ago, and that was to register for my first semester.  Haven’t been back since.  My reason for deciding to do college this way is pretty simple: it’s what I can afford.  Yeah.  That’s really all.  Online college is full of both blessings and curses.  Honest confession: I’ve been feelin’ the curses a lot more recently.  Here are some general tidbits about my school experience:

1. I spend a lot of time in front of a screen, obviously.  To the level where I can sometimes feel my eyeballs drying out.
2. Even though my classes are not “do it at your own pace”, they’re not real-time either.  So as long as I meet my deadlines, I can read/watch lectures and do my homework whenever I fancy.
3. Sometimes when I say “I take online classes”, I feel like I have to make up all these really big, fancy reasons as to why online college is just as real as… well, real college.  And then I get annoyed with myself for being so insecure.  So I won’t give you any big, fancy reasons.  Take my word for it: you do as much work in an online class as you would any class on campus. 
4. A speech class online is probably one of the worst things you could do to yourself.  I gave my first speech via webcam in a magnificent thunderstorm.  Then the power went out.
5. For someone who likes to learn with all five senses, being mostly limited to a stationary setting is enough to make me want to leap out the window sometimes.
6. One time in a conversation about college, a well-meaning person told me, “I could never do online classes.  I’m a verbal processor.”  This verbal processor would like to respectfully disagree.  It’s not my first choice, not by a long shot.  But hey, you do what works.  And you find ways to compensate.
7. Learning online is not as simple as I assumed upon starting this whole gig a year ago.  Self-motivation is the key.  Unfortunately, I’m still looking for this key.  If you ever find it, let me know.  I’ll most likely be barricaded in my room, pounding out a research paper the night before it’s due.

I hope that those few snippets have given you a glimpse into the world of virtual higher education.  For my part, these past two weeks have been quite a struggle for me.  Lots of days spent missing people, craving diversity and a change of scenery, wondering what it would be like to sit in a classroom with other students and have the luxury of talking face-to-face with my professor if I wanted.  Don’t get me wrong, there are many things about my situation that I appreciate so, so much.  Not having a rigid schedule is great.  Being able to pick my own hours at work is great.  Living right next door to Penn State and being able to make use of the enormous libraries and take the bus everywhere is great.  Having the flexibility for things like road trips and spending time with friends is wonderful.  After all, it’s not like I spend all my time locked away in my room, staring at the computer with a glazed expression (just sometimes).  And when that does happen, the rule is this: go play.  Go for a walk, get a snack, explore, see something new, read a book I actually like, listen to some music, have a private dance party, meet up with a friend, grab the sisters and go running.  But still… sometimes a girl gets stir-crazy.  Part of it also has a lot to do with transitioning from such an adventure-filled summer away from home.

      

This week I spent loads of time daydreaming about traveling and concocting crazy schemes about things I’d like to do after college.  Also… tattoos.  ANYWAY.  Friday into today I ended up taking a much-needed trip to Elizabethtown to visit some very dear friends from camp.  Seeing them again did my heart so much good (guys, I hope some of you are reading this – I love you more than I can say).  Laughter, stories, firelight, playground adventures, a bare-handed cake-eating contest, soccer ending in a broken garage window, creek explorations… it was one of those weekends that left my soul overflowing with good things.  On our way back from the creek, all of us thoroughly soaked and happy as thunder rumbled in the distance, Anna grabbed my hand, smiled, and said, “I’m completely content right now.”  I realized so am I, and it was a wonderful feeling.  I am so grateful for friends that I can be childlike with.  Friends that I can laugh with.  Friends who love to dream big dreams.

     

I should be grateful more often, and I’m not.  I wish I knew the secret of being content in every situation, and I don’t.  This semester is what it is, and online college still frustrates the heck out of me on bad days, and I’m still longing to go explore faraway places and my heart is homesick for things I can’t even name… but here I am.  And… honestly I’m not sure if I feel okay with that or not.  Right now contentment is a bit of a day-to-day thing. 

     

Today I was, though.  And it felt really good.

Quarry Exploring

Charlotte, Abby, and I spent three hours this Sunday afternoon sneaking around the limestone quarry near our house and hiking the mountains behind it.  It. Was. Glorious.  I hadn't been on a good hike since coming home, and I think my soul was just aching to go exploring.  (Note to self: we all need play time.)

The quarry itself is dilapidated and beautiful; full of crooked, sagging rooftops covered in thick layers of white dust; twisted pipes and electrical wires trailing like rust-colored jungle vines; windows with missing panes.  Due to running machinery we couldn't actually explore up close, so we settled for climbing around on the old train and inventing stories about groups of runaways living in the quarry (because it looks like the perfect place for such things).

Before the climb

After that, we trail-blazed up the side of the mountain and found a bunch of secluded cow pastures.  (Why there are cow pastures up there, I have no idea, but they are lovely.  It’s like another world.  I wish I had pictures, but thanks to sky-high weeds and unsteady ground Char couldn't whip out her camera.)  Finding an actual path up the mountain proved trickier than expected, involving a detour directly through a patch of scruffy bushes, into a creek, and across the train tracks before we finally found a gravel road leading onward and upward.  From here, the hike got very messy.  We scrabbled up the incline, knocking stones loose, grabbing for sturdy looking branches, and yelling “Rock!” whenever we dislodged a sizable object with potential to knock out the person below (there were quite a few of those, and usually the person yelling only did so after the rock had already bounced off someone’s knee or shoulder – there was a lot of yelling all around).  By the time the three of us reached the top, the incline was too steep to let go of anything.  Abby and I hung onto flimsy-looking tree branches while Charlotte looked for a place in the brush to climb through.

    

“There’s barbed wire up here!” she called, to which the reply came, “Well, figure out how to climb through it!  We’re NOT going back down!”  The barbed wire turned out to be nothing more some rusty metal fencing, so we shoved over it and plunged into what looked like a mess of dense, wiry bushes.  Unfortunately we found ourselves in the middle of a thorn patch.  A minute or so of yelping, ripping, and squealing and everyone was free, though not without a few cries of “I’m bleeding!” and “There are thorns in my underwear!” 

Then we were through.  The pastures stretched ahead of us, tantalizingly separated from our strip of wildflowers and weeds by a singing electric fence, long sunlit grasses melting into the shadows of the mountain beyond it.  A few black cows dotted the hills.  We marched through the thick weeds along the fence, suddenly transformed into dirty, sweaty, thoroughly bedraggled British explorers (with terrible accents):

“Hullo!  I daresay we’ve stumbled upon Welsh countryside!”

“No, I think it’s the Amazon.”

“Nonsense, it’s most assuredly Wales.”

“The Amazon!”

“WALES!”

There’s something intoxicating about the thrill that comes from being almost (but not quite) lost.  We plowed on for maybe half a mile, stepping into rabbit holes, jumping over miniature creeks, and tangling in spiders webs until we decided it might be a good idea to figure out how we were going to get down again.  Abby found a promising spot where the bushes thinned a little, and we decided to go for it.  Alas, MORE thorns.  Lots of them.  Story of our lives, I guess.  We got about five feet into the bushes and found ourselves completely surrounded by prickly things.  Charlotte got stuck and Abby slipped on a thorn patch right in front of me (after she got free, I of course fell into the same patch).  Much wild giggling ensued.  I concentrated on freeing my shorts from all the thorns, ignoring Char’s shouts of “Blood!  Blood!  BLOOD!” which kept increasing in volume.  FINALLY, somehow, we both tugged ourselves free and half-ran, half-fell the rest of the way down the bank to where Abby was waiting below on solid ground.  Charlotte was, in fact, bleeding and not just being overly dramatic (I took pictures as evidence). 

 The rest of the days adventures included splashing around in giant quarry puddles, throwing mud at each other, and getting stuck in various thorn patches.  (Come on, it hasn't been a REALLY good adventure until you've gotten a few scratches and some thorns in your underwear.  Seriously people...)  We arrived home three hours later, scraped, a little bloody, covered in mud and prickles, and quite happy.  

Dear reader, if you ever find yourself in Bellefonte and are looking for an excellent hike, go check out this quarry.  So much fun.

Return of the Wandering Blogger

Hi again!  It seems that my blog has died.  But (hooray!) I am here to revive it.  Maybe.  At least I have good intentions of doing so...  It’s been almost a year since I posted anything, so here's some of what’s been going on in the past eleven-ish months, all the way up to where I am now…

As of October last year, I became an actual published author!  Eeep!  I wrote a short story titled "Time Travel, Coffee, and A Shoebox" which was published online by Daily Science Fiction.  Not ashamed to admit that the day it appeared as a finished piece in my inbox was one of the happiest days of my life.  Much screaming and leaping around the house ensued.  Check it out, yo.  Here’s the link if you feel so inclined.  http://dailysciencefiction.com/science-fiction/virtual-reality/nina-pendergast/time-travel-coffee-and-a-shoebox

In November, I decided try National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  I had thirty days in which to hammer out a 50,000-word novel.  As usual, it was something I plunged into without thinking too hard about the fact that I worked 20 hours a week and still had a fifteen-credit semester to tackle.  Somehow, in the midst of all the chaos, sleepless nights, and mass consumption of vanilla tea, the novel got written.  As you might imagine, it was a train wreck.  Some of it reads like the ravings of a madwoman (which, by November 30, I practically was).  It was both the most exhilarating and the most nightmarish month of fall semester.  As for the manuscript… I’d let you read it, but then I’d have to kill you.

May marked the end of my first year of online college classes.  Doing college online is… a very different experience, and one that sometimes makes me want to tear out my hair.  This is probably the subject for another blog post entirely.  Anyway, in the beginning of June, I left my dear old Bellefonte for a third summer of counseling at Camp Hebron, a Christian camp in Halifax (PA, not Canada).  There’s absolutely no adequate way to do justice to the nine-and-a-half weeks I spent there, at least not in one paragraph.  There never is.  It was one of the most beautiful, adventurous, wonder-filled summers I have ever experienced.  Stargazing.  Mud fights.  Canoeing on the Susquehanna.  Midnight hot chocolate raids with my campers.  Laughing until my sides hurt.  Eating worms.  Climbing rooftops.  Sharing stories into the wee hours of the morning.

I’ve been back for two weeks now, and the semester officially starts tomorrow.  It’s hard to describe all the feelings I have about the end of summer, about all the goodbyes I’ve had to say and how strange it feels to settle back into the routine of home.  Ah, end of August, how can you be so lovely and so sad at the same time?  I am reading The Wind in the Willows and Kenneth Grahame does a better job articulating this than I can, so I'll borrow his words:

“Nature’s Grand Hotel has its Season, like the others.  As the guests one by one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the table d’hôte shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as suites of rooms are closed, carpets taken up, and waiters sent away; those boarders who are staying on, en pension, until the next year’s full reopening, cannot help being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells, this eager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters, this daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship.  One gets unsettled, depressed, and inclined to be querulous.  Why this craving for change?  Why not stay on quietly here, like us, and be jolly?  You don’t know this hotel out of season, and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who remain and see the whole interesting year out.  All very true, no doubt, the others always reply; we quite envy you – and some other year perhaps – but just now we have engagements – and there’s the bus at the door – our time is up!  So they depart, with a smile and a nod, and we miss them, and feel resentful.”

While the end of summer often finds me unsettled, querulous, and craving change, I'm determined to find contentment and adventure here.  It's been a topsy-turvy past couple of weeks, but not without plenty of wonderful and interesting happenings.  So there will be more stories to come regarding said adventures, soon.  For now, farewell, goodnight, and (if you’ve made it this far down the page) thanks for reading my ramblings.  I'll be back later.

Reading Like A Writer

Well, it's been far too long since I've done any blogging. However, I am happy to report that my time has been filled with a myriad of other equally wonderful and worthwhile things, one of which is reading. Confession: technically, I shouldn't have time to read “just for fun”. As a journalist major, I'm supposed to be reading the newspaper every day and at least one magazine a week, plus my textbooks and extra material (although I should probably be honest and admit that the whole newspaper-a-day thing isn't happening). I love studying, I truly do. But in the past month, I have realized two things: (1) Reading for enjoyment MUST happen at some point in the week. End of story. Or I will go insane. And (2), that if I want to make time for said reading, no matter how much those words “making time” strike fear into my procrastinator's heart, I have to fight for it. My admiration for those people who instinctively know how to maximize every single minute of their day is boundless.

Despite my uncanny ability to let time get away from me (I like to think of it as an anti-superpower), I have learned to snag reading opportunities here and there: on the bus, in the break room at work, late at night when I'm supposed to be sleeping, etc. But I no longer have the time to devour books in one sitting like I did in high school. Gone are the days of coming home every week with stacks of books and ability to finish all of them at my leisure. I think back rather wistfully to the weekend in eleventh grade in which I inhaled the entirety of Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and I wonder, “How on earth did I do that?”

At the same time, even though part of me misses those days, I'm beginning to believe that my slowed-down reading pace isn't necessarily a bad thing. Why? Well, partly because of this wonderful book I just finished called Reading Like A Writer by Francine Prose. (And by the way, isn't that name almost too perfect for an author? Kinda makes you suspicious... hmmm...) I read her book for the first time as a junior in high school and absolutely loved it. Last month I picked it up again and just finished it last week. My verdict: everyone – yes, I mean EVERYONE – who loves books and the written word should read this. As in, go. Now. To the library.

Until I read this book, I had never heard of close reading before. Maybe you haven't either. There are lots of ways to define the term, but I'm gonna be all scholarly and quote the Wikipedia article (ahem): “Close reading describes, in literary criticism, the careful, sustained interpretation of a brief passage of text. Such a reading places great emphasis on the particular over the general, paying close attention to individual words, syntax, and the order in which sentences and ideas unfold as they are read.” (Hey, not too shabby, Wikipedia.) In the first chapter, Prose gives an in-depth description of close reading, providing groundwork for the rest of her book in which she analyzes short stories, essays, and novels from a wide gamut of authors (Jane Austen, Scott F. Fitzgerald, Flannery O'Conner, Ernest Hemingway, Franz Kafka, Shakespeare, Leo Tolstoy, Henry James, and Emily Brontë, just to name a few). And not just works from long-dead writers of classics, either. She references a handful of present-day novelists as well.

In eleven chapters, Prose builds from words, sentences, and paragraphs, to narration, character, dialogue, detail, and gesture. But she doesn't teach you anything about writing, at least not directly. Instead, she quotes beautiful passages of literary works, ranging in length from a few sentences to several pages, adds her own musings, and allows you to ponder and make observations. If anything, the overarching theme of the book is that for every literary rule you encounter, you will find an exception. As I finished each chapter over the last five weeks, I found myself slowing to a crawl, not wanting the book to be over. I carried it to work with me, sneaked pages here and there on my lunch break, and gave myself a headache reading on the bus. When I found a quoted passage that I particularly liked, I'd made a note of the author and title and rush to the library after work.

As a junior paging through Reading Like A Writer, I remember feeling like I was learning to read for the first time. Prose made reading seem like an art, like wine-tasting instead of gobbling down a feast in one sitting. It became something more purposeful, deliberate, and overall more delightful. And both times after finishing her book, I found myself more inspired to write – and equipped with the courage to do so. Take that, Inner Editor.

Oh, and by the way... another perk to checking out Reading Like A Writer is for the wonderful book list included at the end, entitled “Books To Be Read Immediately.” She's got some seriously fantastic titles in there. And here's a quote for you, because I like quotes and this one seems to sum it all up:

“If we want to write, it makes sense to read – and to read like a writer. If we wanted to grow roses, we would want to visit rose gardens and try to see them the way that a rose gardener would.” – Francine Prose, Reading Like A Writer

The Paradox of a Virtual Life

Some people love summertime because of the sunshine, the beach, and the flip-flop tans. Some people love it for the picnics, sweet corn, and warm evenings glittering with fireflies. I love summer because it has become the only time of year in which I can leave my phone turned off in the bottom of my suitcase for as long as I want to and nobody asks indignantly if I got their text message. I love it because for once, Facebook and email are a chore rather than a necessity. I love it because I don't have to sit in front of a computer screen when all I want is a good heart-to-heart.

Both this summer and last summer I worked at a Christian camp from June until August. For a blissful nine weeks, I lived almost completely technology-free.  You don't have time for gadgets when you're hiking up a mountain in the pouring rain, building sandcastles at the playground with kindergartners, spraying shaving cream on a crowd of gleefully squealing middle-school girls, or splashing through mud puddles to get to the dining hall in the middle of a downpour. Yes, I checked my Facebook and phone on the weekends... but it wasn't something I thought or even cared much about. Cleaning out my inbox, scanning notifications, and replying to texts became an afterthought. “Yeah, I should probably do that later,” I would tell myself on my weekends off, and sometimes I'd just conveniently forget. My summer was one of adventures, laughter, and conversation. As mid-August crept closer, the staff talked about dreading going back to “real life”, but I think we had it backwards because nothing could have been more real. Maybe we've simply forgotten what real life is supposed to be like.

I've been home for three weeks now... and I've found that without the constant interaction and face-to-face communication that defines camp life, I don't quite know what to do with myself. In three weeks, I have checked my Facebook account more than a dozen times a day and sent and received more text messages than my phone processed over the course of the entire summer. I hate feeling obligated to carry my cell phone and compelled to check my messages over and over again. I hate the fact that I've gone straight back to doing what I was so happy to be free of for three months. Most of all, I hate the fact that I could stop... and won't.

Last year at the beginning of October, I decided enough was enough and deactivated my Facebook account. My goal was to stay away from social networking until the new year. Then it turned into a month. Then, three and a half weeks later, I caved.  Much as I felt like I was cheating, it simply didn't seem practical, especially for those long-distance friendships in which Facebook was our only link.  However, I recently stumbled across an article in a year-old Newsweek magazine entitled “iCrazy: How Connection Addiction Is Rewiring Our Brains” and a video (on Facebook, of all places) that got the wheels turning again.

Shimi Cohen, creator of the four-minute video entitled “The Innovation of Loneliness”, describes with simple clarity why social networking has become such a crutch in our lives. “We're collecting friends like stamps, not distinguishing quantity versus quality, and converting the deep meaning and intimacy of friendship with exchanging photos and chat conversations. By doing so, we're sacrificing conversation for mere connection, and so a paradoxical situation is created in which we claim to have many friends while actually being lonely.” You can watch the video here: The Innovation of Loneliness

It's beautifully stated.  In a society that glorifies the individual, we've become addicted to affirmation and the reassurance that we'll never have to be alone, yet we're lonelier than ever.  We spend time crafting the perfect virtual self and surrounding ourselves in a bubble of virtual friends so that we'll never have to feel the ache of loneliness, but we're only fooling ourselves.

The media and social networking has a place in our lives whether we like it or not.  Regardless, I don't want to settle for connection over conversation.  I don't want to settle for anything less than REAL.  I don't want something that was intended to be a tool to become a lifestyle. Cohen said it perfectly: “We slip into thinking that always being connected is going to make us feel less alone. But we are at risk, because the opposite is true. If we are not able to be alone, we're only going to know how to be lonely.”

Good Books Are Like Macaroni and Cheese

I have a love-hate relationship with top ten lists. I love reading other people's lists, and I love the idea of creating my own... but when it actually comes down to it, I struggle to pick just ten. Especially books. It's like choosing a favorite kid, for crying out loud! Yet here I am, trying once again to concoct such a list, because it seems like an appropriate thing to do before the semester starts. Actually, I'm going to be unconventional with a list of Top Eleven. Somehow that extra book makes me feel better about being selective. The titles listed below are my tried-and-trues, the ones I go for when I'm tired of hunting through the library shelves and just want to curl up with something familiar.  To me these books are like macaroni and cheese - comfort food in readable form.  My hope is that you'll find something interesting here to add to your own bowl of mac n' cheese. (By the way, much as I adore them, this does NOT include picture books... because that's a little too ambitious for my taste.  We'll save that list for another day.)

1. The Princess Bride by William Goldman – Everyone has seen the movie. How many people even know the book exists? Okay, maybe everyone knows and I was just in the dark for years. Thanks for telling me, guys. Anyway, it's hilarious, possibly even funnier than the movie. You should read it. Really. It's my go-to when I need something fun and don't want to think very hard.

2. Arthur: The Seeing Stone by Kevin Crossley-Holland – This is the first in a trilogy. (Appreciate my sneakiness here – that's three for the price of one!) If you like medieval fiction or Arthurian legends and have not read this... well, for shame! Get thyself a copy. Beautiful prose and vivid characters.

3. Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt – In a nutshell, it's about an eleven-year-old girl who finds the fountain of youth in the woods beyond her house. When I was younger, I used to read this during the first week of every August, because that's where the story begins. I've since broken the tradition, but I still read the book at least once a year.

4. Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones – I was foolish enough to start the first chapter at ten o' clock in the evening. But then again, how was I supposed to know that I wouldn't be able to put it down? I ended up hunched under a blanket with a flashlight and sore elbows at two o' clock in the morning. If you like fantasy... heck, if you like to laugh and enjoy clever prose, this is for you. Spells, mobile castles, cranky fire demons, melodramatic wizards, eighteen-year-old girls disguised as old women... lots of exciting stuff, folks. PS: Hayao Miyazaki adapted the story into an equally quirky animated film.

5. Flight: Volume II edited by Kazu Kibuishi – Throwing you for a loop here. This one's the first on the list that isn't a novel. It's a comic anthology of thirty-three stories by young, unconventional artists. Volume II is lovely, displaying a diverse blend of styles and genres. The stories range from oddly poetic to downright eerie. A must-read if you like graphic novels or art in general.

6. Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie – Everyone knows the story of Peter Pan. (Thank you, Disney.) I'm not sure the same number of people have read the original book, but to miss the opportunity would be a tragedy. J.M. Barrie is brilliant. You can't help laughing out loud at his wonderful, spot-on dialogue. Few authors know how to write children with so much honesty. This is one of the most enchanting stories I've ever read. (The edition featuring Scott Gustafson's illustrations makes it even better.)

7. The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis – He's one of my all-time favorite authors. And The Great Divorce just might be my favorite thing he's ever written. In brief, it's about a bus ride from heaven to hell. C.S. Lewis is one of those authors who can write about eternity without sounding saccharine or preachy. The book is thoughtful, convicting, sometimes funny, and always full of joy.

8. Willful Creatures by Aimee Bender – Here you will find fifteen diverse short stories. Bender writes surreal speculative fiction that is both bizarre (a boy with keys for fingers, potato babies, a child born with an iron head) and utterly heartfelt. Her short stories are some of the best I've read in the genre.

9. The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak – It's a story about World War II, and it's narrated by Death. Wait, you say, doesn't that sound terribly morbid? Well, yes... I suppose it does. Yet Zusak somehow manages to make it humorous, heartbreaking, and bittersweet. Besides, it's pretty hard not to be intrigued by a first chapter entitled “Death and Chocolate.”

10. How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn – Set in the coal mines of Wales, this story contains some of the strongest characters I have ever met. I say “met” because that's how real they are – by the second chapter, you feel like you've known Huw Morgan and his boisterous family your whole life. The book is like a wilder, grittier, Welsh version of Little House on the Prairie. Except much, much better.

11. The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery – My lists change all the time, practically every time I read a new book. It takes a lot for a book to stay on the list for more than a year, let alone permanently. The Little Prince is one of the few exceptions. This title has been a favorite ever since I read it for the first time as a freshman in high school. Narrated by a pilot stranded in the desert, it's the whimsical story of a prince who leaves his tiny asteroid and journeys to earth. From the endearing dedication page to the melancholy last page, I love, love, LOVE every word of this story. Saint-Exupery knows how to write straight at the human heart.

There you have it: my current top ten eleven list.  This is my bowl of macaroni and cheese.  (Gosh, all this talk of metaphorical noodles is seriously making me hungry.  I need to stop.)  How about you? Do you have a list of your own? Like I said, this is the time of year in which I start hunting for new titles... so recommendations are welcome! Who knows, in a couple of months I might just have to revise my selections.  In the meantime, check these books out if you haven't already done so.  Happy eating!  Er, reading...