Standish Treadwell

It's one of those days where I don't really have anything interesting to say.  That isn't to say I don't have a lot to talk about.  It's just that none of it is particularly interesting.

I'm nearing the end of my stimulation medications for my 2nd IVF cycle...which means I'm feeling bloated, bruised, and inclined to only wear waist-less clothing.  But honestly, I don't have a lot to complain about it.  I haven't been as nauseated this time around, which as been life-saving.  I've had much more energy to enjoy my days, so I've been trying to take advantage before the retrieval comes along on Friday and totally wipes me out.

Blake's been up in New York for the past three weeks, but he did get to come home last weekend. It was SO NICE to have him home.  We mostly laid low - swimming, watching movies, eating out - but it was just what we both needed.  He's coming home again on Friday for the retrieval, which makes the whole thing much easier to look forward to.

Also, my Mom is coming out on Friday to stay for a week to keep me company and help me out on my not-allowed-to-drive and too-sick-to-drive days.  I'm incredibly grateful that she'll be here for so long and it also feel like a great reward for making it through the next few days.

By the time the evening hits, I'm usually too tired to do much, so I've been doing a lot of reading and some seriously Netflix-ing.  Dawson's Creek, man.  It's so terrible! (But also strangely addicting).  Mostly I'm just watching it until I can't hold out any longer and end up purchasing season 2 of Orphan Black.  We'll see how long I last.

As far as reading goes, I've got a new goal to read all of the Printz Award winners and honorees.  I've made myself a chart on google docs to keep track of what I've read so far.  This, of course, appeals both to my love of charts and to my love of well-written YA literature.

I read Maggot Moon earlier this week.  It's a 2014 honoree and boy, it did not disappoint.  I'd characterize it somewhat as a mixture of 1984, Wonder, and a WWII holocaust bio.  I can't stop thinking about it.  It's told in 100 short chapters (some as short as a paragraph) by a 15 year old dyslexic boy named Standish Treadwell.  "Can't read. Can't write. Standish Treadwell isn't bright."  But he is bright.  And he changes the world.  And it's heartbreaking.  And fantastic. And fantastically creepy.  And I cried.

It's books like this that make me simultaneously excited to write, but panicked because nothing I write will ever be that good.

The sparse prose.  The perfect alliteration and use of metaphor.  The characters you want to jump in and save.  The characters you hate.  A story that makes you feel.