So, the birthday. I got some good, solid slacking-off-with-an-arm-thrown-over-my face. I went and had dinner with my parents and my sister. There were new pairs of Converse sneakers (my secret vice), Crème brûlée, and a card from my mother that was covered in unicorns. They put a birthday candle in my crème brûlée, so I even blew out a candle for the first time in years.
Then I went into work today and logged onto my facebook and found a
wall timeline full of people wishing my happy birthday, which is one of those things about modern life and interconnectivity that I haven’t quite gotten the hang of. Plus, I always feel like I’m disappointing people by being so sedate in my celebrating. To say nothing of the fact that I’m a horrible facebook user, what with being a convert to Twitter.
Still, thank you all. I shall endeavour to celebrating harder next year, I swear.
Tomorrow will be the sole sane day in my entire week. Wednesday I’m off to Rockhampton in the morning, something that’ll require a 6 am flight, and I’ll be back in time to teach my 6 pm class at the QWC. Thursday I go and find somewhere to vote, since I’ve just realised I’ll be out of town during the state elections, then I’ll working late at the QWC staffing an event. Friday morning I fly down to Melbourne on a flight so early it makes the Rockhampton flight look sane and reasonable, and once I’m down there I’ll be sitting in on a class the QWC is running so I can learn the content.
After that, I’m going to have a short two-day holiday in Melbourne, catching up with some people, although I expect part of the time will be spent lying comatose in a hotel room catching up on lost sleep. If you’re in Melbourne and free Saturday night, there will be some kind of catching-up-for-drinks at a location to be determined.
I’m becoming, in my old age, increasingly grumpy about book snobbery.
I understand it, of course. I am, after all, male and white and ostensibly middle-class, which means I grew up with all the usual prejudices against certain kinds of fiction and film due to the audience they were written for. For the last few years I’ve been trying to grow out of that, but it isn’t easy – some days I’m good at it, some days I wish I could trash Twilight just like everyone else.
I do spend time trying to find things I like in genres I used to revile, which actually turns out to be pretty easy. The process goes a little something like this: find a fan of the genre whose company you enjoy, ask for their recommendations, then read them with an open mind.
For romance, however, you could probably skip finding the fan and go straight to Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, which is quickly becoming one of my favourite places on the internet. And if you want to know, I recommend starting with the following post: Romance, Arousal, and Condescension. It’s brilliant, and smart, and covers all the reasons book snobbery pisses me off.