Deanna Repose Oaks

Poetically Captured Moments From the Heart

books

Book Clubs

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Never underestimate the power of a book club. They can do amazing things, just by reading books… and drinking wine.

I joined book clubs because I was struggling to decide what to read. I can never make up my mind about what to read next – I am not a genre reader I am a GOOD STORY reader. I’ll read anything, even the crappiest crap, all the way to the end if the blurb is good. For a while, I was just allowing my Kindle to recommend books to read. Bad idea let me tell you! While I learned lots about what not to write, it was difficult to find satisfaction. The book clubs SAVED me, in more ways than one.

First, I am now reading better books without being forced to think about what I am going to read next. Second, the group shares what they think, so I get to hear so many different opinions about the stories. Third, I feel valued when I share my opinions, enough so that I often open up when the books cut deep, and they all there with bandages and care. Fourth, I now have a tribe of people to ask for help on the silliest of things like where the cheapest gas station is or the hardest of things like can you help me take care of my family because one of us is sick. Fifth, I get to help others with the silliest of things and the hardest of things. Sixth… I could go on (and on and on), but I feel I may be boring you…. so I’ll stop there.

My books clubs have healed me, made me helpful, shown me that people are worth more time than I was giving them, and that you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover (or its blurb!).

Powerful stuff, all of it.

My TBR Pile…. That I keep getting distracted from

Journal #43

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I’ve been reading and watching Netflix. There are lots of shows that are based on books. I’ve watched the shows, then read the books. I found that the show was better… and I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. Books have always been better than films. There have been so very few exceptions in my experience, until lately. It makes me wonder if people making films are getting better, or if the people writing books are getting worse.

That is both good and bad for me. If writers are getting worse, that means that maybe I can make some money in the market even if I’m a less than stellar writer. But, if at the same time, films are getting better, that means there will be less readers in the market.

And while I am constantly thinking “How will this LOOK on film?” I’m still paying attention to what I am writing. But, is my writing worse for thinking about the film aspect? Or am I avoiding my writing because of how it will LOOK on film? Am I compromising my work thinking in this way?

I spend a lot of my writing time thinking about these things, when I should just be writing and figuring it out later. I am really finding any excuse not to write at this point, again. I guess that means I’m on the right track. Maybe.

Journal #42

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The scar tissue holding my heart together was too weak to face the truths of a book I recently read. The weakened tissue broke apart, leaving a gaping hole.

My heart is back to healing, as I have more than a few people in my sewing circle at the ready. And since this was a repeat fix, the road map was already in place.

I learned something about myself through this experience: I can NEVER stop reading.

Books do more than entertain you or show you the possibilities of what could be: they also show you the reality of what once was in sometimes harsh truths so you can grow past them.

Books also have a way to change over time. As you experience life, meanings behind truths within the books become more evident, sometimes so evident it is a slap to your face or a knife in your heart. Those are the types of books that let you see your true self without the warping effect of a mirror.

I love books, and I think that the reason I am having such trouble writing them is as I write, I read, and my own self truths revealed through the magic of the story seem irrelevant to the world around me.

I need to get over this…. NOW.

Journal #39

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I fell down a rabbit hole. This rabbit hole was that of a series of 9 books. 9 books that I read on a whim in the space of just over two weeks while working a full-time job, keeping up with housework, and sleeping at least 8 hours every night.

Funny thing is, I am not changed by the books. There was no affect on me other than the impression of good dialog and interesting ways the author moved the story along from one chapter to the next, one book to the next, one format to the next. In other words, these 9 books, while entertaining, only kept me enticed by the use of language and the use of story mechanics, not by the stories themselves.

This is the second time something such as this has happened to me. The last series I fell into like this was 15 books long and I just HAD to see what the author came up with for the next hook to get the read from book 11 to book 12…. I wasn’t all that interested in the stories.

This rabbit hole at least has a counterbalance because I will have a comparison to see how it translates to film. It should prove very interesting, indeed.

Yet…

Throughout the stories, I have found myself reminiscing over Austin, both Bronte sisters, and the Brothers Grimm. Wondering the whole time if the author did that purposefully or just happened to write that way because that is what she reads. I know I am guilty of the latter…

Prompt 13

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The End.

Two little words at the end of almost every story. I love reading them. It means that I can travel to a new place and meet new people, with very little expense comparatively. Plus, I can time travel. Can’t buy that from a travel agent, no matter how much I pay. Being in different places and different times takes me so far out of my reality that I can get through the day to day stress.

Yet, by losing myself in books, I cause myself more stress because I get behind in my day to day responsibilities, which just cause me more stress. I can’t be doing laundry in 2020 while I am France during WWII, it is not possible, no matter how creative I get holding the book.

Rather than stop reading to do my laundry, I stop doing my laundry. It is easier that way until I run out of underwear. Then, the problems begin. I have to put whatever book I am reading aside to do mountains of laundry. While there are 40 minutes between loads, but I can only read through the first two loads because once the first load is dry, the clothes must be folded and put away.