Sincerely, Ugh: My Descent into 1984

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Nothing motivates me to write more than reading. I don't mean that I'm excited to write because it'll give people something to read. No. Hell, no. What I mean is that nothing motivates me to write more than the words, 'It was a bright cold April day, and the clocks were striking thirteen'. Ugh. Sincerely, ugh. Recognize the line? It opens George Orwell's "1984" and marks the beginning of my descent into Hell.

I vowed long ago, about the time I finished reading the Cliff's Notes to Orwell's "Animal Farm", that I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER read anything by George Orwell ever again. On the top of that never-ever-ever list? "1984". And here we are, something like twenty-eight years later and a worn paperback copy of "1984" lies open next to me. What page am I on? Three. Thus far, I'm not impressed. I'm also wondering if they still make Cliff's Notes.

I read two books in high school - "Great Expectations" and "The Great Gatsby". Others were assuredly required, but I simply chose not to torture myself with them. I had other things to do and the local bookstore sold these really cool Readers' Digest Condensed versions of all the classics. Not only did these little yellow books synopsize the story, but they also included analysis guaranteed to impress most high school teachers. Without Cliff and his Notes I might not have passed high school English, the lit classes anyway.

I loved to read back then, just not the classics required by my high school English Department. 'Classics' by and large equated to boredom (FYI, they still do). The language was usually funky and archaic and the story lines were out of touch with modern reality (FYI, they still are). I could get into almost any other book. I loved historical fiction, historical non-fiction, biographies, crime novels, etc. Anything written in the last decade. And anything I didn't have to analyze the significance of. Seriously, why did the wind blow? Fuck me... Who knows? And moreover, who cares? Certainly not me.

Not then and not now. Compounding my issues this go-round? I really don't like to read. At all. Nothing. Not historical fiction, historical non-fiction, biographies, crime novels, etc. Nothing. Ask me to read and analyze? That's Hell my friends, a blazing fiery, all-encompassing, wordy Hell.

So, here I am one week into grad school and staring down "1984". God bless America. Let us all pray that the next 309 pages (yes, I looked) are better than the first three. And if they are not, let us pray that Wikipedia has it's own version of Cliff's Notes. And if it does, let us pray that my professor hasn't read it. Or this, for that matter.

Almost time for tennis. Nothing motivates me to play tennis more than reading. But that's a blog for another day.

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