In the spring of 2017, I finished what had been
an eight year plus epic journey of reading of the Overlook edition of P.G.
Wodehouse’s books at the rate of one a month.
However, it was not enough to simply read the books. Oh no, anyone could do that with enough time
and willingness. I needed to do
something to add to this achievement. To
this end, I added a blog onto the entire proceedings to record my thoughts once
a month. The result was Plum and I.
Yes, before you ask, I have been identified as
having a Type A personality, although I think that is perfect nonsense. To me, Type As are CEOs of multinational
corporations, or at least they have multiple minions at their feet. The closest I come to management is running
my household, and yet I would never call my husband a minion, and certainly my
son and daughter flirt with mutiny whenever I tell them to do anything. I don’t even know that I qualify as an
overachiever these days, though that label might have served some use in high
school, eons ago Basically, I try and
get by in life, making certain that my husband is happy, my children are
civilized, and my employer does not get it in their head to dispense with my
services. Although given the state of
the world these days, those goals in and of themselves might be construed as
overachieving.
Back to the blog. Having a writing outlet was wonderful,
especially one that did not have a Looming Commitment, such as stories or
novels do. One of my nice Facebook
friends encouraged me to start a new blog when I announced the end of my
Wodehouse Project. This appealed to me,
particularly since I try to read most days and often have opinions that I share
with anyone who will listen. So, I made
a quiet pledge that at the beginning of
2018, after a few month’s rest, I would get started. It seemed to be a nice thing to do, and I
always enjoy a good New Year’s Resolution.
I was all set in January to begin, and had even
taken off a week at the end of that month to attend to some things in my house,
one of which was “Start New Blog.” The
week got off to a rousing start, the high point of which was reclaiming the
dining room from the flood of children’s toys that overwhelmed it. I was happily tidying my son’s room that
Monday afternoon when, suddenly, I did not feel well. Thinking that it would pass, I continued on
until ten minutes later I was feverish and shivering with what turned out to be
the flu. By the time I fully came to in
February, we were hit with the inevitable round of New England storms that
require much shoveling, looking after children, and wondering why this resulted
in so much laundry.
My good intentions prevailed throughout the
spring, only to have their high spirits squashed by the minutiae of daily
life. You know the sort of thing, bills
needed paying, Verizon decided to make my life interesting by refusing to
accept money from me (I spent what turned out to be 35 hours on the phone with
them resolving this matter), 1,001 forms for my children needed filling in (all
with the exact same information, maddeningly enough), my cat Churchill
developed a mysterious complaint. It
goes on. Mine is a life replete with
glamour.
It was when I was making mincemeat ice cream in
July that I realized that Something Must Be Done. The mincemeat was the frozen remains of the
fillings I had used for pies the previous holiday season. The spices always
remind me of Christmas, and it was that Proustian moment that made me remember
my resolution about the new blog. A
fortnight later, I am happy to say that, at long last, here I am typing away on
my ancient netbook.
Readers of my last blog might be wondering what
the subject of this one might be (that is, if I am not just typing into
oblivion having bored the internet into clicking away to see what those
Kardashians are up to now). Whereas the
earlier effort focused on Wodehouse with occasional guest roles filled by the
other books I had been reading, this one will be solely about my general reading. I am going to try to keep the current
political quagmire out of it, but, given some of the things I have read, that
might not be entirely possible.
Then there is the title: The Gothik Chick Reads
Again. Where on earth did she come up
with that, you might be asking yourself.
Those that knew me in high school might remember that it was a nickname
given to me. I would hasten to add that
I was not what might spring to mind as a typical Goth I did not wear all black, did not own a pair
of Doc Maartens, my eyes were not rimmed in kohl, and I only rarely listened to
the Cure. (The Docs appeared in college
after a bad ankle sprain and the wearing of all black on a regular basis began
when I was 20.) The name was given to me
because it probably seemed to most of my classmates as though I wanted to live
inside of a Bronte novel.* That would
not be entirely inaccurate, although now the thought makes me shudder for
various medical and social reasons. That
being said, the name always pleased me, though I never admitted it, so I
thought to reclaim it.
I hope you enjoy what I write and that it either
makes you think or, at least, pick up a book.
If not, then I hope it helps to relieve insomnia, because I firmly
believe in the restorative powers of sleep.
*I do realize that the Gothic period reached it
height in the late 17th and early 18th century.
Somehow, I think this fact eluded my classmates.
