Stephen Giles
Colonist
Hello, Litopians. I just signed up here so I could leave a comment on Rachel McCarron's review of Queen Esther by John Irving, and subscribe to her newsletter. My gut told me to read her review instead of wading through Goodreads. The search result showed me the book is rated 3/5 there. I wanted to read a review from somebody who liked it, or better yet loved it, and the review Rachel posted here was exactly what I sought. I'm only five chapters in but I'm excited to read it all. I haven't read an Irving novel since Last Night In Twisted River. A Prayer For Owen Meany is my favorite novel ever. My favorite writer is Stephen King.
Upon creating my login, the five recommended next steps indicated I should introduce myself here, so I'm starting with that. Well, after actually reading the whole terms and conditions, which had me nodding my head in understanding. After this post I'll circle back to that particular book discussion.
Let's see here. I just turned 47, and I'm sitting in the same hospital where I was born, awaiting a tonsillectomy in the morning. My sister stopped at the bookstore on her way to visit earlier, and knows my literary tastes, so she got me the aforementioned Irving novel and some Oolong tea.
I used to write a blog two decades ago. I considered myself a writer. I was inspired to put pen to paper by a diary thread on a Chicago based stand up/ improv comedians' message board called IRC (Improv Resource Center) called True Porn Clerk Stories. I thought with all the reading I did, I should see if I had a knack for it. I started a thread there and eventually migrated to blogger and wrote a lot for six or seven years, for most of my twenties. I basically ended up using it as a diary, which morphed into some kind of unreliable narrator gonzo, to straight up short form horror with a little science fiction. The best two things I ever wrote on that blog were my versions of an obituary. One for my father, then another for a good friend. I stopped writing after that, back in the aughts. That pain brought out my best soured things for me.
Sometimes fragments of old memories ripple to the forefront for some reason, and for me, it was the word "taciturn," which I was thinking about last night while my right tonsil was doing its best impersonation of a golf ball. Then tonight, that word popped up early in the Irving novel, so I looked it up. I had misremembered the definition, thinking it was grouchy or ornery, when it's actually shy, reluctant to speak, quiet.
Life is strange. My little brother died at 42 years of age just three weeks ago. My mother, in hospice just down the road from me, called to compliment me on my brother's obituary, which I didn't write at all. My sister had an AI create it and then fed it to me for feedback and fine tuning, but traditional obits aren't the kind of obit I wrote. Mine were much more personal. Think Speaker for The Dead style a la Orson Scott Card before 9/11 broke his brain. In writing this "hi people" post here, I've realized I need to write one for my brother and stop being so damn taciturn.
Anyways, hello everybody. This looks like a pretty great place and I'm glad circumstances brought me here.
Upon creating my login, the five recommended next steps indicated I should introduce myself here, so I'm starting with that. Well, after actually reading the whole terms and conditions, which had me nodding my head in understanding. After this post I'll circle back to that particular book discussion.
Let's see here. I just turned 47, and I'm sitting in the same hospital where I was born, awaiting a tonsillectomy in the morning. My sister stopped at the bookstore on her way to visit earlier, and knows my literary tastes, so she got me the aforementioned Irving novel and some Oolong tea.
I used to write a blog two decades ago. I considered myself a writer. I was inspired to put pen to paper by a diary thread on a Chicago based stand up/ improv comedians' message board called IRC (Improv Resource Center) called True Porn Clerk Stories. I thought with all the reading I did, I should see if I had a knack for it. I started a thread there and eventually migrated to blogger and wrote a lot for six or seven years, for most of my twenties. I basically ended up using it as a diary, which morphed into some kind of unreliable narrator gonzo, to straight up short form horror with a little science fiction. The best two things I ever wrote on that blog were my versions of an obituary. One for my father, then another for a good friend. I stopped writing after that, back in the aughts. That pain brought out my best soured things for me.
Sometimes fragments of old memories ripple to the forefront for some reason, and for me, it was the word "taciturn," which I was thinking about last night while my right tonsil was doing its best impersonation of a golf ball. Then tonight, that word popped up early in the Irving novel, so I looked it up. I had misremembered the definition, thinking it was grouchy or ornery, when it's actually shy, reluctant to speak, quiet.
Life is strange. My little brother died at 42 years of age just three weeks ago. My mother, in hospice just down the road from me, called to compliment me on my brother's obituary, which I didn't write at all. My sister had an AI create it and then fed it to me for feedback and fine tuning, but traditional obits aren't the kind of obit I wrote. Mine were much more personal. Think Speaker for The Dead style a la Orson Scott Card before 9/11 broke his brain. In writing this "hi people" post here, I've realized I need to write one for my brother and stop being so damn taciturn.
Anyways, hello everybody. This looks like a pretty great place and I'm glad circumstances brought me here.
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