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For the past week or so, I’ve been reading Jonathan Wild by Henry Fielding. I picked it up at a used book shop for a few cents, and the back copy looked intriguing. Sort of taking the wee out of politicians and such by expounding on how being a great man and being a good man are incompatible and making a mockery of such low and base attributes like, um, love, friendship, and honesty.

And it is a funny book, both for the reasons it was meant to be, and for clever little turns of phrases that manage to crack me up though I can’t remember them by the time I’m near a computer and hubby wouldn’t get it so… Anyway.

I have this thing about classics. I feel like I have to read each and every one of them at some point in time just so that I know what I’m missing by reading all my modern literature (even when by “modern” I mean the 1920’s, or even Jane Austen). I suppose it’s also a point of pride for me, having been one of the only half dozen or so in my English classes who actually understood Shakespeare (as well as you can without learning much about that time period), and one of the only two who actually liked Shakespeare.

The problem with some of these books, is that unless you’re a well versed historian (rather than someone who’s just into history), calling them classics is like a layman referring to the Hippocratic Oath as the end all be all of ethics. It may very well be, but we’ll never know unless we learn to read it in its original greek, and study all of its incarnations since then (cuz, really, if our doctors used the original Oath? A lot of things would be veeery different).

Without having the very basic understanding that the intended readers had, we’re just going to miss things. I could probably learn to understand Jonathan Wild in all it’s wonderful tricks, and layers, and hidden meanings. It would take me years, but I could do it.

I could do it, but I don’t want to. It’s bad enough that I’m a procrastinator to start with. With books that I love, I’m too wrapped up in the story to work on my own. With books I don’t love, I just want to get through them and to the end, and so that’s my excuse as well. The dull books don’t wrap up my creative mind the way well written modern novels do, but they give me something to latch on to in their own way.

Books are my addiction, and just like a drug addict, even the bad ones give me what I think I need. I just need to work on my gardening so I can share the homegrown.

I’m sure of it. For years I’ve been telling my friends (Yo! Tracy & CJ) that I think and write better when I’m drinking coffee. I also desperately need alone time to charge my personal energy levels which directly affect my creativity.

Guess what I haven’t had for the past week? And which week am I floundering like mad?

This weekend, I spent my usual atcafeworkingonmyWIP time visiting with my mother. Which is good. Yanno. Free food, mothers day, chocolate coffee malt (seriously, try it). It’s good. What it isn’t, is alone time. What it is, is toosickfromcoffeechocolatemalttoworkonWIP.

Sunday, I didn’t leave the house at all. Literally. Not even to take out garbage. Hubby only left to take out garbage.

Now, I love him dearly. I’m glad I live with him. I’m glad we work together. I’m glad he does all the driving when we’re together. What I’m not glad about, is that that means I’m not alone EVER. Unless I make the effort to leave for a few hours, or he goes to his mother’s, brother’s, or our friend Rafy’s. That’s it. He pouts and complains when I send him to the drugstore without me.

And this weekend is our anniversary.

So, I can fix the coffee issue. No problem. But it looks like another week or so till I get some time to myself. I’m considering investing in those Bose headphones that block out all sound, and then locking the door.

The past few days, every time I think about my WIP, or one of the articles I want to write- I get a tiny panic attack. Small enough to think that it’s a mere discomfort.

I do not feel this way about blogging.

I sometimes feel this way on Twitter (I’m serious).

I sometimes feel this way when commenting.

For some bizarre reason, I feel this way when I think about reading the novel I’m currently on.

I think the reason I feel this way about my WIP is because I’ve hit one of those ambiguous spots where I have a general idea of what should happen (as in, write something that takes Z from here to there), but not specifically what should happen (as in, have Z accidently snort a bee up her nose, because that’s what’s really going to catch B’s attention and peeve off R). This spot is very vague in my already vague outline as well. But if I skip ahead, having the open spot will work on my nerves until it can be fixed.

I think I feel this way about the articles, because an article should be good and can be read at any time from the time it’s published. Blog posts are more stream of conciousness.

Twitter and comments are probably perception issues. I don’t want people to think that I don’t care by not commenting, and yet have nothing to add to the conversation. So, it’s like a mini article (this is not to say all of my comments, just some).

But why, on Earth, could reading a novel panic me? Particularly when I haven’t crossed the first chapter yet? The only reason I can think of is that I should have picked another genre for right now. But panic?

Maybe it’s too much tea and not enough water. Just say NO to caffeine!