Over and over again

Today's prompt from The Daily Post is:

Tell us about a book you can read again and again without getting bored — what is it that speaks to you?

I couldn't believe my eyes when this question popped up today of all days because I had just picked up one of my most favourite books from childhood for another round of reading: The Call of the Wild by Jack London.

I got my grubby hands on this book in primary school. I was flipping through the Book Club catalogue, saw a book with a dog on the front cover and without knowledge of the plot or characters, I filled in the form and ordered it. That's right, I bought the book (or rather, my mum did because ten-year-old me had no money) because a dog stood proudly on the cover. I was in an animal adoration phase at that time.

This lovely cover made me buy the book.

Weeks later, the book arrived. I snatched it and eagerly flipped to the first page. From then on, I was swept away by the beauty and simplicity of the writing. The story sucked me in and opened up a whole new world, filled with the harsh snow of the Artic, the greed and cruelty of man, the loyalty and ferocity of dogs, and the list goes on forever.

It was all so new to my ten-year-old brain I'm surprised my head didn't explode. I zipped through the book in a few hours and it left me with feelings of wonder and emptiness, feelings which I have ever since used as a benchmark to compare other books.

The Call of the Wild was unlike anything I've read and even now, ten years on, I can't find a book I would love to re-read more.

Afro circus

I am the biggest fan ever of kiddy movies. Whenever I see a trailer that looks like it would fill a giant screen with awesomeness, I head straight for the theatres for a ticket and a giant bucket of popcorn.

While I've watched most of the kiddy movies out there, I'm ashamed to admit I haven't seen Madagascar 3 even though a lot of people talked about it. I guess I wasn't all that interested in social activities at that point in my life because I was focusing on my studies.

But a friend mentioned it a few weeks ago and started talking about this funny part in the movie:

I laughed. But not as hard as I snorted when I found mash-ups.

And even though this has nothing to do with Madagascar 3 or even Chris Rock, I stumbled upon this and laughed so hard I almost cried:

What even?

Today I received a rejection email from a magazine I submitted to last year. I'm disappointed because I put a lot of effort into my story but hey, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

The good thing about this magazine is that they give feedback to all the work they receive, so despite the rejection, I was quite pumped to know how I could improve my writing. I read through their comments and thought, "Hmm, yeah, okay. Not really my style but I see where you're going with this. I'll think about it."

Then one word caught me out.Voyeurism. The sub-editor who looked at my work said it had a sense of voyeurism. I didn't know what it meant, only that it sounded like voyage so maybe it had something to do with a journey, which would make sense because my story takes place in a train. Just to be sure though, I looked it up in the dictionary and saw this:

Voyeur n person who obtains pleasure from watching people undressing or having s*x.
Voyeurism n

And the first thing I thought was, "What the freak?"

I don't even know how that works. My mind was completely broken and I couldn't function straight for about half an hour. When I think back to it, I still don't, although I laugh at the reaction I had.

To end this post on a happy note, here's something that made me laugh:

Mess. Mess! EVERYWHERE!

Today's prompt from The Daily Post is:

Does a messy home (or office) make you anxious and cranky, or is cleaning something you just do before company comes over?

I'm messy by nature so books on the desk instead of the shelf and pencils rolling around instead of standing in a pencil jar doesn't faze me at all. In fact, my creativity and motivation thrive on mess because as Einstein so eloquently put it: "If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?"

After reading that quote, I became quite proud of my desk, what with papers filled with novel ideas, lecture notes, books and sketches scattered everywhere. Lots of people look at it and see a giant towering stack of rubbish but most things making up that tower are important and systematically filed. By systematically, I mean everything is stacked in the order of: Monday's things, Tuesday's things, Wednesday's things etc. and then Wren, Fall, plot bunny #1, plot bunny #2, plot bunny #3 and so on.

However, I do become quite cranky when I lose a piece of paper in that tower and can't find it, or when there isn't enough space to work. That's when I roll up my sleeves and do a massive purging/exorcism of the unwanted things lurking in my desk. I tear through everything and separate it into three categories: bin, recycle and keep. I am heartless when it comes to cleaning. I keep what's necessary and everything else is rejected. Sentimental value? Those words aren't in my dictionary.

The only other time I clean is when guests come over and I am commanded by a scary dragon called Mother to clean up my desk and my room so our special visitors won't think I'm a troll who crawled out from under its bridge. Instead, they'll think I'm a civilised person with normal hobbies and tastes.

It's like false advertising.