Jazzing Around.

It seems as though this little blogging habit of mine is picking up steam. I am not entirely sure whether or not this is a good thing, but there is one thing I am certain of: Sagan is responsible for all of this. So if it turns out bad, blame her. I'm willing to take all credit if it turns out good, though. 

Since this is becoming a daily occurrence, I'm going to take advantage of the jump break feature. So, from now on, if I have a particularly lengthy post to write on you, my humble blog, I'm going to break it up into two to keep up with aesthetics. I can't wait to use the phrase "more after the jump." Oh, it's so exciting. 

I finished Part 1 of The Art of Fiction today. I can't express how fucking brilliant John Gardner is. If you're reading this, first take a moment to reflect on how wonderfully voyeuristic this experience is: peering into my thoughts. Then take a moment to consider how fucking stupid this all is, typing away our lives in a little HTML box. Then, if you are interested in writing (like my "followers" which have now racked up to a grand total of 3), pick up a copy of The Art of Fiction. Seriously. Do it. You won't regret it. I could blog about it all day and still completely fail to do it any justice. I am legitimately looking forward to seeing how my writing improves after reading this. Learning about writing has so far just been entirely guesswork on my part. I've only ever had one person (who knows anything) give me any advice about writing (namely, how to skip the guesswork) and that advice was, "Read The Art of Fiction by John Gardner."

More after the jump. (Oh god that was so satisfying.)

 

Thoroughly changing gears here, I'd like to touch on a particularly formative aspect of my life. You see, I recently stumbled into an article about "beach architecture" that talked extensively about the "bold color choices" made with beach homes. I grew up on the beach. In an old, real, beach house from the 40's. It had been renovated in the 70's, adding a bedroom and a bathroom for a grand total of 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. It was not, by any means, meant for a family. It was built as a fishing/summer house by somebody and was eventually bought by my parents before they knew they were going to have a kid (I was apparently a complete surprise, they fully expected never to be able to conceive). The point is, our house was white. That's what all real beach houses were painted before all the ridiculous rich assholes discovered the beach, came in, bulldozed the real beach houses, and built their ridiculous neon monstrosities they jokingly refer to as "cottages" where a real beach house used to be. There's a reason that beach houses are supposed to be small and simple: hurricanes.

Beach houses are meant to serve as shacks to sleep in while not enjoying the beach. They are meant to be easy to re-build when they inevitably get destroyed by a hurricane. The monstrosities that these people with more money than sense started building in the late 90's are multi-million dollar investments, right on the fucking ocean. They have been more than ridiculously lucky that the East coast has been relatively untouched by major hurricanes in the last decade or so. I remember that I was actually kind of disappointed that the North Carolina coast was looked over during that ridiculous hurricane season we had in 2005. It's a shame that the natural force known as Katrina had to hit the economically depressed Louisiana coast. If only it had rained down its equalizing forces on the hot pink nouveau riche sand castles of the North Carolina coast. 

In 2006, we had to sell the house I grew up in. It is most likely going to be demolished soon, but for now it stands as really the only remnant of the town I grew up in. Wrightsville Beach doesn't exist anymore. My hometown doesn't exist anymore. Never again will it be dotted with those familiar, charming little cottages. I can hear it now "But, it's not the buildings that make a community, it's the people." The people? The people are dead or moved away. I had lots of great neighbors growing up. The architect and former mayor, the crazy ex-biker, the retired real estate agent, the retired pastor, the friendly drunks, the elementary school teacher, the coast guard kids. Dead, dead, dead, dead, moved, moved, moved. So, if it is the people that make the community, my point stands. The homes have been demolished, along with the memories and the legacies of those who lived there. I can only hope that somehow I manage to find enough money so that I can move back to Wrightsville Beach. I'll buy the biggest, most ridiculous house on the island (I have a few in mind, actually, it's going to be hard to pick), and I will happily bulldoze it and build a replica of the house I grew up in. 

And paint it white.