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On Reading...

While waiting for my most recent book purchases to arrive (and after finishing The History of Love), I re-read two Margaret Atwood books. I have to say that this woman is probably one of my absolute most favourite writers. I'm not even sure why, I perhaps enjoy the raw gritty female emotion. I don't often read books by women, I don't often like them... they tend to contain overly frivolous and romanticized characters and are just, well, bland (for lack of a better word). I could get into a Virginia Woolf style rant about feminism and words, but really I wont because that would take forever and honestly I have written enough essays on that particular subject to last a lifetime. So I can just leave you with my favourite quotation from her and tell you to read something of hers if you're interested.

"...who shall measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?"
Virginia Woolf (A Room of One's Own)

Actually I don't normally get into feminism either. Perhaps living the opposite sort of lifestyle as a Stay at Home Mum stops me from that (or stops me being taken seriously at least). Not that I don't think it's important, but a lot of things are important.

As for Margaret Atwood, the ones that I re-read were The Handmaid's Tale and Oryx and Crake. They were as wonderful as I remembered.

My new books arrived on Thursday, a David Sedaris (Me Talk Pretty One Day) which I have already finished and packed up for my husband to take with him on TDY next week. I also recieved The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and Julie & Julia. I have started Julie & Julia and I like it so far, being about a third of the way through. The writing is a bit awkward in places but I suppose it's the feel and idea of the whole thing that I like. It really appeals to me at this moment in my life.

I don't watch TV. That's a lie, I do watch TV but only while I'm doing something that doesn't allow for reading a book at the same time. I watch the British channels that we get here, so that I don't forget my accent.

I thought at one point that because I read so many books and written about so many books for my degree (or at least the part of it I did before dropping out to move to the states and marry a soldier) that I'd be great at writing reviews. Sadly that's really not the case. I royally suck at writing reviews, it makes me kind of sad. My reviews consist mostly of "It's really good, you should read it, you'll know what I mean" or "Don't bother". I feel as though I lack the right words to accurately describe what I thought about the story, characters or whatever. I fall in love with the good ones just a little, it's like being asked to describe a relationship with a husband, boyfriend, significant other... I just can't do it.

So in that case I'll just continue to fill up my head with all of these words, stories and lives. I'll find something to do with it all one day.

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I am a 24 year old British stay at home mother to a two year old boy. Married to a U.S. soldier and currently living in Germany.

I have seen the Vatican from the very top of St Peter's Basilica, the mud in the World War I trenches outside Ypres. I have walked through Montmartre side streets bustling with people in the evening, gotten lost in the streets of Greenwich Village NYC, run through cornfields on the Welsh border and sat outside with a cup of tea watching fireflies in the fields of the outer Chicago suburbs.

I have held the hands of others through addiction, fear, suicide, despair and come out the other side. I have left everything behind to begin anew.
I have fought mental illness and walked through snow in the mountains of the lake district, England. I have explored the morgue in the bowels of an abandoned hospital on a summer evening, climbed to the top of scaffolding on the outside of a five floor warehouse to look at the city lights of Nottingham at night and I have watched the sun setting on the Texas horizon.

I have held my son's tiny hand through the plastic window on an isolette in the NICU ward. Walked, speaking only in whispers, through the catacombs beneath the ground on the outskirts of Rome and seen the fireworks over Heidelberg castle.