The weekend and the assignments.

So I've been looking at a lot of blogs today. It's an unfortunate side effect of researching opinion-based things. You find one blog, decide that the voice is lots of fun, and then it's a slippery slope into distraction and all the similar things.

The studious part of me was not one for continuing. "Come on," she coaxed. "Close the blogs. Close Failbook. Close Liam's Tumblr. Get something done for once."
The more prevalent part of my head, the one that seems to enjoy dancing to extremely bad music when I'm trying to concentrate in a lecture, replied with a very sharp, "No! Shan't!" and now here we are.
Typing a blog.
When there are quite a few essays/speeches/things to prepare for.
Oh well; when the words want out, they want out, and there's nothing much you can do to stop it.

I've got to do an assignment on some form of media policy. Turns out that Googling 'media policy Australia' returns the results of the ABC's social media policy, closely followed by government policies for the same thing. Upon seeing this in our tute a few weeks ago, I nearly died of disappointment. I'd done a 2500 word essay on the ABC's social media policy last semester, and had conveniently forgotten everything/my laptop had died and had lost everything on its hard drive. Our tutor asked us to get into groups to discuss which area of the media we'd like to focus on. I chose print media. I like me some books.
When our tutor came over, I mentioned that I enjoy the occasional (by which I mean frequent) book, and he said, "Oh, cool! So you're thinking about parallel import restrictions and the like?"
I was not. I was thinking about... well, dancing to really bad music and going home to take a nap. "Yeah, something like that."
"That'll be really good to write about. It's a pretty recent debate."
Thanks to my tutor being a lovely, kind fellow, I have now got a decent topic. I had to outline my arguments today in a speech (the most casual speech I've ever had to do) and hand over a bibliography with at least 5 references, annotated.
I handed over 5 pages. Hooray for research and references being done before the assignment's due.
There's also the global media assignment/speech (researching theme parks and products ahoy), and the research one (why they're asking first years to deconstruct someone else's research is beyond me), and the communication one where we're talking about QPAC.
Tonight and tomorrow will be productive *shakes fist*.

Over the weekend we had a party. That was fun.
I started the night off as Zorro, and ended it as all the things. I'd kidnapped my fedora from a friend, some Batman gear from two other friends, and then somehow came across a nerf gun (with no knowledge of how to load the thing). I also had a samurai sword and a quiver. It was a good night, a good housewarming, and we did lots of happy things.
Also, our bathtub is still full of drinks because we have nowhere else to put them.

I got proposed to over the weekend, too. That was a flipping amusing. I have a friend who asked me for my number a few months ago. I was feeling particularly stubborn when he asked (because of reasons), so I said no, he had to work hard for it. I was probably also in my let's see how this social experiment turns out mood, which really crops up all too often for my liking.
The day after the party, he informs a few of us that he had a plan.
The few of us who were there scoffed. Mere moments earlier, he'd actually had my number, due to my failing at life and losing my phone, and thus needing to call it. The other plans he'd mentioned had also come from us, so we decided that the plans weren't going to be too successful.
We went out to Rosalie later that day, and had gelato. Gelato at Rosalie is always nice, and also resulted in us coming across the following sign:

Rosalie's in the flood zone. This building would have been underwater
when the 2011 floods hit.

Anyway, after that we were wandering back to the car. He'd been threatening to unleash his grand plan since we'd been shopping elsewhere earlier that morning, so I figured that he wouldn't actually go through with it.
No.
Outside a park, next to the car, where I tried to slink into it before he could do anything (you know, just in case), he actually got down onto one knee, phone in hand, and asked me for my number.
Another friend of ours, having twigged earlier what he was going to do, screamed, "OH MY GOSH THAT'S SO CUTE" just before he did it, which made a group of people close by stare at us the whole time. I was laughing my head off. It was a solid plan, and definitely counted as working hard for my number.
So I thought, until I realised he'd spelt my name wrong.
"YOU SPELT MY NAME WRONG!" I was laughing at the same time; it was a pretty easy mistake to make, considering how weird my name is at the best of times. I've had it spelt Paveq. Paveq. "You don't get my number now!"
He groaned and changed it, trying to get me to give it to him again. When Trina suggested that he yell out to the people who were staring at us, "SHE SAID YES!" I decided that if he did, he'd get the number.
So as we drove away, he bellowed at them, and I gave the number.
Brilliant afternoon.

It's now pretty quiet in our house. Friday we had 5 people; Saturday jumped to 11 people staying (part of the 30-odd people there for our party), and suddenly Sunday night, Trina and I were quietly at home on our laptops like any other night. I miss the people. They're all from down home, and my gosh I wish they lived up here. 2.5hrs isn't that far, but being smack in the middle of all the people I love is something I quite enjoy.
There's your command, people I love, move to Brisbane (then follow me to Melbourne. And then London. Just follow me, okay?).

I saw my parents on Saturday, too, and I saw a picture of my Binca lying in the boot of the car, dead. Ugh, I hate that word. I don't like associating it with things I love. She looked like she was sleeping, but there was something in her face - you could see that Inca, whatever it was that made her, her, was gone. I think the wall of photos is a better reminder of who she was, as my crazy bird of a puppy.

Anyway.
That's about all for today. Back to the assignments (and back to waiting for people to reply to things; my impatience really is not the best trait).

Inca.

When I was 7, we got a puppy.

I remember finding out about her. It was late afternoon, and as was custom in my family (not custom in anyone else’s family, I used to grumble), my brother and I had been down for naps. I’d crept out of my bed – sometimes my mother used to decide that we had to sleep for longer, possibly depending on her level of patience with us – and curled myself around the wall, peering at Mum on the phone.

She had a piece of paper, gently torn from the newspaper, in her hand. I can’t remember what she said, probably discounting it as something that wouldn’t impact me. She was smiling. She hung up the phone and saw me.

“Did you have a nice nap?”

I didn’t say anything at first. I stared at her, tired. “Can I have some juice?”

The next day, we were bundled into the car. Chris and I were not happy. He preferred to spend his days in front of the computer. I preferred to avoid Lismore at all costs.

We turned just before Lismore, and instead went to a breeder’s place in Goonellabah, up and down lots of winding roads along steeply formed hills. And that is where we got Puppy. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful puppy I had seen. There were so many other puppies around, but this one was mine.

“What will you call her?” the breeder asked us.

We all shrugged. “We’ll figure something out.”

On the way home, I begged to hold Puppy. “She’s too little to be in the boot, Mama,” I protested. “Please?”

Mum, possibly swayed by how pretty Puppy was, agreed. I clambered over the back seat and grabbed her.

Puppy was a bit confused. This was her first time in a car, and having some crazy seven-year-old grab her round the waist and squeeze wouldn’t have helped matters any. Puppy promptly threw up on me.

“Oh, Tashi,” Mum groaned. “Mauricio, get her a towel!”
I still loved Puppy.

We took Puppy home.

“We’ve really got to name that dog.”

We couldn’t figure out a name.

“Tash, you can go feed her.”

I put her in the old garage, the one that Mum had painted ‘terracotta’ and ‘slate’ in one of her artistic moods. The stuff looked much like what she’d vomited on me, and gingerly I opened the lid and plopped it in front of her on a plate. “There you go, Puppy,” I said. “Go and eat.”

Puppy ate, and I wandered over to the bookshelves, looking for something to pass the time. I looked over my shoulder to check on Puppy. No Puppy.

Where on earth was she?

A lick on my leg solved that question.

Puppy was sitting at my feet, waiting for me to go back to her plate so she could eat.

As puppies are, this puppy was a bit of a menace. She chewed through Dad’s roses, thorns and all. She dug holes. She ate socks, shoes, anything she could find. She loved soccer balls, so she would always steal them when Dad was trying to play with Chris. You’ve not seen anything funnier until you’ve seen a puppy, gangly paws and all, playing soccer.

“We’ve really got to name her,” Dad said, again. We called her puppy; Dad varied between that and mierda.

The Internet was Dad’s new toy at the time, and so he went to Google to hunt out a name. He returned, valiant, with Inca. I don’t know the reasoning for naming an innocent Golden Retriever puppy after a civilisation butchered by the Spaniards, but they went for it. Dad promptly went outside to test the new name, where Inca was sitting eating a stick.

“Inca!” he yelled. She lifted her head, looked around, and continued chewing on her stick.

Dad wasn’t one to give up, though. “Inca!”

She peered at Dad, as though saying to him, I don’t know who this Inca is, but do you need me? She must have figured not. She returned to the stick.

Dad went over and put his hand on her. “Inca.”

Inca blinked, confused. I’m not Inca. I’m Puppy. Or Mierda. What’s going on?

“Good Inca.”

Inca wasn’t impressed when we got Tuscany, a little round ball of fluff that, for the podgy belly she had, couldn’t move much faster than a waddle. Chris, similarly unimpressed with Tuscany’s lack of athleticism and possibly noting the similarities between the new puppy and I (lack of athleticism, podgy belly, preference to lie down in a corner and ignore everyone), he decided that Inca would be his puppy, and Tuscany would be mine.

Inca didn’t care whose puppy it was. She knew it was a puppy and that we all were wooed by her cuteness and her waddle. And so Inca devoted her waking hours to tormenting Tuscany. One of the earliest photos we have of Tuscany (and possibly of Inca, too) is where Tuscany is clambering up onto a chair, trying valiantly to escape Inca, yet seeming to forget that where the chair looks massive and cliff-like from her perspective, Inca could just pluck her off thanks to her gangly legs giving her new height.

Inca seemed to thrive on Tuscany’s stupidity. Tuscany has always been a glutton, and one day decided that Inca’s bone should be hers.

Inca did growl and give fair warning, so no one should have been surprised when she bit her on the eye.

Inca had a penchant for rocks, and would grab them no matter where you put them. On a chair? On the table? In the back corner of the garden? Always, the dog would find them.

I tested this out one day, and dropped the rock in her water bucket. She dove in with gusto, grabbed the rock, and blinked at me, water dripping from her face.

We started this as a routine (one I’d get scolded for, plenty).

She would always run away, leaving the geographically-challenged Tuscany in her wake. She loved her adventures. One time, some kind person found her and called my mobile (it seemed everyone in Wollongbar knew that if a white Retriever came running around their place, it was 99.99% of the time, our dog). I went over, leash in hand, to pick her up.

She beamed at me, big eyes peering out from under wet, muddy fur.

“Where on earth have you been?!” I shouted.

I scolded her the whole way home, hosed her off and stomped inside. There were messages on the answering machine.

“Your dog’s been in my pool,” said the first.

“We just saw your dog on the highway,” was the next.

“Your dog’s just been in the highway construction site, I think,” was another.

We decided it best to repair the fence.

I’ve written about her before, and honestly – at 1000 words already, I could go on. There are so many crazy memories about this dog.

I got to see her on Sunday. She was happy. I picked her up, her old body, and sat her on my lap where we just relaxed for such a long time. She was moulting. My mother was shouting at me that I’d be covered in fur (and I love being covered in fur, it makes me feel so close to them). I kissed my puppy, remembering how she used to have fur all over her tail and her back, but now that she’s old she’s not growing it as fast.

I didn’t think much of it, really – I didn’t do the maths, that she’s 13.

On Thursday, I was at uni. 6pm, and I didn’t want to be there anyway.

My parents called. I texted back, I’m at uni. Can I call at 7?

Dad replied, As soon as you can.

I replied, Is it bad?

I’ll tell you when you call.

I want to know now.

He didn’t reply.

My brother came on Facebook; I’ve copied and pasted the conversation.

Did Mum call you?

No. She tried but I'm at uni. What on earth is going on? They won't tell me over text.

Because you’ll be sad.

What is it?????? HOLY CRAP HAS ONE OF THE DOGS DIED?

Inca

And I fled my tute. I called Dad. There was screaming, in the middle of campus. There was crying. I made my Dad cry because of my reaction. He told me to call him back when I got home.

Thursday was just… horrid.

Yesterday I was bawling my eyes out too much to see, too much to go anywhere, and I stormed off to the shops to get some pictures printed of her to put up.

And there is still a part of me that’s convinced she’s around. But she’s not.

13 years, of being Chris’s baby, of being such a gorgeous dog.

I wrote on Twitter when I first moved up here this year. If the dogs die while I’m up here, I’ll be really mad. And I am, I honestly am. Not with God – he gave me so many opportunities to see her before she died, and I’m so thankful for that. But I’m mad at myself. I wish I’d been there. And now, stupidly, I’m making plea bargains for Tuscany. Asking him to keep her alive and let her die while I’m there.

Anyway.

So that’s that.

Inca Indian Summer, according to the breeder.

06.05.1999 – 23.08.2012.

To lighten this up, let's have some crazy photos of a crazy dog.

She's death staring me. She hates cameras.

In my room, because it was freezing last year 

and the poor puppies were shivering. 

I lost sympathy the minute they tried to climb onto 

my bed for snuggles.

Love her big eyes. Gah, they're gorgeous.

Beach trip. 

Even more beach trip. She loved the beach.

Her best 'please let me in' face.

More beach.

We had a toddler over at our place and sat him on the floor

to look at the dogs.

Inca was not very impressed. She's pretty confused.

Sulking because camera and no pats.

Their bed, which is actually my couch.

"HEY. YOU'RE TAKING PHOTOS."

This is the most recent. Couple of weekends ago or so.

Music

I am so completely terrible at keeping this thing up.
Let's just say uni got in the way again. I mean, by now we all know that's a complete lie, but let's just go with it.

I'm back down home this weekend (hooray!) for a friend's engagement party. Shenanigans were had, by way of car rally around the Lismore/Ballina region (which is, in all honesty, the most beautiful area I've ever experienced ever; Lennox was particularly beautiful). After all the cake had been cut and the prizes awarded, Daniela and I scurried over to her mother's car to go home. Both of us are without our licence, me pitifully so. Daniela's only 16 and has already started driving.
Me? I've had the thing since I was sixteen. One hour in my log book.
Daniela's family listens to pretty awesome music, and 99% would have to be Spanish. They definitely have stronger ties to that side of the world than we do in my family. I don't know how they find their music, either, because this isn't music that my dad and uncle would have listened to when they were over in Chile. That was the time of, apparently, Madonna and Silvio Rodriguez (and Silvo is pretty darn awesome).
On the way home, we listened to a song called Amarte Bien, by a charming fellow known as Carlos Baute. The version we listened to was this remix version including Juan Magan, and my gosh do I already love it to pieces.
Now it's your turn. Go forth and love this to pieces.

Just an aside, I'm extremely sorry that it took so long to get to the point, and that I started telling stories only to not finish them. Shoddy work, but I am tired and such. That car rally was effort. I promise I'll be an excellent writer soon.

Trailers trailers all the trailers

It seems that there are quite a few awesome novel adaptations coming out this Christmas and during the New Year, and my goodness me am I excited. 

In honour of this, trailer posting/synopsis time, as well as adding "must buy these books" to my growing list of books.

Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy (adapted by Tom Stoppard, directed by Joe Wright)

I just saw the trailer for this today, and basically any ideas I had about being productive (putting on a load of washing, sewing another curtain, etc) have just gone out the window. I am now watching the trailer again, going through the cast list, and all that.

I wrote about this last year, and now the trailer's come out I'm doubly excited. The cast has changed somewhat from what I read on The Guardian, from memory, but who cares. Teddy Lupin/Luke Newbery is in this! The Potter fans got what they asked for. Maybe. I don't know. WHO CARES TEDDY LUPIN GETS SCREEN TIME.

Right, okay, definitely not the only reason I'm watching this. I'm watching this because the book was magnificent (which I already own, thanks to the challenge last year), and because Tom Stoppard wrote the screenplay. I don't know about you, but that is just instant joy to me. Joe Wright also makes me extremely happy, and I'm looking forward to another game of 'count how many symbolic hand shots he uses'. 

The general plot is, as follows, stolen from my previous post because I am a lazy sod.

The sensual, rebellious Anna renounces a respectable yet stifling marriage for an affair that offers passion even as it ensnares her for destruction. Her story contrasts with that of Levin, a young, self- doubting agnostic who takes a different path to fulfillment. 

For more about the plot summary, Sparknotes has it down. Or, you know, read the book. Even though it's daunting, it is well worth it.

Click on the picture, it should take you to Booktopia's page for it. 

The film is apparently out next January for the Australian folk (17th, to be precise).

Les Miserables, Victor Hugo (adapted by William Nicholson and others, directed by Tom Hooper)

I have not seen the musical, I have not read the book. Everything I know about this comes from the recently released trailer. 

But... wow. Wow does it look good.

I've sneakily read what it's about (I love me some spoilers) and I am currently buying the book.

The cast looks awesome (okay, Russell Crowe perhaps not but he could always surprise me) and I am just so excited.

Plot premise, as stolen from Wikipedia. (I could have put the entire plot summary, but that thing spans for miles).

Jean Valjean, a Frenchman imprisoned for stealing bread, has broken his parole and must flee from police Inspector Javert. The pursuit consumes both men's lives, and after two decades on the run, Valjean finds himself in the midst of the 1832 June Rebellion in Paris.

For a longer summary, Sparknotes again. Want to buy the book, as I am doing?

This copy also lives at Booktopia.
The film is set to be released on the 26th of December this year, for Australian audiences.

The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald (adapted by Baz Lurhmann and Craig Pearce, directed by Baz Luhrmann)

I am a huge, huge fan of Baz Luhrmann. Even after the epically long 'epic' that was Australia, he does no wrong in my eyes. Why? He made Moulin Rouge. He made Romeo and Juliet. And he made Strictly Ballroom. For those three, I can forgive him Australia. I'm hoping for this film, he's going back to the more red curtain style that he did for his good films - they were the reason I became besotted with anything made by him, and partly why I'm so excited for this.
As I said a couple of days ago, I haven't read Gatsby, because I have a small fear I won't enjoy the movie. But you know what? I don't care any more. I'm buying the book and I'm reading it before the movie comes out, because I have at least a 6 month wait and that is too darn long.
Everyone probably is aware of the cast already, but for those who are unaware, Leonardo DiCaprio is Gatsby, and Carey Mulligan is Daisy, and Tobey Maguire is Nick, our illustrious narrator.

Plot summary, stolen from MovieWeb.com:

The Great Gatsby follows Fitzgerald-like, would-be writer Nick Carraway as he leaves the Midwest and comes to New York City in the spring of 1922, an era of loosening morals, glittering jazz and bootleg kings. Chasing his own American Dream, Nick lands next door to a mysterious, party-giving millionaire, Jay Gatsby and across the bay from his cousin, Daisy and her philandering, blue-blooded husband, Tom Buchanan. It is thus that Nick is drawn into the captivating world of the super rich, their illusions, loves and deceits. As Nick bears witness, within and without the world he inhabits, he pens a tale of impossible love, incorruptible dreams and high-octane tragedy, and holds a mirror to our own modern times and struggles.

As before, a detailed summary lives at Sparknotes.
I adore this copy of the book, from Book Depository.

However, if you want a similar one from a local retailer, Booktopia's is here.
Australian audiences, you'll be able to see the film around the 10th of January next year.

I don't think I've ever been so excited for December and January.

30 Days of Writing, Day 4 (or I'm posting again, except I'm not being contemplative and whatnot).

It's nearly midnight, which basically means I am going to hit the tired mark in about 15 minutes and start writing complete and utter nonsense.
So, because my story is sitting there glaring at me, I'm going to do another one of those quiz questions I started ages ago before assignments hit. You know, when I naively thought I could write daily without issue.
Anyway.

Describe your inspiration and message you want to bring across
For anyone who says their family is not inspiration enough, I challenge you to live a week with my family. They are fantastic, and are just absolute gems for inspiration. They also don't seem to care when I blatantly steal their qualities and smoosh them around with other qualities.
As an example of what you'd experience in my family, the following happened the other night.

SCENE: The living room.
I am on my laptop, and Mum is watching TV.
MUM: Tash, can you please type this recipe up and email it to me?
ME: Yeah, sure. To your school email or your home one?
MUM: The home one.
The recipe is typed and emailed. Mum wanders into the study where Dad is sitting.
MUM: Sweetie, did you hear anything print?
DAD: ... no.
MUM: Tashi, I don't think the recipe printed.
ME: You told me to email it to you.
MUM: Oh, yeah! That's right!
She comes back and logs into her school email.
MUM: No, honey, it's not there.
ME: It's at your home email address.
MUM: What? Why? I told you school!
Dad especially came in from the study to give her a withering stare and a "And you say we've got memory problems".


My mother is gold in general. She was on the SBS website the other night and had multiple tabs open. One of the tabs had a video that automatically played. "Tashi!" she shouted at me, panicking. "Someone is haunting my computer!"
I fell off the lounge laughing.

As for the message I want to get across, I wouldn't say there's any message I'm actively trying to convey. I don't like overly didactic texts. Seven Little Australians springs to mind here, and that text was just

I'm sure something will end up coming through and I'll end up being all horrified with myself yet won't be able to find a way to remove it.

Hunting

So here's a bit of a strange post, which I should apologise in advance. It's ramblings that I really should get out of my head so I can get back to being a functioning human being.

I have never been one to pursue things that can run.
Melbourne, I pursue as a dream. Melbourne cannot exactly run (unless, of course, the city is made out of nomadic robots who are currently in a two-hundred-year-old hibernation), and I like the concept of it. It's something I don't want to let go of any time soon.
London, I pursue as a dream, because I want to escape overseas and experience life from a different hemisphere.
But other things, I'm not really the best at pursuit. I second-guess myself, others, my skills, my attributes, others' opinions, and I let that form my actions. There is a small part of me, whenever someone tells me my story needs to be changed, that sets fire to the writer idea. A small part of me that, when deadlines stack up and I feel about ready to explode, that I'll never be able to cope, never be able to juggle. Something inside me, whenever I am interested in someone, makes me say that they wouldn't ever be interested and I find myself not giving things over, not allowing myself to be happy or to risk anything, because the chances I could get hurt are high and I don't want that hurt.
I don't like to let others hurt me, intentionally or not. I can deal with inflicting pain on myself quite easily - if Melbourne and London and writing and love was taken away by my own choosing, I would get over that easily. I would say, fair enough, you've got this other thing in store instead. But if the hibernating nomadic robots decided to wake up from their excessively long slumber, and if I put my words on the line to have them rejected, and if I put my heart on the line for it to be squashed, I couldn't cope with that. I find a way to bring it back on myself and never really experience the anger or disappointment I should, because it's my fault again.
Which is stupid, really.
I don't take risks often, and I probably never will. I am emotional, but I don't let emotion make my decisions for me now. It used to, and it didn't work out for me - it led to a whole lot of disappointment and a whole lot of regrets. Reason judges things for me, except I wonder - is it too harsh, too rational?
I don't know.
When I was in my first year of uni, I applied to go to London to study for a year. I got my hopes up for that far too early, and due to lack of money that failed miserably. Reason, rather than emotion, sent me home for a year. I had no home, no friends nearby, and no money - it was the only choice. Reason sent me to Brisbane this year rather than Melbourne, and I so wish at times I was in Melbourne now, if only to get it out of my system. But Brisbane would let me finish my degree in a shorter time than Melbourne would, so it was only normal to go there. But I could go, eventually.
I want to say that right now I was looking at life rationally and taking stock of good and bad. Right now, I am taking stock of bad only, and I believe my rational self is trying to dissuade me from doing something or other that could hurt me. I can't write the novel, I can't take a risk. And this will probably be better in the long run. It usually is.
So the risks in my life at the moment? Until I know for sure, I'm staying firmly on the ground. 
I was not born to be a hunter; I always seem to come back to that. 

Random quiz post

For once I'm not doing a quiz to trick y'all into thinking I regularly post. This one interested me.
Behold! A fully completed quiz.
If there are American typos that I've not picked up on, I apologise profusely.

1. Favorite childhood book?

Agent Angel, by Annie Dalton, and Harry Potter, by JK Rowling. Both of these series followed me well into my teens.

2. What are you reading right now?

From Notting Hill With Love… Actually, by Ali McNamara.

3. What books do you have on request at the library?

I don’t have any at the moment, due to awfully high overdue fees. I liked re-reading my books.

4. Bad book habit?

Starting one, flicking to the middle, and flicking to the end to decide whether or not I’ll read the whole thing. It was a smart move with Fitzwilliam Darcy: Rock Star, though I can’t imagine what possessed me to read it to begin with.

5. What do you currently have checked out at the library?

Again, none, due to the aforementioned overdues.

6. Do you have an e-reader?

I’ve downloaded the iBooks, Kindle and Bluefire apps on my phone – it makes for easy reading on the train trips to uni.

7. Do you prefer to read one book at a time, or several at once?

Several if I’m going to draw them out; if it’s a good enough book, I usually have it finished in a few hours so there’s no chance to have multiples.

8. Have your reading habits changed since starting a blog?

Not really, except I’ve tried branching out a bit more. There’s a lot more that I’ve found through trawling review sites. My blog isn’t 100% devoted to books, obviously, so there you have it.

9. Least favorite book you read this year (so far?)

Fitzwilliam Darcy, Rock Star by Heather Lynn Regaud, or Unsticky, by Sara Manning. Can’t figure out why I read them. They were vapid reads, and Fitzwilliam Darcy: Rock Star just ruined Pride and Prejudice. Ruined it. Unsticky seems to be the book version of Pretty Woman, and Pretty Woman didn’t appeal to me either.

10. Favorite book you’ve read this year?

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.

11. How often do you read out of your comfort zone?

Not very often, though a notable exception was The Godfather – and that was awesome. Awesome in all the ways.

12. What is your reading comfort zone?

YA, adult fic, classics, historical fic and chick-lit.

13. Can you read on the bus?

Oddly enough, I can’t read books, but I can read on my phone just fine. Trains are easier to read on.

14. Favorite place to read?

My bed, or my parents’ lovely corner couch. The hammock used to be great for reading in too, before the dog claimed it as her own and broke it.

15. What is your policy on book lending?

I share, occasionally. If I like you I share.

16. Do you ever dog-ear books?

Not intentionally, ever.

17. Do you ever write in the margins of your books?

*gasp* Get thee out of here. Get out. No. You do not do that to books.

18. Not even with text books?

Okay, yes. I do this to my textbooks (well, more highlight). I also do it to my Bible.

19. What is your favorite language to read in?

English. I’m working on Spanish, I can understand bits but not enough to make my reading experience smooth.

20. What makes you love a book?

The characters have to draw me in. For instance, I just read The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (Kim Izzo) and The Wedding Season (Su Dharmapala). Both very generic chick lit formulas – I needed something very simple for post-op, and I was sick of slogging my way through big texts courtesy of uni. JAMM had nothing to offer in the way of characters – why anyone would go for Kate is beyond me, and every character was two-dimensional and boring. The Wedding Season, however, was brilliant – because of the characters. Heck, even the four-year-old was realistic.

21. What will inspire you to recommend a book?

Friends, covers, and my old school librarian, Gloria.

22. Favorite genre?

YA, primarily. Chick lit is just not as good as it used to be, whereas YA just goes from strength to strength.

23. Genre you rarely read (but wish you did?)

Fantasy. When I find the right fantasy, I get into it to near Potter levels, but I don’t know enough authors to keep my reading up.

24. Favorite biography?

David Sedaris, When You Are Engulfed in Flames. Okay, it’s memoir, but it’s amazing and brilliant and why can’t I be David Sedaris unghhhhhh

25. Have you ever read a self-help book?

I don’t think so. Self-help books are hilarity.

26. Favorite cookbook?

Marie Claire Kitchen, and anything Donna Hay. Donna Hay is a complete genius and I want to become the monster that lives in her kitchen devouring all her baked goods. Sort of like Cookie Monster, except baked goods are an always food.

27. Most inspirational book you’ve read this year (fiction or non-fiction)?

The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green. It made me realise that my gosh, my life is good.

28. Favorite reading snack?

Tomato soup. Odd, I know. Also enjoy two-minute noodles.

29. Name a case in which hype ruined your reading experience.

Could not understand the appeal of Eragon, nor the Sookie Stackhouse series. Both of them were boring as anything and, in the case of SS, was filled with way too much sex for me to consider it normal. Why does vampirism equal higher-than-average sexytimes, as opposed to the far more rational fleeing?

30. How often do you agree with critics about a book?

Very rarely read critical reviews.

31. How do you feel about giving bad/negative reviews?

If the book is horrifyingly bad, I am vocal. Actually, no matter what, I’m vocal. Thankfully I’ve not read a lot of books that  I openly despise.

32. If you could read in a foreign language, which language would you choose?

Spanish, because I want to read Neruda in Spanish. And The Shadow of the Wind (which I actually own in Spanish but is taking forever to get through). And Marquez. Spanish-language authors really are magnificent, and that’s reading a translation. Imagine how they must be in Spanish, which is an infinitely more beautiful language than English I do believe.

33. Most intimidating book you’ve ever read? 

Anna Karenina, because it was huge. Worth every page.

34. Most intimidating book you’re too nervous to begin?

The Count of Monte Cristo, because I’ve heard so many things about it that are magnificent and I don’t want to be disappointed.

35. Favorite Poet?

Neruda. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that before, ever, because – I can’t keep up the sarcasm.

36. How many books do you usually have checked out of the library at any given time?

As many as they allow (so for the Richmond-Tweed libraries, that’s 20).

37. How often have you returned book to the library unread?

Never. They all are read, repeatedly.

38. Favorite fictional character? 

I’ve covered this here.

39. Favorite fictional villain?

Voldemort. Oooh. I also like Wickham.

40. Books you’re most likely to bring on vacation?

Whatever’s on my phone, and whatever I can afford while I’m away.

41. The longest you’ve gone without reading.

Never more than a week or two.

42. Name a book that you could/would not finish.

Beastly. I liked the movie and the book was just blerghhhhh.

43. What distracts you easily when you’re reading?

My thoughts, and occasionally story ideas.

44. Favorite film adaptation of a novel?

Atonement, The Notebook, Pride and Prejudice 2005 (I await the rocks and spears)… and Beastly, because it was awesome and way better than the book.

45. Most disappointing film adaptation?

Goblet of Fire and A Walk to Remember. GoF was way too rushed (so much awesome they missed). And, A Walk to Remember? Come on, whoever directed that. The book was amazing to begin with. Why did you have to make it so… painful?

46. The most money I’ve ever spent in the bookstore at one time?

Probably a hundred or so. Would have been on a box set or just going all out and buying happiness.

47. How often do you skim a book before reading it?

Quite a bit. Voice is important for me.

48. What would cause you to stop reading a book half-way through?

Boredom. If the characters are just irritating, or the plot is ridiculous, or the writing is just atrocious, I’m ready to put them away.

49. Do you like to keep your books organized?

I group by category (fiction/non), then by genre, then by author within genre.

50. Do you prefer to keep books or give them away once you’ve read them?

Keep. They be my books.

51. Are there any books you’ve been avoiding?

Right now, just The Great Gatsby. The film’s coming out soon and I want to enjoy it as a film, before falling happily into the book.

52. Name a book that made you angry.

Atonement, Ian McEwan. But it was a perfect and brilliant anger, and I love that it made me angry.

53. A book you didn’t expect to like but did?

Technically, not a book, but The Crucible by Arthur Miller. Also Nineteen Eighty-Four by the brilliant Orwell – dystopian fiction was not my thing at the time.

54. A book that you expected to like but didn’t?

Asking for Trouble, by Elizabeth Young. I read it because it was meant to be the inspiration for The Wedding Date (Debra Messing and Dermot Mulroney I think?), which I adore and have adored for years. It just wasn’t as punchy.

55. Favourite guilt-free, pleasure reading?

Chick-lit all the way. Apparently, being a media and communications student/vaguely literature student/writing student, I’m meant to be all high-brow and whatnot. Genre fic is brilliant though, and shouldn’t be discounted.