Nine Books to Drop Everything and Read

Reprinted from Mental Floss



If you’re a passionate reader, you’re always on the hunt for the next book that will totally engross you. We’ve pinpointed some that are worth the old drop-everything-and-read treatment.

1) The Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant

After he’d won the Civil War and spent two terms in the White House, Grant was strapped for cash. His pal Mark Twain convinced the retired general to pen his memoirs, which Twain then published. Just how good was the finished product? Twain called it “a great, unique and unapproachable literary masterpiece.”

2) The Moonstone  by Wilkie Collins

Nothing is quite as gripping as a good mystery novel, and Collins’ masterpiece, first published in 1868, is sometimes credited as the very first detective novel. If you like a good whodunit, it’s worth the effort to find out where the genre got its start.

3) The Amateur Cracksman  by E.W. Hornung

Hornung enjoyed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories so much that in the 1890s he set out to craft his own take on the brilliant investigator. Hornung got creative, though. Instead of creating his own detective, he dreamed up A.J. Raffles, an anti-Holmes who made his living as a “gentleman thief” and burglar. The resulting stories are thrilling and often hilarious.

4) Tom Sawyer, Detective  by Mark Twain

Twain would know a little something about literary masterpieces. He’d also know something about baffling sequels. Published in 1896, Tom Sawyer, Detective details the title character’s efforts to solve a murder in a burlesque house. How can you not drop everything to read that?

5) The Wealth of Nations  by Adam Smith

For a book published in 1776, Adam Smith’s revolutionary The Wealth of Nations is a surprisingly engaging and approachable read. It can get a little technical in parts, but a solid read will arm you with more economics knowledge than you ever thought you’d have.

6) Pride and Prejudice  by Jane Austen

If you haven’t read Pride and Prejudice, what are you doing reading on the Web? Pride and Prejudice is funny, beautifully written, and indispensable. The only downside is that since writing wasn’t considered an honorable vocation for a woman of Austen’s class, she couldn’t take credit for the novel when it came out. The title page reads “By the author Sense and Sensibility.” That book, in turn, only reveals that it was written “By a lady.”

7) Jane Eyre  by Charlotte Bronte

Like Austen, the brilliant Bronte sisters disguised their identities. Before Charlotte Bronte broke out with her incredible novel Jane Eyre, the three sisters adopted the pseudonyms Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. In 1846, the Brontes self-published a collection of poetry under these pseudonyms. How did the three literary titans’ debut fare? They sold a whopping two copies. Things took a positive turn for Charlotte the following year when, still writing as Currer Bell, she found a publisher for Jane Eyre.

8) One Thousand and One Nights

Sure, you probably know Aladdin, Ali Baba, and Sinbad. But there are still hundreds of classic Middle Eastern folk tales waiting for you in this volume. How can you read a story title like “The Fakir and His Jar of Butter” and not be just a little intrigued?

9) Walden  by Henry David Thoreau

Thoreau’s beautiful account of living in New England seclusion is gripping for its simplicity, but it wasn’t easy to write. Thoreau needed seven years to write and edit the 18 essays that he wrote while living in a cabin on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s land for two years. It’s hard to blame Thoreau for heading to the wilderness; his other option was sticking with the family pencil-making business.
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Read the full text here: http://mentalfloss.com/article/53387/9-books-drop-everything-and-read#ixzz2j37176Ao
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Inspiration?

So You Want to Be a Writer
By Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 

 

The Lunacy of Language

All hail my fellow wordsmiths!

 

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes,

 But the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.

 One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,

 Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

 You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,

 Yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

 

 If the plural of man is always called men,

 Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?

 If I speak of my foot and show you my feet,

 And I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?

 If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,

 Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?

 

 Then one may be that, and three would be those,

 Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,

 And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

 We speak of a brother and also of brethren,

 But though we say mother, we never say methren.

 Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,

 But imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!

 

 Let's face it - English is a crazy language.

 There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger;

 Neither apple nor pine in pineapple.

 English muffins weren't invented in England .

 

 We take English for granted, but if we explore its paradoxes,

 We find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square,

 And a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

 And why is it that writers write, but fingers don't fing,

 Grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham?

 Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend?

 If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them,

 What do you call it?

 

 If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught?

 If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?

 

 Sometimes I think all the folks who grew up speaking English

 Should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane.

 In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?

 

 We ship by truck but send cargo by ship...

 We have noses that run and feet that smell.

 We park in a driveway and drive in a parkway.

 And how can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same,

 While a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

 

 You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language

 In which your house can burn up as it burns down,

 In which you fill in a form by filling it out,

 And in which an alarm goes off by going on.

 

 Oh well, we can all shake our heads as we nod in agreement.

 

From The Writer’s Platform (a Facebook page)

 

Crazy Busy

I generally start my day with an early morning run up to Sepulveda and Mulholland to drop my daughter off at school followed by a Starbucks stop for a quick latte before going to a standing 8:15 a.m. meeting, occasionally followed, if I am lucky, by a quick walk around a local park to clear my head. Then, maybe a series of errands to, most often, the bank, Trader Joe's for the day's salad, perhaps then the drug store or the dry cleaners. Everything depends upon what is waiting for me at my office. Which pending project is most in need of attention? Which pile will I attend to first? Which item on my to-do list will be lucky enough to get crossed off?

My main to-do-list is about three pages long on any given day. Long-term items mix with the short terms. The quick phone calls exist alongside projects that ultimately take hours, days or weeks, to finish up. New stuff gets written down. Old stuff languishes. I append new pages even as the top page takes flight, crossed off, check marked, revised to other lists.

Yes, there are other lists. The ones created that pertain to specific projects. These, in turn beget other sub-lists. They self generate. Lists give birth to other lists, like mice; first you have one, then two, than four. They proliferate and procreate, then start running all over the place in the form of post-it notes and yellow pads.

I was delighted the other day, when I could cross off "new car" and "mammogram" in one fell swoop! The former having involved phone calls, Internet searches, negotiating, test drives, car sales people, and paperwork a plenty while the latter only involved making an appointment and showing up. All the while, additions keep seeping in, making their way surreptitiously (or not) onto my list - research Gold Quill award process for client, call AT&T, sign lease amendment, pay mom's bills...

You probably know the drill; your version is probably not all that different from my version. I suspect that we could all call ourselves "Crazy Busy", which in fact is the title of a book by Edward M. Hallowell, M.D. that I just finished reading. Yes, I crossed it off my to-do list. Actually, I was able to shift the book from the stack next to my bed, back on the "books having been read shelf" in my office. Of course, I immediately replaced it with the next book up.

I think we all thought life was going to get easier with our computers, our Blackberries, our cell phones, labor saving devices all. Leisure was going to be coming our way in spades. Sadly, that hopeful theory has gone by the wayside. Instead, we seem to do more and more. Our time gets sucked away. We are endlessly distracted. We run. We go. We do. Then, when all is said and done, we plop ourselves into bed, exhausted, get some shuteye, if we are lucky, only to start in again.

Dr. Hallowell reminded me that there are only 168 hours or 10,080 minutes in any given week. Calculating from age 25, I have approximately 7,358,400 minutes left in my life if I am lucky enough to live until 75. "Visit a cemetery," he says. "It's morbid but sobering." God willing I'll make it past 75 (my mother is 97) but we never know, do we. How, in fact, will I use my remaining minutes? Yeah, list making is good, but is my focus on the things that are most important to me?

Delving into the book I discovered gemmelsmerch, frazzing and kudzu, new words for a new era where distractions abound and surround us by the dozens. They pull us hither and yon. How the heck will I get past them and decide where my best efforts should go? Dr. Hallowell provides a great tool, a means to weigh and measure our activities and our relationships, a way to look at time spent, a rating system so we can attempt to judge, sort and ultimately decide what we actually want to be doing. Many of us account for our money down to the last penny but rarely do we account for our minutes in the same way.

Dr. Hallowell developed an elaborate grid, a systematic assessment of time use and value received for time invested. It is daunting at first glance but completing it is time well spent in order to make sense out of the morass of activity we by nature, environment and culture tend to sink into. Using Dr. Hallowell's system we get to rate, things like brushing our teeth up against volunteer work. Which activities are necessary, which are not? Which give us the most pleasure, which ones we do because we think we must? Are some friendships worthwhile while others suck us dry? Remember the graveyard? It gives us pause to think.

"Crazy Busy" is a good read. Lots of take aways. Here are a few.

Take time to only think, that is where our best ideas come from. We are always so busy accomplishing, that we rarely stop and create. My best time for thinking is in the shower. According to Dr. Hallowell, many of us do that, after all, it is a quiet, personal space. Not too many intrusions when I am washing my hair. As good as that is, though, it is even better to set aside time for thought. You know, close the door and hang a sign that says, "do not disturb, I'm thinking."

Multitasking is not optimal. How can we do any one thing well if we split our attention in ten directions! Of course, when I am washing my hair and thinking I am doing two things at once but the task at hand is so menial, that I can allow my mind flights of fancy. It is like learning a piece of music. First we learn the notes. Once done, we can begin to focus on interpretation, the actual business of making music. Still, though, the message here is, do one thing at a time. Focus on it, immerse yourself in it, enjoy every second of doing whatever it is you are doing, even if it is washing your hair.

And my personal favorite, asking myself what is my job now keeps my brain from dithering off to places it has no business going. It kicks my frontal lobes into action so they can take over from that volatile limbic system in my skull. Picking up the simplest task on my desk can jump start me, focus me, and prevent me from heading into enemy territory. It creates that positive emotional environment, which according to Dr. Hallowell, is so necessary for our endeavors.

And so, even with washing my hair, picking up that shampoo, watching my hand as I grasp the bottle brings me into the moment. Mindful showering is what I call it. And yes, there are those times when even flights of fancy have to take a back seat to resting my brain while I massage that shampoo onto my hair and scalp, feel the warm water as it rinses through my locks, and I listen for the sound of squeaky clean.

Copyright © 2010 Karen Bram Casady All rights reserved

Tale of Three, Not Two Computers

 

Yes, that's right, three computers, I have three computers. Am I alone in this? I haven't taken that survey yet. And not only do I personally have three computers, but there exist, in my house an additional three, two desktops and one laptop. When my son comes home from college, one more laptop makes its appearance for a sum total of seven of those infernal yet utterly important machines.

 

Talk about dependence, talk about taking hold, taking control, finding an integral place in our lives. The question is why in the world I need three computers for my own personal use. Well, each one fulfills a specific function. Really, my two laptops and one desktop, one running Vista and two running XP, have found a certain raison d'etre, a reason for being. My computer life has become so drilled down, so precise that it requires the nuances of three separate computers.

 

My children think I am totally antiquated, PC user that I am. Even three computers do not remedy that perception. They, of course, would think only of letting MACs intrude upon their lives. My daughter, an artist to her very core, resides on hers. It is her right arm. She is never without it. She lives her creative and social life through it. Her look of total exasperation and snobbery defy description when I point out the cuteness of my net book, appropriately named Karen's Little Computer by her faithful and ever handy-dandy computer engineer.

 

My son, on the other hand, a gamer, through and through, has quietly complained to me that MACs just don't have the power of PCs for running whatever deadly killing game he'd like to be playing. He dare not say that too loudly, for fear of swift retribution from his sister, he spoke only in total whispered confidence to me, one of those secrets that exist between mother and son. I secretly think it may be a blessing in disguise, less distractions, fewer hours spent screen sucking, and more time spent studying.

 

So three computers, one in my office, the big one, I call it, the workhorse, the one I depend on for completing my daily grind; second, my big laptop, the 17 inch screen, powerful, used to running large graphics and games, the one I inherited from my son, that sits on my dining room table, affording me a change of venue from my office environment. It has saved me when the drudgery of my workplace has dragged me down and a change of view was just the thing. And then there's Karen's Little Computer, the latest addition to the group. Difficult to type on but in spite of that drawback, it has become the newest love of my life.

 

Small, cute, and fast, yes fast, in spite of running what some might call antiquated XP software because it takes up less memory. I love that I turn it on, and within seconds, it is up and running. There's nothing on it but the basics, no big programs, no pdfs, no jpegs, no large, cumbersome files. It fits into the fast, no wait life style into which I've been steadily drawn. It suits my impatience, my need for quickness and speed. It's nimble and lively, almost bubbly in its computer joie d'vive. Keeping it clean and devoid of anything but the strict necessities of computing is my goal.

 

The workhorse is loaded, the big laptop encumbered, but Karen's Little Computer is free as a bird and will remain so. It has its skin, a nylon sleeve that fits it like a glove, sleek and streamlined. Light and easy to tuck under my arm and carry or slide into my small pink briefcase, it's perfect. And so I wax on and on, swelling with pride and praise. Not that I don't like my other computers, I do. They have their roles and important roles at that but it's totally cool to have my little computer, portable, skinny, light and happy. And yes, the other day, it saved my snobby MAC daughter's butt when we realized that we could sit in a restaurant and make an appointment to take the test for her learner's driving permit.

 

"I have my computer," she said whipping her MAC out of her bag. "We don't need yours," she said, sneering with complete Apple snobbery.

 

"Yours doesn't have wireless capability," I said. I watched as she started to insist that it did and then realized that we were sitting on a restaurant patio, not within range of our home network. I think I may have gained some small amount of credibility in her MAC-infested mindset as I deftly soared to the Department of Motor Vehicles web site and we set up her appointment.

 

 

Crotchet Projects

I cannot change the fact that my son has grown into a young man, I cannot change the fact that my mother is 96 and that one day she will die, I cannot change the fact that I am getting older, and that all the people that I will see at my reunion are getting older. We are on the down side of life; we are not fresh and new anymore. Yes, we can reinvent ourselves and we do. We decide we are going to be authors, photographers, moviemakers, golfers, whatever, so in a sense we are just beginning. They say as we age, life gets better. There is a reason behind the term "Golden Age." We can finally relax, do those things we always wanted to do but never had time. But we are not youth. Try reinventing yourself in a field full of young people. We are their parents, no doubt about it. It's tricky, navigating those waters, trying to be the emeritus without being mom. To be the person with life experience that folds easily into the work.

"Geez, look at she can do," they say puzzling over some class project that you completed right along with the youngest of them. "Really, she did that? But she's my 'mom'" I took a stage lighting class last semester at a local community college, part of an effort to learn more about the inner workings of theater. We had to make spotlights out of coffee cans, soddering them together with yes, a soddering iron. Certainly, a piece of equipment I'd never had in my hands before.

"It must be all the crotchet projects I've done in my life," I said as I patiently melted sodder along the seam of the two cans, and what a seam it was. Bumpy, yes, but near as perfect as though I'd been handling a soddering iron all my life. Eyes were popping in astonishment all around me because though I don't seem old from my point of view, I'm ancient to my fellow students. Play that one out carefully, joke about it, joke about my kids, try to fit in but in the end they are youth, they win. They get to go out into the world and make their way but I am done. I am at the top of my hill looking down, not at the bottom of my hill looking up.

Remember, I am the one who gets thrown out of the lifeboat first, older, expendable, not viable, useless, unless of course, I am smart and spunky. Ignore my aching back and feet, use my head, and come up with a work around, then perhaps they will miss the fact that I am their 'mother'. I'll just become a slightly wrinkled, slightly bottom heavy, pear-shaped member of the group. I'll never be hip, though if I swear a bit, it buys a few points. Sometimes, they even ask me questions, as though maybe I know a thing or two, as though I have been around the block a few times. There has been the occasional unburdening, the sharing of a lost opportunity, a lost love, a desire. Those moments I savor. Maybe they won't throw me out of the lifeboat after all.

40th high school reunion coming up in a week and oh...what to wear! Casual is what the invitation said. Talk about a catch-all. Formal, and we all know what is expected. But, casual can run the gamut of jeans and a t-shirt to...well anything up to formal. That leaves a lot of leeway.

I lean towards dressing down, always. I start out with good intentions but they get dulled down. I go to comfy and comfy usually means casual, very casual and not the kind of casual called for in the invite. I just can't seem to pump it up, get more hip, get out of my box.

Which leads to another question. Can 58 year old women be hip? I say yes but how? Just what is hip for middle age females? And wouldn't you think the personal shopper at Bloomies would perhaps have an inkling? It bodes badly when a 22 year old tells me that she's too old for hip.

"Our tastes in clothes are parallel," she said. "Finding something for you will be a snap." Yikes! Well, unless I'm missing something Bloomies has some pretty dull clothes.

Where does the 58 year old with a longing to be hip find clothes? I am not chunky. I look pretty good for my age. Is it perhaps that we are forgetten? That designers don't think of us? We don't show up in Vogue or Bazaar. Help!

Are we worthless at 58? No longer viable? Are we expendible? Let's face it, in an overloaded lifeboat, who would they throw overboard first? The 58 year old woman, too old to row, takes up space, no loss. Unless of course she's really spunky and smart.

Are we 58 year olds doomed to loose drapey blouses and large scarves that hide roll after roll? Dark bottoms and brightly colored tops that take the eye away from our droopy rear ends? Doomed forever to stodgy.

So I guess I won't be wearing a mini skirt with a multilayered cami and boots. Sorry, it won't fly. But I will bravely quest on for the perfect middle aged party outfit. Sigh...it's got to be there, right? Right?