The Crooked Pen

Christmas Songs I Love

December 21, 2018 Rachael Corbin2 Comments

Wow.

Two posts in one month.

It’s almost like I’m a responsible blog-writer that updates on a regular basis again.

Anyway, for my last entry I wrote all the Christmas songs I hate, so I’ve decided for the sake of fairness, to write a post about the Christmas songs I enjoy the most.

Carol of The Bells

It doesn’t matter if it’s played with lyrics or without, this song blows my mind every time. It’s busy without being overwhelming and so energizing it makes me want to snatch that violin right out of Lyndsey Stirlings hands and play it myself.

It just gets me pumped in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s one of the few holiday songs that would go well with a car chase or shoot-out. If they played this in the background of Die Hard, it honestly wouldn’t feel that out of place. Especially if it was this version.

Unlike other Christmas songs, I have yet to find a bad cover of this particular ballad. In fact, it was hard to find a sample of this song to use for this post because there are so many brilliant ones to chose from. It’s like it’s so phenomenal that it’s impossible to screw up.

You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch- Thurl Ravencroft.

Even without the positive memories I have of listening to this song while watching The Grinch on VHS at the tender age of three, I would still love this song.

It starts as pretty basic, claiming The Grinch is “mean” and “a heel”, etc. But then the insults snowball into brilliantly crafted slights that they would make a middle school bully ugly-sob.

It goes from accusing him of having “garlic in [his] soul to having “termites in [his] smile” to having “all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile.”

There are a few covers out there….including this one–

But you can’t beat Thurl Ravencroft’s ocean-floor level bass in the original ballad.

I mean, come on, his name is Thurl Ravencroft.

You might as well quit now.

Oiche Chiuin- Enya

I‘m leaving the link here because WordPress won’t let me upload it for some reason.

I love Silent Night in general, but hearing it sung in Gaelic with Enya’s hauntingly gorgeous voice is nothing short of magical. The ethereal quality of her singing makes it seem as if the notes are being carried on a soft winter wind, winding through a snowy landscape. Every time I listen, I’m instantly awed by its majesty. At the risk of sounding corny, it genuinely feels like you’re listening to an angel.

It’s so peaceful it makes me want to curl up my the fireplace and fall into a deep Christmas sleep.

My Favorite Things

Alright….so….

Truth be told, I honestly don’t know why it’s even considered a Christmas song.

The only references that could be vaguely tied in with Christmas are the mentions of “snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes“, “brown paper packages tied up with strings” and “sleigh bells.” Even then it’s a tenuous connection at best.

Regardless, it’s played at Christmas time (for some reason) so I’m including it.

From a writer’s perspective, it’s a veritable feast for the ears. The language is so rich and vivid you can practically taste those crisp apple strudels yourself.

For me, it’s less like listening to a song than it is rereading one of my favorite poems.

It creates such brief but impactful visuals like “wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings” and “Silver-white winters that melt into springs.”

Even if it’s not “technically” a Christmas song, at least it has more clever word-choices than most pop-holiday slog being excreted these days.

Hark The Harold Angels Sing

It’s hard for me to pin-point exactly why this song holds such sentimental value to me. Maybe it’s the arcane language or the chills I get from a tabernacle choir belting it out, giving the words weight and power.

Perhaps it’s the mental image it invokes of a congregation of angels spreading good news for all men.

Or maybe it’s because it’s one of the more overtly religious Christmas songs so it doesn’t suffer from being over-played on the radio as many seasonal tunes are this time of year.

Me to the DJ that plays Last Christmas for the 30th consecutive time in one day

Regardless of the reason, it is and always has been one of my favorites.

Dance of The Sugar Plum Fairies- Tchaikovsky

This song is wonderful at telling a story without using any words. The tinkling notes at the beginning really do make it seem as if there are small, magical creatures prancing around under the nose of humans.

There’s such an element of mystery that permeates throughout the entirety of the song. Every time I listen to it, it gives me that giddy feeling of being a kid again and spying on something amazing.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

I love songs that tell stories and this song’s story is perhaps one of the most uplifting Christmas songs out there. What makes it so wonderful in my eyes isn’t necessarily the diction or the melody, but the powerful message behind it.

It’s not just a catchy ditty to sing on the radio, it’s meant to be a harbinger of hope that transcends class division. It promises good news to everyone, not just the privileged and wealthy.

There are plenty of other cheesy songs out there that preach about peace and love and blah, blah, blah, but this songs comes across as earnest and heart-felt. There’s a weight to it that just isn’t there with most other songs.

The Little Drummer Boy

There are many songs that try to come across as heart-felt and poignant, but there are few that achieve that goal, especially Christmas songs. In most cases, they are overly sentimental or saccharine with their “Christmas is for giving, blah, blah, blah.”

Not this song.

It’s about a boy who is so dirt poor that the only item he possesses, other than the clothes on his back, is a drum. However, when he’s approached by men of great stature and fortune who tell of a newborn king and all the extravagant gifts they’re going to give them, does he shrug and go home? No. Does he go to the manger and say “Yo, Baby-J, I’m broke. Think you could hook me up?” No.

He gives Him the gift of his music. Literally the only thing he can give him, and it’s enough. He plays with his heart and soul and his efforts are appreciated by everyone.

It’s a song about giving what you can even when you feel as though you don’t have anything of value to offer.

If you don’t find that moving, you need to check yourself for a pulse.

A few others

I didn’t want this list to be too long, so here are a few honorable mentions:

O Come, O Come Immanuel

Come All Ye Faithful

Feliz Navidad

We Three Kings

Blue Christmas

So there you go! I actually posted something positive for once!

Don’t get used to it.

Hope you all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy Holiday!

Christmas Songs I Hate: UPDATED

December 15, 2018December 19, 2018 Rachael Corbin1 Comment

What better way to kick off the holiday season than by being a total curmudgeon and discussing Christmas songs I actively despise.

Honestly, I am not creating this list for you. I’m doing it for myself and for the sake of my sanity. I work in an office where Christmas is piped in at all hours of the day and so I can’t merely “turn it off” if I don’t like it. I’m stuck with it.

I’m trapped in a snow-globe of Christmas cheer.

So why not share the pain?

Where are you Christmas?- Faith Hill.

I think Faith Hill is an amazing vocalist with incredible range and heart, however, I can’t get behind this song. I know a lot of people love it because it’s nostalgic value, but it’s a very meh song when you listen to the actual lyrics and message it’s trying to convey. If anyone besides Faith Hill sang this, it won’t be listenable at all.

“My world is changing/ I’m rearranging/ does that mean Christmas changes too?”

Uh. No? Why would it?

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)-anyone.

My main gripe with this one is the fact that it sounds like the tail end of a much better song for the entire song. You know what I’m talking about, the point where the song is almost over and the singer is basically just riffing off nonsense to stall for time. Only in this case it’s the entire ballad.

The snow’s comin’ down
(Christmas) I’m watchin’ it fall
(Christmas) lots of people around
(Christmas) baby, please come home

I’ve yet to come across a Christmas song that is as lyrically uninspired as this one. I will say if it weren’t for the backup singers constantly reminding us it’s Christmas, it probably wouldn’t be as annoying, but as it stands, it’s irritating to be told over and over that, oh yeah, this is a Christmas song.

All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth- Spike Jone & and His City Slickers

On the whole this song is relatively harmless. But when sung by this guy…it gets stuck in your head like plaque to your arteries. It builds up and builds up until you have a heart attack and you die. Or wish you were dead, whichever comes first.

I know he’s supposed to sound like a kid when he sings this, but it’s not very effective. It’s more grating than anything else. And disturbing.

I think a much better song is I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas. At least the singer in that ditty doesn’t have a creepy Herbert The Pervert lisp.

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time-Paul McCartney

Look, Paul McCartney is a wonderful singer/song-writer…..

This is not a good song.

It’s like someone wrote a song with boring and repetitive lyrics over the sound of a Microsoft Powerpoint dissolving effect. One wonders if they even wanted to sing this song in the first place or if the producers just put the pressure on them to make something holiday related.

All I Want For Christmas Is You- Mariah Carrey.

I’m going to confess that I have a hard time getting into most couple-related Christmas songs, but I find this ballad particularly unlikeable.

Is it the lyrics? Maybe. Although I think one of the major issues with this particular ear-worm is that the message doesn’t match up with the melody when you really think about it. The lyrics–when you read them rather than listen– are pretty forlorn and earnest.

I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas
Is you
You

That’s very sweet. However, the music itself is very upbeat and fun which totally contradicts the emotions the lyrics seem like they are trying to convey. It’s like if you played The Sound of Silence to Madonna’s Like a Virgin.

It doesn’t help matters that it is constantly being piped in at shopping centers and offices around the country either….

The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don’t Be Late)- Alvin and The Chipmunks

Hey, what’s better than a Christmas song with sub-par lyrics? A song with sub-par lyrics sung in high-pitched voices. I guess there are worse tunes out there, but lyrically it’s a pretty weak song.

Christmas, Christmas time is near
Time for toys and time for cheer
We’ve been good, but we can’t last
Hurry Christmas, hurry fast

Want a plane that loops the loop
Me, I want a hula hoop
We can hardly stand the wait
Please Christmas, don’t be late.

It’s not a unique story either as it’s basically just children whining about wanting Christmas presents. Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but I prefer my Christmas with a bit less helium.

And the Christmas song I hate the most is……

Last Christmas by Wham!

Words cannot express how much I hate this song.

But I’ll try anyway.

The lyrics aren’t too bad (certainly not as bad as Christmas; Baby Please Come Home), but the fact that the chorus is repeated over and over and over makes it nigh impossible to enjoy.

We get it, dude. This chick hurt you and now you’ve moved on.

….except you haven’t because you saw it fit to pen a song about how you’ve moved on, which would suggest the exact opposite. Maybe she left you because you write trite lyrics to horrible holiday-pop songs and she wants to hear something original for once in her fleeting existence.

Not to mention the melody is so dead and lifeless it makes me want to fall asleep.

I’ve listened to multiple renditions of this song and none of them could make it work.

I suppose the only solution is to tough it out until January.

If you have any Christmas songs you can’t stand, feel free to share.

I will be posting a list of Christmas ballads I actually do like soon so I don’t come across as a total Scrooge.

Happy Holidays and I will see you soon!

Being a Writer is…

July 28, 2018July 28, 2018 Rachael CorbinLeave a comment

Being a writer is-

..spending hours trying to describe how a character walked through a door.

…looking up synonyms for “said” every other sentence.

…typing for 3 hours straight and then deleting everything but one sentence the next day.

…having 10 works in progress you’re probably never going to finish.

…imagining yourself discussing your books on a talk-show even though you’ve never finished anything.

…drinking so much coffee you consider cutting out the middle-man and just getting a caffeine IV drip.

…overthinking movie and TV plot-lines and envisioning how you could write them better.

…washing down crippling self-doubt with a bottle of Captain Morgan.

…forgetting to eat because you’re almost finished writing that scene you’ve already written 6 different times and will likely write 30 more.

…convincing your relatives what you do is still relevant to a society that thinks watching rich people getting manicures somehow qualifies as entertainment.

…asking Google things that should probably get you put on a watchlist or excluded from a dinner party.

…having a million tabs open at all times.

…going to a coffee place so often the staff begins to recognize you and you have to start going somewhere else to avoid the awkwardness.

…wondering if your story idea has already been written by someone more talented and attractive than you.

…needing to use your “lucky pen” that you do your best writing with.

…spending 10 minutes looking up just the right white noise so you can concentrate for once in your life.

…composing a strongly-worded essay in your head while in the shower and immediately forgetting how to speak your own language as soon as you open a blank document.

…meticulously researching to get even the most minuscule detail correct in spite of the fact most readers probably won’t notice.

…reading the best writing advice and not following any of it.

…anxiously awaiting feedback on a W.I.P. from a friend/family member only for them to eventually tell you it was “good.”

…habitually fluctuating between thinking you’re a total artistic genius and everything you’ve ever written is an insult to the written word in the span of thirty minutes.

…hoarding stories told to you by friends and family in hopes of using it to flesh out a character one day.

…combing through your work to make sure everything is correct, only to print it and immediately find an escape.

…writing tirelessly for hours only to produce a handful of paragraphs people can read in five minutes tops.

…looking up writing memes instead of actually writing something.

…reading blog posts about writing to avoid your W.I.P.

…actually writing.

Why Books Are Better Than People

June 25, 2018August 3, 2018 Rachael Corbin2 Comments

It could be my experience in customer service that has inspired me to write this post, however, this is something I’ve always believed to some degree:

Books are better than people.

Don’t believe me? You will soon.

Books are always available. If you are up in the middle of the night, you can just roll over and pick it up. A book won’t care that it’s late. Conversely, if you want to put the book down and come back to it later in a few weeks/months/years, the book won’t be offended. It will be more than happy to let you enjoy its wordy-goodness some other time.

You don’t have to make small talk with a book. A book does all the talking for you. That’s literally it’s job. You just comb over the pages with your eyes and let the words transport you to another time and place. There is no horrifying pause as it waits for you to comment on something it’s said, or exchange vapid pleasantries. It’s so undemanding.

It’s portable. If you have a small bag, the sky is the limit. You can take them on your commute to work, to a party, to your grandparent’s house, to your backyard, on vacation. Taking a human everywhere you go is just impractical. And why would you want to? They make so much noise.

If it annoys you, you can get rid of it. Unlike humans, if a book annoys you, you can simply dispose of it. You can force it on your enemies. You can write a strongly-worded blog post. You can leave it in a stranger’s mailbox. You can light it on fire and burry it in the woods. All without fear of receiving a lawsuit.

They smell better than people. Old or new, books have an amazing smell. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of walking into an old library, the beautiful vanilla fragrance of forgotten pages is enough to make you drunk with lust for the written word. I could honestly smell books all day, but, you know, I need to work a day job to buy food or whatever. People on the other hand…..well, anyone who has ridden public transport knows that humans don’t boast such a pleasing odor. I bet you’re wrinkling your nose just thinking about all those unwashed bodies you encounter on a daily basis.

Now stick your head in a book.

See? Isn’t that better?

Ssssssssh.

There are many wonderful books to read. There are so many imaginative, energizing, inspirational, magical, excellent, titillating, colorful books to read. Somewhere out there is a book about any subject you could possibly imagine. You could spend hours– days even–exploring a library and reading and never want for anything besides food.

People? Nah. I think there are, like, three wonderful people in the world and all of them are dogs.

Books are free (at the library). People demand more than long stretches of time sitting in silence. They require “fun” activities to ensure a working relationship. Want to go to the movies? Money. Want to catch up with a friend at the coffee shop? Money. Want to entertain yourself for hours by reading the latest best-seller? Library. Boom. Take that, other humans.

Happy reading!

That First Damn Line

February 23, 2018 Rachael CorbinLeave a comment

If anyone were to look up from their dinner plates at me at this moment they would see someone on the verge of taking a plastic spoon from her empty soup bowl and gouging her own eyes out.

I’m at a restaurant under the false impression that I am going to be doing some writing this afternoon.

I need to leave my house, I thought. There are too many distractions here. Surely if I go out into the world inspiration will just pour out of me.

Instead I ordered my food, sat down, fitfully read over my first draft, got food, and persisted to languish over a blank document for almost an hour.

Now my food is gone but my frustration remains.

The reason being I can’t think of that first line.

Every good story has an amazing opening hook, one that sinks its teeth into a reader and refuses to let go. The line that’s like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth, refusing to relent. The harder you try to shake free from it, the more it fights back.

I do not have that line.

I’m blocking.

I have a deadline, but I can’t stop resisting.

I type one line.

No, that’s wrong.

Delete.

I type another.

Wrong.

Delete.

Is this story even worth telling?

Type.

Delete.

Would music help?

Delete.

Should I read some more?

Type.

Delete.

Does anyone else care whether or not I finish this?

Delete.

Cliche.

Delete.

Cheesy.

Delete.

Perhaps the problem is not with the sentence. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with the work itself but the expectation I’ve placed on myself.

I try to follow the current. To let the voice and tone of the piece speak through me, nevertheless, there’s that wood pecker of a critic, pecking away at my brain as I type.

If I try to escape, to take a break, I will not come back to it. I will delay and wait for a perfect day that will never come. A day where I will be free of apprehension and self-doubt.

I wait for it.

I wait for it in the florescent lights, swallowed up by the light sound of chatter and the scraping of silverware on porcelain.

Type.

Delete.

Unpopular Opinion: Peter Rabbit and the Food Allergy Controversy

February 13, 2018February 13, 2018 Rachael Corbin5 Comments

Disclaimer: I have not seen, nor do I plan on seeing Peter Rabbit. My opinions are entirely based off of information I obtained from reading articles online detailing the scene and it’s execution (no pun intended). If you have seen the movie yourself and would care to share your opinion on how this particular instance was portrayed in the article I have linked in this blog post, please feel free to do so and correct any misconceptions I may have.

I never thought I would write about Sony’s ‘Peter Rabbit’ movie simply because nothing about it intrigues me. It seems like just another paltry cash-grab from the perpetually idea-starved Hollywood. The jokes are flat, the demeanors of the rabbits are nothing like their book counterparts, and it is doubtful the production team have any interest in giving the classic story the dignity it deserves.

And yet here I am writing about it, not in order to give my opinion on the film itself as I still have no desire to watch James Corden and his ilk leave rabbit pellets on my childhood, but to give my two cents on the latest controversy.

Yep, that’s right.

A movie about Peter frigging Rabbit has a controversy.

One revolving around a scene that transpired between the bunnies and Mr. McGregor.

“A human character named Tom McGregor is allergic to blackberries. In a quest to gain access to his garden, rabbits pelt him with fruits and vegetables before using a slingshot to send a blackberry flying into his mouth. It works. Mr. McGregor struggles to inject himself with an EpiPen and then has anaphalaxis and collapses”

And, for once, I can sort of get behind the whole outrage machine. I should likely reserve judgement until I’ve seen the film myself, however from what I’ve read it seems pretty clear.

Peter Rabbit is a a goddamn psychopath.

He essentially tried to murder a man onscreen.

Of course people are angry about this. It makes complete sense why so many would want to see this pulled out of cinemas. If I was a parent, I-

“I’m pretty sure Beatrix Potter will be turning in her grave about now,” Ms. Rose, who lives outside Guildford in Surrey, England, said in an interview on Facebook Messenger. “Allergies are often not taken seriously enough anyway. To have them trivialized on the big screen by such a popular character is immensely disappointing.”

….Wait…what?

Mr. Mendez said in an open letter to the moviemakers that they should not mock food allergies, which are often life-threatening.

“Making light of this condition hurts our members because it encourages the public not to take the risk of allergic reactions seriously, and this cavalier attitude may make them act in ways that could put an allergic person in danger,” it said.

So let me get this straight….people aren’t angry that a beloved bunny from a timeless classic tried to commit homicide to raucous applause by his peers. They are mad because it trivializes food allergies…..

THAT is what you took from that scene? Not the fact that it grotesquely depicts a man’s air passages slowly constricting until he collapses from lack of oxygen and is presumed dead?

An adorable bunny in a blue waistcoat with an English accent attempted first-degree murder in a kid’s film and it’s portrayed as a joke! Get some perspective!

Would you feel better if he’d used a garden hoe to decapitate McGregor, or would that be offensive to the children of impoverished farmers?

Seriously, it doesn’t surprise me so much what offends people so much as why it offends them.

People being white middle-class women with a “can I speak to your manager?” haircut.

I understand food allergies should be taken seriously and to be complacent with a sufferer’s diet could have disastrous consequences. Nonetheless, the way these women carry on about people with food allergies make it sound like they’re some sort of protected class that has endured centuries of persecution.

Was there a food allergy holocaust I wasn’t aware of?

Were children with food allergies sent to do slave labor in peanut butter factories until they swelled up like Viola Beaugarde?

I realize I’m being flippant here, but it just fascinates me that people can stray so far from the point. They have something they could be justified in having a problem with, and they focus more on the method in which the attempted murder was carried out than the fact that a murder was attempted at all.

Or at the very least they could make an argument that what he did was very mean-spirited and shouldn’t be praised as being funny. That line of thinking actually makes sense and argues that it’s teaching kids to be dicks to one another. At least that’s a somewhat reasonable claim.

But nope, it’s aaaaall about the food.

There’s even a hashtag circulating meant to bring awareness to food allergies as a result of this film.

Look, we get it. Food allergies are serious. But not everything needs an awareness campaign.

Yes, they made light of something horrible and I would argue that it may have been misplaced in a kid’s film.

However, if you’re that worried about it, I don’t know, maybe talk to your children about it instead of getting into fights with random strangers on the internet.

At the end of the day, it’s just another pointless cog (or hashtag) in the outrage machine. We can only pray that this movie scandal, like many before it, will be quickly overlooked in favor of another overblown whine-fest courtesy of the maternal internet users of the Western World.

Article: Sony Apologizes for ‘Peter Rabbit’ Movie’s Allergy Scene by Jacey Fortin

Damn you, Outlander Series: Thoughts on A Dragonfly in Amber

January 29, 2018January 28, 2018 Rachael CorbinLeave a comment

WARNING: POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE SECOND BOOK IN THE OUTLANDER SERIES, A DRAGONFLY IN AMBER. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.

My relationship with the Outlander series so far is mired by indecision.

There’s so much to adore about these books: the remarkable characters, the rich descriptions, the sexy-fun times, the action-packed storyline that constantly keeps you on your toes.

However, there are also problems with it as well. Problems that are often very difficult to overlook.

For example, the distinct lack of plot that seems to dog each story from the get-go. Plenty of things happen, mind you, and there is conflict for days. Nonetheless, it just doesn’t always feel as if it is working towards something.

It’ll give A Dragonfly in Amber some credit in that it is a lot better than it’s predecessor at having some direction. The Frasers’ plan to stop Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion counts as a plot…I suppose. Unfortunately, it’s often thrown by the wayside in favor of entertaining weird diversions that have nothing to do with anything. Hell, you could make trading cards out of all the pointless interludes these books dole out: random sword fights, Jamie being dared to piss into a bucket but then being unable to after suffering a trampling by a horse, some argument between Jamie and Claire about him getting horny over some hookers.

Oh, speaking of Clarice and Jamie.

To add to my list of grievances, there is one exchange between Claire and Jamie that’s a bit too Freud-like for my taste. At one point, Clarice mentions to Jamie that she wishes she could –I’m not making this up, I swear– put him in her womb to keep him safe.

Let me repeat that:

Claire wanted to put her grown, adult husband inside of her womb to keep him safe.

Um… I haven’t had an overwhelming amount of romantic entanglements in my life, but that does not seem like a normal compulsion for someone to have. Especially not a compulsion that the layman would voice out loud to anyone for any reason ever.

Not to mention Jamie’s reaction to it is fondness bordering on indifference. Look, I know you’re used to her saying weird shit to you, what with her being a time-traveler and all, but that has to give you some pause, doesn’t it?

Pretty much any sentence that could be formed in the english language would be less awkward than that one. If she said she wanted to shrink him and put him in her pocket that would be kind of cute. But her womb? Her baby-holder? Her Dutch oven? She wants actually put him in-

It doesn’t help that they shared a quasi-incestuous moment in the previous novel. When Claire is trying to snap him out of his rape-induced depression, he literally calls her “mother” and she encourages him to come to her bosom and-

Okay, moving on.

So, Captain Randall should be renamed Captain McGuffin as his only function seems to be to get things rolling again once the story has become stale.

No, really, he shows up everywhere they go: France, Scotland, your closet. I know he’s important since he’s the great-great grandaddy of Claire’s husband, but come on.

What are the actual odds? They could be sitting on a park bench feeding the birds and all of the sudden weeeep a Wild Randall appears!

Randall uses Creep Attack.

It’s super-effective!

Bearing all of this in mind, what nice things do I have to say about this book? Well, it kept me guessing, I suppose. Although I already knew they would lose the battle, you know, because the story began with Claire in the future having already been through-

Okay, good things dammit.

Claire’s reactions seemed quite a bit more realistic in this book than in Outlander. When she and a friend are set upon by rapists, she has a breakdown and doesn’t just shrug it off and shag her husband like she did in Outlander. There’s also a reference to when she murdered a 15 year-old soldier who was just trying to do his job, which had previously gone unobserved until this book. I found it pretty disturbing it hadn’t gotten much of a mention before since, you know, she committed murder of a child.

Uh….in spite of the many distractions, the pacing overall was a lot snappier than the previous novel and from the beginning it jumped right into the action instead of lolly-gagging around forever.

As usual, Jamie is wonderful in every way as is his inability to understand modern beauty standards such as waxing your private parts.

The chemistry between the two main characters continues to be engaging and a joy to read about (at least when they aren’t going full Oedipus on us, that is). Truth be told, I think the story shines the brightest when it’s focusing on their relationship with each other. I appreciate the Bonnie Prince story line for giving these stories a reason to exist, nevertheless, I never found it as enjoyable as reading Claire and Jamie simply being in each other’s company.

Another point in this book’s favor is that Gabaldon doesn’t particularly romanticize the past (apart from, well, the actual romance, of course.) She is unflinching when it comes to describing the horrible living conditions and bleakness that comes with 18th century living. It’s not all fancy dresses and handsome heroes. There’s a sinisterness and hopelessness about it as well. I also appreciate the fact that none of her characters necessarily make it out unscathed. When they aren’t being raped (which happens quite often) they are being tortured, or captured, or dying. The pain they feel is quite real and, unlike in the first novel, isn’t glossed over as much.

I was afraid after reading the ending of the first book that the horrible torture Jamie experienced at the hands of Captain Jack Randall was going to be brushed under the rug, however, I was pleased to learn that this was not so. Jamie’s experiences still haunt him and has a visible impact on who he is as a person. I’m grateful that his rape had a lasting effect and wasn’t just used as a plot devise to create more tension.

I loved that more of Clarie’s psyche was explored in this novel. In fact, the dream she had about being in Frank’s classroom while he was lecturing may have been my favorite part of the entire book, oddly enough. It just made her seem more three-dimensional as we don’t often hear that much about her past aside from the odd parcel about being raised by her uncle and such. I would actually be interested in reading a chapter or two dedicated to describing a scene that occurred in her formative years or during the War. We get a snippet here or there, but I’m always left hungry for more. We hear quite a bit about Jamie’s past, but not that much of Claire’s.

Overall, I enjoyed reading A Dragonfly in Amber even as I mentally criticized it. There’s just something about Gabaldon’s writing that sucks you in.

I told myself in the past that I was going to give up on this series, but I don’t think I can bring myself to do so. Maybe it’s the romance, the fascinating historical backdrop, the characters, or Jamie’s sexiness. I don’t know, but whatever foibles this series may have, it’s still a damn enjoyable story and I don’t believe it will be long before I begin the next one.

So, I’m Not Dead

January 26, 2018 Rachael Corbin2 Comments

Okay, so, excuse time.

Truth be told, I probably could have updated this blog a long while ago but I didn’t want to because I have not been satisfied with the content I’m working on. As of this writing, I currently have five blog posts in my drafts folder and two short stories I want to post.

Over the past few months I have been planning, writing, and editing blog posts only to immediately delete them due to their rambling nature.

Don’t worry.

I still have strong opinions.

I’m just trying to articulate them in such a way that is palatable for the masses.

……Or at least for the handful of friends that read and enjoy this blog.

I know perfection isn’t a thing and I should just bite the bullet and get this crap out there to be read, but what is a writer without ego? I need to feel as if I’ve done my best work for that particular project and I haven’t been getting that feeling from anything I’ve been producing thus far.

So don’t worry if you’re worried…. which you’re probably not because you have a life and aren’t concerned about whether or not some random stranger on the internet is posting content in an already overly-saturated market of media.

But yeah. More content is coming and I’m doing my damndest to make sure it gets out there soon…ish.

It’s in the works! Book reviews, some personal essays, stories, it’s all coming!

There is no escape.

Until next time.

The Most Beautifully Awful Writing Advice Ever

November 21, 2017 Rachael Corbin1 Comment

Recently I was introduced to a gorgeous poem by the late Charles Bukowski called “so you want to be a writer?”

Here’s a small exert:

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.

You can read the poem in it’s entirety here of you could listen to a reading of it here.

It’s beautiful, right? Inspiring, powerful—something you would want to make a wall decal out of to impress your friends at dinner parties.

It’s also very, very, very, very, very, very wrong.

In fact, it’s difficult to recall anything that I’ve read that has been so astronomically wrong about writing.

Don’t misunderstand me, when he’s talking about writing for fame and fortune and sex he’s totally on the mark. Precious few writers reach the level of world-wide recognition and if you only want to write for accolades then you clearly don’t have what it takes to succeed in this craft. However, he also says–

“if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again/don’t do it”

and

“if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it/don’t do it.

Uhhhh….I don’t know a single solitary person, good writer or bad, who does not struggle with sitting down and writing.

I also do not know a single solitary person who has never had to suffer through a rewrite.

You know, because first drafts are dumpster fires of confusion and poor grammar.

For those of you who are fans of Charles Bukowski , did he not rewrite any of his poetry? My education on the man is lacking so that’s entirely possible. Nevertheless, if it’s true that he didn’t then he is an anomaly.

His poem goes on to say that a person should wait until the fires of passion are so hot they have no choice but to let them out before writing something.

“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.”

I have had moments where the desire to write something was so powerful that I felt like the story was literally trying to push its way out of me, but I’ll be the first to admit that these moments are few and far between.

If you wait until you feel as if you physically have no choice but to write something, odds are you will never finish anything.

The Inspiration Fairy is a very fickle creature and will oftentimes screw off at random, leaving you with no will to go on.

My favorite quote about inspiration goes as follows “I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately, it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.”

Courting inspiration is a lot like trying to find a significant other. You can’t just sit around and wait for someone to notice you.

I have found that the best way to attract inspiration is to have a set amount of time each day to write. Believe it or not, the more you write the more inspiration is likely to show up. There have been months where I have struggled to produce anything; however, once I made the decision to write for at least an hour every day, writing started to become less of a drag.

I found myself feeling more and more motivated and my writing began to suck a little bit less.

Better yet I actually started to finish things I started.

Did that mean I never struggle? Hell no. I’m struggling right now, to be honest. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it.

Same goes for you.

Struggling isn’t a sign you should quit, it’s simply a byproduct of trying.

And if you aren’t interested in trying then, and only then, would I say–

Don’t do it.

Flash Fiction: Everything and The Kitchen Sink

November 18, 2017 Rachael Corbin5 Comments

AN: This is an absurdist flash fiction piece I wrote based on the Reedsy short-story prompt “he glared at the kitchen sink in fury.” Enjoy!

Leo glared at the kitchen sink in fury, holding the remnants of his spaghetti dinner in his hands.

“Hope this pleases Your Highness,” he murmured bitterly.

With a fork he scraped off the noodles that clung desperately to the porcelain plate, and little blobs of tomato sauce plummeted to the bottom of the basin with an inelegant plop.

The sink remained obstinately silent for a moment as if collecting its thoughts on the man’s meager offerings before releasing a low groan.

Leo tapped his foot impatiently until the appliance, at last, belched obnoxiously. The mouth of the sink expanded and a large boot flew from the opening, falling to the tile floor with a thud.

Leo took a knee and scooped up the boot, inspecting it with the scrutiny of an art critic The disgruntled homeowner turned the shoe to the right, the left, then peeled back the tongue to peer inside. He found nothing.

“Where is the rest of ‘im?” he demanded, throwing the footwear over his shoulder.

The sink gave another belch more pronounced than the last one.

It wants more, the greedy bastard.

Leo took the strainer and sauce pan from the top of his stove and stalked to the sink. Grudgingly, he ladled the rest of the tomato sauce from the pan into the sink’s awaiting maw. As soon as the spicy tomato sauce was gone, he grabbed fistfuls of the angel hair pasta and literally hand-fed them down the drain.

The sink devoured the dinner, rumbled and grumbling like a stomach with indigestion.

The contraption burped again and another shoe exploded from it’s mouth, landing hard on the linoleum.

Leo slammed his fist against the countertop.

“I gave you all I have!” he bellowed. “That was the last of it! Where is he?”

The sink did not respond.

“I don’t have any more food, you fat bastard! You’ve eaten me out of house and home! Just give him back.”

He was answered with silence.

“I don’t care what them big-wigs say about your bloody rights. If you don’t give ‘im back now, I will personally rip you out and replace you with a garden hose, I will.”

To this the sink said nothing once more.

“Yeah,” the man said with a confident nod of his head, “think on that.”

Leo was close to boiling over. It was all their fault, Parliament. It had been their idea to give inanimate objects autonomy and this was the price tax-payers had to live with. Now you had a mass exodus of lorries, computers that demanded higher wages, and even laundry machines that wanted a vote in the next election.

Don’t do it, he’d said. It’ll give them airs, he’d said. And here was the proof of it. Back in his day, machines had respect for their human superiors. No longer.

Leo’s reverie was interrupted by a gurgling resonating from deep within the plumbing. He recognized it like the sound of someone about to be sick.

Finally, a large mass was pushed out from the opening of the sink, stretching the opening of the appliance like a cervix. A toddler fell end-over-end to the floor, landing soundly on his bottom. He was covered from head to toe in a slimy film that smelled like cleaning fluid. The tike’s blue eyes welled with tears that trailed down his cheeks.

The man towered over the child, arms folded across his chest. “Now what did I tell you about feeding the sink during the washing up?”

The child ducked his head guiltily and wiped the tears from his eyes with a wet sleeve.

With a roll of his eyes, the man hoisted the child up into his arms. “Come on, then. Let’s get you into the bath, eh? Let’s hope she’s in a good mood.”

Together the pair squelched to the washroom in the hopes that they wouldn’t wind up in the plumbing again.