Ok, I know for the last couple of weeks I've reneged on my promise to include a top ten list on my blog every week. And I did have one started two weeks ago about places I wanted to visit and why, but it really seemed so futile, I decided to scrap the list for a later date. Instead.... I realized last night that over the years I have started many a journal--not including my blog--and have never followed through with my intentions to put in writing my deepest, darkest secrets. I believe the reason I've faltered in my conviction to keep a diary is that I've been much too honest in my life. People have told me that I'm a mystery, but I cannot possibly see how this is true. I've held nothing back about who I am, what I am, what I love, what I hate, etc. And to be truthful, there is always a fear that if I write something revealing about myself, someone will find it, judge me, and my entire world will blow up in my face. This scenario actually cuts pretty close to the bone. My real problem is that I need to write. There is something that tugs at me, urging me to delve deep within myself and the only way I can understand myself is if I write it down. And I've discovered that I need to know that someone, anyone, might read it. I don't just write for myself--which is cathartic, don't get me wrong--but I write hoping to find an audience. I'm an isolated creature. Not in the sense that I'm anti-social, but in the sense that I feel alone in the world. I reach out to others and others reach out to me, but I feel so often as if I'm frantically grasping at straws to find a connection. Even with the people with whom I'm most intimate, I cannot fully express myself, be myself. This is why I write. I become an anonymous voice hoping that someone out there will read it and understand. We had a visitor this weekend. We were all out to dinner and this person made a comment (a sneer) about Jewish people. I was so offended. I knew I was within my right to counter the bigoted statement and state my disgust with her myopic viewpoint, but I held my tongue. Why? Out of respect? Why should I respect such a person--even if she is my elder? Out of politeness? She threw politeness out the window with her own statement. Fear. Utter fear. Fucking unbelievable that I should be afraid to stand up for what's right. I'm ashamed of myself and hope that when presented the opportunity again that I will have the courage to speak my mind. In that moment, I felt utterly alone. I felt that my world was populated with people with whom I could never relate. I wanted to break out. Seek out a world in which I knew I'd find others like me. Others who would encourage me to be myself and whom I could admire for their tenacity and fortitude. I thought I was such a person. I guess I was wrong. This is why I write. To examine my life and my choices. To ascertain things about myself and why I do certain things, believe certain things. And to learn from my mistakes so that next time I will conquer my fear and become that honest person again who holds nothing back and doesn't need to write anymore.

Well, I just finished another book last night as required for the new book club I've joined and as is my custom, I'm here to report on it. Ken Follett's lengthy A World Without End, while not a masterpiece in literary rendition is still quite entertaining. I read the 1000 + book in less than a week so that seems to prove that it was far from tiresome. I've come to realize that for purely entertainment purposes, Ken Follett's novel is just the sort I tend to turn to. It's an historical fiction set in the mid 14th century. The story focuses on the lives of several characters in the made-up town of Kingsbridge, England. The reader is thoroughly informed of medieval architecture, religious practices and beliefs, and trade customs all while being drawn into the lives of peasants, noblemen, smiths and craftsmen, and the clergy. And while the characters might appear superficial at first, over time they become much more fleshed out and believable. Of course there are the clear-cut villains and heroes as is typical with "supermarket" fiction, but I found that I didn't entirely sympathize with the plight of the "good guys." In fact, for the first half of the book, I was quite annoyed with the two main characters, Caris and Merthin. The lovers are doomed due to both fate and themselves. They hit obstacle after obstacle and just when they seem to overcome one hardship one of them throws a wrench into the mess. They just can't get their shit together! I did enjoy that Caris refused to fall into the traditional role of the subservient housewife, but oftentimes, she seemed to take her liberal stance a bit too far. Sometimes I wanted to strangle her. And Merthin is mostly an intelligent, morally sound man but he is so easily reduced to a male bawd at the sexual whims of any attractive female. Something I really enjoyed about the book was the detail in which things such as architecture and construction were explained. Follett did an incredible amount of research in order to convey not just the appearance but structure of churches and bridges of the times. The reader also learns of wool making and dying and medieval medical procedures. There is also a fair amount of sex, which in my opinion, aids in making a good book even better. Finishing a book like this is always difficult for me. I become so engrossed in the characters, story, setting, etc. that I hate to let it go. I don't like to move on. I just want to keep reading about them. It doesn't happen often so when it does, I know something magical has happened.