Literary Musings

What do you do when you crack open a book you've never read before and its first line virtually mirrors the opening of your own novel in progress?

First world problems, I know.

In answer to your (potential) questions: No, I've never read The Hunger Games. Yes, I'm only just now reading it. Yes, I finally decided to write about the craziness that was my life.

Let's start with why I'm reading The Hunger Games now, a mere four years after it was published. Okay, this actually isn't an interesting story: I have the books only because the opportunity presented itself. CT had borrowed the books from KT and was returning them to her at book club on Monday night. I figured I might as well see what all the fuss was all about, so KT lent them to me; plus, I could use a lighter, more portable alternative to Anna Karenina, which by the way is amazing.

J read the Hunger Games trilogy back in 2009 when he was bored in Iraq. At the time, he was reading a lot of sci fi at the recommendation of a friend, in addition to the James Herriot series, All Things Great and Small--a strange mix at first glance but if you think about it, both simply served as different forms of fantasy and escapism. But J was rather lukewarm about the Hunger Games books. He thought the protagonist whiny and indecisive (she *is* a teenaged girl) and didn't care for the whole love triangle business (again with the indecisiveness). Given that he and I have similar literary tastes, I'm curious to see if I'll agree with his ambivalence or if I'll become immersed in the storyline as has half the world, it seems.

On to the novel and why I'm writing one. Over the past few years, many people have said many times, "[sw], you need to write a book." They said this to me after

i) seeing me deal with stalking and restraining orders and the Capitol Police,

ii) listening to me tell tales of my crazy Chinese neighbor in NYC who called the cops on me because I flooded my bathroom and her apartment "on purpose" and because I allegedly stole her cat (and did I mention that someone rang my loft one afternoon looking for the girls--aka escorts--he swore had been there a month earlier?);

iii) watching me stumble into the senator's office after drinking and dancing to A-ha and Michael Jackson with my Republican lobbyist friends until 3am on a Wednesday night at a bar called Tattoo, and/or

iv) hearing me talk in a matter-of-fact, almost detached way about depression, anxiety, drug use, and suicidal tendencies (not my own).

And that's not the half of it.

But I suppose it's less the "adventures" and more the trauma and anger and regret and insecurity that I'd like to address in some form, possibly fictionalized. Writing has always been a means of catharsis and reflection for me; for some reason though, I've never written about this period of my life...at least, not in a cohesive or coherent manner. I think enough time has passed that I can give it a go.

Some might say that this is a bad idea, that nothing good can come from dredging up bad memories when I'm in a happy, contented place. That thought had occurred to me and honestly, I'm not sure. But this is something I feel compelled/inspired to do, whether or not anyone ever reads it. I don't know that I'd necessarily want to make it public, seeing as how my parents and in-laws would be horrified; if I ever do, maybe it'll serve as a cautionary tale for others.

So back to my original question: what do you do when you crack open a book you've never read before and its first line virtually mirrors the opening of your own novel in progress?