We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil.

Though this quote appears more than two-thirds of the way through the book, it sums up pretty much every critique of East of Eden .

I first read this book as part of a contemporary lit class in high school – a class that I was doing as little as humanly possible to pass, since I took it during the second semester of my senior year, and senioritis was in full swing. We had a student teacher that semester, and she spent some time observing until it was time to read East of Eden. She did all the teaching for this book, and brought a vitality to it that I haven’t seen before or since in literature instruction. In this young teacher’s hands, this book came alive, and we were able to see bits of ourselves in each and every character. To this day it remains one of my favorite books.

I recently read East of Eden again. I tend to pick it up every few years, and it never fails to disappoint. Every time I read it, I’m struck by the parts I don’t remember or the parts that stand out so much more. In this reading, I realized exactly how sensitive and innocent Aron is, even as he grows into an adult.

I have so much love and admiration for the greatness of this book, that it’s difficult to explain exactly why I like it. It’s an epic story, spanning three generations. It makes many biblical references, focusing on the story of Cain and Abel. But the most amazing thing to me is the characters, and how we can find a piece of each and every one of them in ourselves – even Cathy/Kate.

Perhaps we can’t understand Cathy, but on the other hand we are capable of many things in all directions, of great virtues and great sins. And who in his mind has not probed the black water?

Read this book, and think about that quote. This is not just a generational story, but the story of ourselves.

I’ve been re-reading the Harry Potter series in anticipation of the release of the new movie, which comes out November 19. I usually read at night, after I’ve gone to bed, as a way to clear my mind of all my worries and anxieties so that I can sleep, and I usually end up falling asleep with the book open on my chest.

That all changed this week.

On Saturday night, I finished up Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and immediately started reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. So far, I’ve been reading around 1 or 2 chapters per night, if that. Not so with Deathly Hallows. I’m already well over 300 pages in, so I’m averaging at least 100 pages per night. At this rate I’ll be done by the weekend.

Or dead from the lack of sleep.

Like I said, I’ve read the series before, but just like last time, I’m finding the last book to be the best. This book is the climax of the series, and everything before it leads up to this story. It’s darn near impossible to put down, so I’ve been staying up way, way too late to read, and I have to force myself to put the book down and turn the light off.

Tuesday morning was almost comical, if it weren’t for the raging headache I had due to sleep deprivation. I didn’t hear the alarm going off, and we have one of those clocks that gets louder and louder until it’s nearly screaming at you to come turn it off. I didn’t turn it off. By the time I finally stumbled over to that side of the bed, falling into the walls and nearly pulling down the bedroom curtains, Mister had turned the alarm off. I set the alarm on my phone for an extra 45 minutes of sleep, which I think saved my life – at least, it saved me from damaging a bunch of stuff in the house as I tried to figure out that walking thing.

So damn you, Harry Potter. Damn you for being such an enthralling character that you make me want to stay up until nearly 2am reading your story. And damn you for making me want to do it all over again when the final movie comes out next summer.

In my efforts to improve my writing and keep my blog relevant to the subject of ME, I recently stumbled across the idea of memoir writing. Memoirs. That made perfect sense to me, since on a personal blog we write about ourselves, our lives, and other things that interest us. Using the term “memoir” doesn’t mean that we have to reach back far into the past to come up with something to write about.

I was at the bookstore last weekend and picked up Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir by Natalie Goldberg. I flipped through it in the store and bought it with the intention that it would give me ideas on what to write about. After I got the book home, I started with the introduction, since it is titled “Read This Introduction”. In one of the last paragraphs, I saw one of the most perfect sentences about writing.

Writing is the act of reaching across the abyss of isolation to share and reflect.

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? These memories are in our minds, and we write to share them with the world. I can’t think of a better way to describe what we do, whether we fancy ourselves writers or just bloggers.

For those that need simpler prompts, there is also this book: The Book of Myself A Do-It-Yourself Autobiography In 201 Questions. I picked it up years ago but I don’t think I wrote much in it. I know it’s around somewhere, so I’ll have to dig it out as it will be a great way to reflect and provide inspiration for more blog posts.

That’s the approach I’ve been trying to take on my blog lately, writing in a memoir style rather than boring you with the details of my daily life. What do you think? Do you incorporate memoir-style posts or do you just blog about your daily life? Why?

When I was a senior in high school, one of my English assignments was to write a story with a moral to it. As is a habit of mine, I whipped up the first draft of this the night before it was due and typed it up during lunch.

When I got to class, I let other classmates read their stories first, and listened to far too many that opened with, “Once upon a time there were some bullies.” It seemed every story was the same! Finally, I got tired of hearing the same story over and over again, so I raised my hand to read my story. This is that story.

I don’t know how I survived. My calendar told me it’s been three years, but in my mind and in my heart I know it was an eternity.

I loved city life. The excitement was so great that I could never sit still. So many sights, sounds, and smells to take in! I had lived there my whole life, and after all those years I knew that there was so much more that I had to see.

My mother died when I was a baby, so I never had a woman’s influence. My father and brother were the only family I knew. We had the best of everything, my father made sure of that. He didn’t want us to have to struggle. How ironic. He worked so hard for us to survive and he’s the one who didn’t make it. Strange the way things happen.

I came here when I was fifteen. The two day trip in a dingy old train didn’t thrill me, nor did the poverty-stricken town I ended up in. An old, austere woman approached me on the platform and instructed me to follow her. The only time I had met my aunt was in old photographs, but I could tell that the years had not been kind.

I didn’t talk much at my aunt’s farm. She had chores for me, which I did. I wasn’t happy about them. I didn’t exert myself, but I didn’t complain. I knew I had nowhere else to go. The monotony of the days meshed them into one. One long, dreary day that lasted three years.

Every morning I go down to the river to get water for the day’s washings. This particular morning I was more tired than usual, so I laid my head in a tuft of grass and closed my eyes.

When I opened them a few minutes later, everything seemed to have come alive. The trees, the flowers, the sky – they all seemed to have faces. I splashed water on my eyes and looked again, but the faces were still there. Everything had such a vitality that I never noticed before!

I couldn’t help but notice an unusual little flower sticking out of the grass. To anyone else it would have been an ordinary dandelion, but because I had never taken the time to notice it, when I finally did, it was unusual. It seemed to have a personality. This flower was so intriguing that I knew I had to keep it or I would regret it. As I was putting it in my pocket, I heard my aunt calling me. I opened my eyes, splashed some water on my face, and ran toward the house.

While I was cooking supper that evening, I went to wipe my hands, and I noticed the same little flower embroidered around the edge of my apron. It was as if my dream had come alive.

“What are you smiling for?” my aunt asked. “You’ve been here for three years and not once have you been pleasant about anything, so why start now?”

If only she knew.

Here I am after yet another three years, but it seems like no time has passed. Not a day goes by when I don’t notice birds singing or new flowers growing. My chores give me a wonderful opportunity to see different things around me. To anyone else, they are the same, but to me, every day brings something new . . .

After I read the first paragraph, my teacher stopped me and pointed out to the class the way I just jumped into the story, skipping the “once upon a time” type intro and immediately drawing you in. I remember being annoyed at the interruption. Once I finished my story, the entire class was quiet – very different from the clapping and cheers that everyone else got. After a full minute, one person said, “Wow!” I guess they liked my story. I buried my head in my hands. It was the first writing assignment of the semester, and I was worried about how I was going to top that. After all, aren’t you supposed to get better at something as you get further into a class?

I’ve been trying to write more, as I’ve really fallen out of the habit since my schooling days ended. I hope you enjoy this, and I’ll try to write more.