Getting Reacquainted with an Old Friend

When I was in my early teens, I got a PS1 for my birthday. From that day on, if I didn't have to be at school or asleep, I could usually be found rooted to the couch, controller in hand, racing through wintry tundra in Sled Storm or burning rubber in Gran Turismo. 

That is, if I wasn't already immersed in my favorite game of all time, Spyro the Dragon.

For anyone who has not had the extreme pleasure of playing this game (as well as the two that follow, Spyro 2: Ripto's Rage! and Spyro: Year of the Dragon), the protagonist is an adorable little purple dragon named Spyro who travels through different worlds collecting treasure, setting fire to enemies, recovering stolen eggs, and freeing fellow dragons who have been trapped in crystal by the evil Gnasty Gnorc. He is joined on his quest by Sparx, the faithful dragonfly who helps Spyro collect items and acts as his protector, changing colors as an indicator of the titular character's health. 

I remember losing myself in these games for hours at a time; truly, what's not to love? Dragons! Wizards! Druids! Fairies! Shiny jewels! Bad guys got you down? Set them on fire! Oh, they're fireproof? That's what horns are for! Spyro's world is full of color and magic, the music is catchy, hel-loo, you can fly, and, best of all, Spyro is just so. freaking. cute. It was the perfect escape from all of the angst that comes with being a teenage girl. I was obsessed.

However, as one inevitably does, I grew up and left the world of dragons behind. Nowadays, if someone asks me if I am a gamer, I don't feel that I can honestly say yes, but I always think back with fondness on the days when I couldn't wait to rush home from school so I could hook up the console and join my friend on his adventures in the Dragon Kingdom.

I had not even considered getting another gaming console until I made an amazing discovery: the original Spyro game trilogy had been remastered and re-released! The result of this information was that I hemmed and hawed briefly over whether to buy a PS4, eventually deciding against and completely forgetting about the whole thing until last year, when I heard Spyro was being released for the Nintendo Switch. I had zero experience with Nintendo, but as usual, felt like everyone was talking about it, so, naturally, I came down with a severe case of FOMO.

My fate was sealed when I hauled myself out from the rock under which I had heretofore been living and started playing Mario Kart Tour for the first time. (Oh, lord, you guys. Why did no one ever tell me about Mario Kart?!) Needless to say, I found a new addiction. But while Mario's world was one that offered a place of refuge from the black cloud of depression and stress that was the constant companion to my adult self, it could not quite fill the dragon-shaped hole in my childhood heart.

Fast-forward to Christmas morning 2020 (because let's face it, that's the only acceptable speed at which to move through this year). I knew ahead of time that my amazing husband was getting me a Switch (I think a possible tipoff was when he shouted across the room: "OK, I'm buying your Christmas present now, come help me!"), and I knew it would only be a matter of time before I would get to meet my old friend once more. The thought filled me with excitement and trepidation; what if it just wasn't the same? Would I be welcomed back into the company of my old friend as though I hadn't been away for the last 15 or so years? Or would I wander, stumbling, lost in an unfamiliar world, unable to recapture that magic which a younger version of myself had wielded so effortlessly?

As I inserted the little game card and waited (an absurdly long time) for it to load, I tried not to get my hopes up. Surely this "remastered" version of my favorite game would disappoint in some small way. It couldn't possibly be the same game that I knew and loved. They will have put a different soundtrack with it. The animation will be weird. The characters will be different, or they'll have screwed up Spyro somehow and--

Oh.

There he was! My favorite little dragon, just as I remembered him. Same voice, same mannerisms, same facial expressions. Same bright, happy, yellow dragonfly sidekick. Still as adorable and as purple as ever. (More purple, in fact!). Still waiting for me, just as before. It was as if no time at all had passed.

That illusion was soon shattered, however, as it took me longer than I expected to get the hang of the game again. I could reasonably blame this partly on getting used to the Switch's Joy-Cons; nevertheless, I felt a few pangs of guilt as Spyro, guided by my hand, walked around drunkenly, charging into walls and falling into various bodies of water. I couldn't at first remember how to fly, and then when I did, I couldn't remember how to stop flying, which resulted in overshooting many a landing, sending my poor dragon friend plummeting into vast nothingness as his life counter ticked closer to zero ("Did you die this often when you used to play before?" asked my husband innocently, observing my mad skillz. A withering glance saw no further questions from that side of the room).

Eventually, muscle memory kicked in, and we were a team again, Spyro, Sparx, and me, a well-oiled machine working to defeat Gnasty Gnorc's minions and save the Dragon Kingdom. Sharpened reaction times combined with my remembering how to actually land resulted in many fewer deaths for our winged hero. Suddenly, as if by magic, I was no longer thirty-three. I was a kid again, sitting on the couch in my parents' living room, with no concept of time, lost entirely in Spyro's world. And what a beautiful world it is! Spyro Reignited Trilogy has seen the original three games beautifully remastered. Characters, colors, and objects are sharp and vivid. In all other aspects, as far as I can tell, they are the exact same games I knew and loved. Same fantastical worlds, each with a boss to battle. Same soundtrack. Same sound effects (Spyro still yawns pointedly if you take too long to move). And the same joyful feeling I had when I first played, all those years ago. 

2020 has been an interesting year, to put it politely. We have all learned how to wash our hands. We have all become masters of Zoom. We have been forced to quarantine in our homes, away from our friends, prohibited from traveling to see our families. Covid-19 death counts and political headlines have been force-fed to us ad nauseam. I've forgotten what the bottom half of everyone's face looks like. In a year that has been filled with death, tragedy, loneliness, isolation, depression, and despair, we must collect whatever little nuggets of happiness we can find. While this year has separated me from many of the people I love, it has brought me an unexpected gift in the form of a dear old friend, a friend whose shape just happens to take that of a juvenile purple dragon. With Spyro on my side, I know I can better handle whatever the coming year brings, be it friend or foe, Dragon or Gnorc. 

I look forward to the next adventure. 

 

 

Spyro the Dragon for Playstation - 1998 image courtesy of mobygames.com

Spyro Reignited Trilogy - Image courtesy of  nintendo.com

The Blog Lives!

Today, for the first time in nearly two years, (yes, years), I dug out my 10-year old HP laptop. After cleaning off some coffee stains (whoops!), I opened it, checked my email (a simple task which took a GOOD LONG TIME since my poor old computer is showing its age), and then, on a whim, decided to dust off my blog. I have been thinking (and talking) a lot lately about writing. In the fall of 2017, when I was unemployed and had literally nothing to do with my days except read, go to the gym, check Facebook, and, oh yes, apply for a job or two!, three things happened:

1.) I lost at least 10 pounds. For the first time in years, my weight no longer started with a 22, a 23, or a 24. My clothes were baggy. I was eating healthy. I was cooking. It was great...while it lasted.
2.) I read constantly. I think I managed to read seven books during the month of November 2017. Usually I manage maybe two per month, so this was impressive for me.
3.) Writing happened! I created Living on Coffee and Sarcasm and wrote my first short story, of which I was and still am immensely proud. And then I kept the momentum going by writing some more (book reviews, mostly, but it was a start!)

And then I stopped doing all of those things.

Why? Simple: I became re-employed. Consequently, three things happened:

1.) I gained those 10 pounds back, and they brought some friends! (sigh)
2.) I had money again! (Which was useful, because I now had something to blow my nose on while crying about how fat I had gotten.)
3.) I stopped writing. It didn't happen all at once; I still kept up my book reviews for OnlineBookClub.org, and the occasional Tumblr book review, but LoCaS took a back burner. I had posted all of two entries. Two.

Those of you who know me well and/or have been following my writing attempts in past years are...probably not especially shocked by this. I do love to write, and I like to think I don't completely suck at it, but I have a tiny bit of a problem with the whole follow through thing. I get ideas in my head and then forget to take them out, and my blog(s) stay(s) inactive for years (remember Stories Sung by Sara?) until I catch the writing bug again, create a whole new blog, and the cycle repeats. It's a problem.

Today, though, while perusing my two blog entries (The Madness Descends and my review for J.K Rowling's The Casual Vacancy -- seriously, just read the book!), I realized two things:

1.) Okay, I am pretty f*cking hilarious.

2.) People. actually. read. my stuff. (Possibly because of #1???).

Seriously, I was expecting maybe a handful of views on each of my blog posts (five or six, tops), but my Casual Vacancy review had 62 views (OK BUT HOW MANY OF YOU ACTUALLY READ THE BOOK. SHOW OF HANDS PLEASE) and The Madness Descends was viewed 123 times! The fact that, like, 20 of those were probably me is IRRELEVANT; THE POINT IS that people actually read my writing! What a revelation!

Thus inspired, I sat down to write. I didn't know what to write about, so I decided to write about how I haven't been writing, and, well, here we are.

To those who read my blog posts, no matter how many, er, years pass between them, my most heartfelt thanks. I could say "I promise to write more!," but I know that is a promise I cannot keep (well, not unless someone out there who really likes my writing wants to buy me a new laptop...Christmas is coming, after all!). I could say, "I promise to try to write more!," but that also seems a bit like setting myself up for failure. So, for now, I will simply say this:

I promise I want to write more. That is the only promise I can keep right now.

I hope it's enough, dear friends.

Book Review: The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling

If you're looking for a light, funny, escapist novel to whisk you away from your tedious, humdrum life, or you're looking to gobble up another epic fantasy from the same brilliant mind that delighted you with the exciting adventures of Harry Potter and his friends, well...you'd better keep looking.

J.K. Rowling's debut novel for grown-ups, The Casual Vacancy was released in 2012, and I admittedly put off reading it for many years. I knew it was nothing even remotely related to Harry Potter, and perhaps that had something to do with my hesitation. Was I really ready to leave my cozy Potter-bubble? Another factor in my procrastination in reading this novel was the simple fact that most reviews I read of it were awful. People really, really really seemed to hate this book. So I passed it over for a couple of years, until late 2014, when I picked it up the first time. Well, I didn't get more than a few pages in. I'm actually not sure why; I think my book ADD kicked in and I put it down in favor of something else. Maybe I simply got busy, as it was during a major transition period in my life. My husband and I had just moved halfway across the country to Seattle, we were living with roommates, we had just started new jobs, and life was just all-around crazy. So I let the library loan expire without finishing. Looking back, I'm glad I didn't read this during that time. I believe certain books come to you when you need them most, and not before you're ready for them. Had I forced myself to read Rowling's novel during a remarkably stressful time in my life, I would have had a markedly different opinion of it. Even this spring, when I bought a copy from a local used bookshop, it still sat on the shelf collecting dust. I was just so hesitant. So afraid. What if it was truly as terrible as all those reviews claimed, and I was forced to alter my opinion of the marvelous woman who penned it, a woman I and millions of others believed could do no wrong? Then again, how could the person responsible for one of the greatest stories ever possibly write anything bad? I knew the only way I was going to find out was to read it. So, finally, just before Thanksgiving, I pulled it off the shelf, took a deep breath, and tried again.

The first thing you need to know if you're going to read this book is that it is not Harry Potter. I repeat: IT IS NOT HARRY POTTER. The Potter-verse and the tiny English town of Pagford that is the setting of The Casual Vacancy COULD NOT BE MORE DIFFERENT. IF YOU WRITE A REVIEW OF THIS BOOK SAYING YOU HATE IT BECAUSE IT IS NOTHING LIKE HARRY POTTER, YOU NEED A SERIOUS TIME OUT TO REFLECT ON YOUR LIFE CHOICES. You don't like a book simply because it isn't another book? Puh-lease.

The second thing you need to know before reading this book is that it is dark. I'm going to be straight with you--nothing happy happens in this book. This is not something to pick up if you want quick, light, and funny. It's not quick. It's not light. There are funny moments, but they are few. This is not an easy book to read. Not because it uses big words or because it is boring, but because it is, simply put, depressing as hell. If you are sensitive to "trigger warnings," this may not be the book for you, because it has all of them. Child abuse. Spousal abuse. Sexual abuse. Child neglect. Drug use. Suicide. Alcoholism. And probably a few more I'm forgetting. Each reading session with this novel was like a heavy weight on my chest. Upon finishing, I was reminded of something Ron Weasley said after his encounter with a dementor in Prisoner of Azkaban. He said he felt as though he'd never be cheerful again. That was exactly how I felt after finishing The Casual Vacancy.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "So, you're telling me not to read it, right? You hated it too? It's horrible?"

Wrong.

Despite the fact that The Casual Vacancy is easily the most depressing book I've read in recent years, I gave it a 5-star rating on Goodreads. Why? Because it is genius.

The story is set in the tiny (fictional) English town of Pagford. Parish councilor Barry Fairbrother dies unexpectedly in his early forties, leaving a vacant seat on the council (a casual vacancy). Most of the town's residents mourn Mr. Fairbrother, who was kind, caring, funny, and an upstanding member of the community. Others see his death as a welcome opportunity to sink their teeth into the empty council seat and elevate themselves into a position of power. J.K. Rowling gives us a wonderfully gritty insight into the personal and political unrest of this seemingly idyllic English town.

This novel has many characters. ("Too many to follow," whined one unhappy reviewer, to which I say, bollocks. This isn't Russian literature, for God's sake.) We follow the present members of the parish council, as well as the three men who are desperately and obsessively vying for the vacant council seat. We follow their spouses, miserable, desperately trying to reconcile the people they married with the ones they've become, and, failing this, turning instead to the comfort of alcohol. And finally, we follow the teenage children who hate their lives, hate their parents, and dream of turning 18 and finally leaving it all behind. Rowling's novel begins with the death of Mr. Fairbrother and ends just a few weeks after the election. In this time, long-buried secrets are uncovered, relationships destroyed, and lives are turned upside down as the residents of Pagford declare war on one another. This all culminates in an ending that will leave you incredibly shaken.

I heard criticism of this novel that it was "boring," that there was "no action," that "nothing happened." I can only assume that this was written by an American, because believe me, plenty happens in the book, but our society seems to equate action with gunfire, car crashes, and murder. Well, none of that happens here. One of my favorite things about The Casual Vacancy is the British-ness of it. It's more British even than the Harry Potter books. This book hasn't been Americanized in any way, and to some, that may make it boring. But in lieu of what Americans might call "action," we get plenty of drama, gossip, scandal, sex, and trauma. This book feels like a soap opera, and maybe that's part of the reason I enjoyed it so much. I enjoy watching terrible people get their just desserts, and believe me, this novel is chock full of terrible people. With maybe two exceptions, most of the characters are truly awful. But if there's one thing Rowling is good at, it's giving terrible characters their comeuppance, and she does not disappoint here.

J.K. Rowling does an excellent job of character development. Each character elicits strong feelings from the reader, mostly of either extreme sympathy or intense dislike. She perfectly illustrates how the politics of a tiny town that seems perfect on the outside can destroy in a second the lives of its citizens, most of whom are innocent bystanders. Ego, power, class, these can and frequently do lead to one's own undoing. Like I said, this novel is genius, though it may not be in an obvious sort of way. And while The Casual Vacancy is about as far a cry from Harry Potter as it is possible to get, Potter fans will see reassuring glimpses of Rowling's particular writing style in the pages. Here are a couple of my favorite examples, both of which are toward the beginning:

"He was an extremely obese man of sixty-four. A great apron of stomach fell so far down in front of his thighs that most people thought instantly of his penis when they first clapped eyes on him, wondering when he had last seen it, how he washed it, how he managed to perform any of the acts for which a penis is designed." (p. 32)

""Stone dead," said Howard, as though there were degrees of deadness, and the kind that Barry Fairbrother had contracted was particularly sordid." (p. 34)

It is not often that a book leaves me in tears, but this one managed it with ease. Still, I would read it again in a heartbeat. The Casual Vacancy is genuine. It's dark. It's heavy. It's terrible. It will make you think. I know to some that last bit will solidify their intent to never touch it, but for the rest of you, I urge and plead with you to give this novel another look. You won't soon forget it. If you can accept that it's not Harry Potter and isn't bloody supposed to be (go ahead and cry, if you must), I think you will be ready to accept it for what it is: another brilliant work from a master storyteller.

P.S. - The novel was also adapted into a miniseries for HBO. I look forward to seeing how the two compare.

The Madness Descends

THE MADNESS DESCENDS

Wednesday 29 November 2017 - Early Morning

I have finally done it. I have succumbed to madness. I couldn't help it, you see. It was not my intention, to be sure. In the early dawn of this cold, grey Seattle day, warm and cozy in my small studio apartment near the heart of the city, I simply snapped.

There was no warning.

 The day began innocently enough; I awoke as usual to the incessant bleating of an alarm just before six o'clock. Yawning, I went into the kitchen and began to cook breakfast for my husband. I wanted him to have a warm meal in his belly before he was due at the office downtown for his mandatory paid slave labor. We ate in companionable silence, my own breakfast consisting of cereal (Honey Bunches of Oats, if it's important to the telling), yogurt, and coffee. Immediately following his departure, just after seven, I wandered back into the tiny kitchen and deposited the dirty dishes onto the counter. A perfectly reasonable act by a perfectly sane individual. 

That's when it all went to hell. 

Instead of turning around and walking out of the kitchen, leaving the dishes to fester and rot like a normal human might, I suddenly stopped. It was then that I felt it. A swirling, black cloud of madness descended upon me, merely tickling my scalp at first, and then swallowing me whole. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't even think. My mind was no longer my own. Before I could so much as breathe, I felt my body being manipulated as though I were nothing more than a marionette. As if I were being guided by the hand of the devil himself, I reached for the tap and turned the water on as hot as it would go, and turned the drain plug until it would turn no more. I watched in fascination and horror as the sink began to fill. Further derangement ensued as I picked up the bottle of dish detergent (heretofore used only as decoration) and, tipping it on its side, felt a demonic grin spread across my face as the slimy yellow liquid fell helplessly into the rising water, forming a bubbling mountain. I switched off the tap and turned my attention to my unsuspecting victims. Two plates with caked-on spaghetti, last night's dinner. The last dinner I would ever cook as a sane person. A bread pan. A pot. Assorted cutlery. This morning's breakfast plate. Bowls. Coffee mugs. Not one would survive. 

My grin widened.

I held the innocent dishes under the near-scalding soapy water and began to assault each one with my rectangular absorbent torture device. To drown out my victims' screams of protest, I decided it was time for a little mood music. Picking up my phone, I opened Spotify and scrolled through my playlists until I found what I was looking for: the perfect melodic accompaniment to my murder spree. I selected My FAVORITE Christmas Music! from the playlist menu, turned up the volume, and hummed along as Mannheim Steamroller's Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow! reached my ears. The shrieking sounds emanating from below the water faded to a dull murmur. I sighed contentedly. Christmas would be here soon.

One by one, the scratchy sponge relieved my glass hostages of their souls. I laughed barbarically as I hung their lifeless bodies on the metal rack next to me. I was beginning to rather enjoy being mad. 

Only one resisted. A small red frying pan, with spots of rust on the bottom. As I picked it up, the handle wiggled precariously. I sniggered. An old, frail thing with a screw loose. No match for my superior strength. Or so I thought. Alas, try as I might, the soul of the old rusty pan clung on stubbornly, refusing to budge. Egg, I thought bitterly. No matter. I took the recalcitrant prisoner out of the water and threw it in the soaking cell. I'd deal with that one later. This done, I drained the water, and glanced around the kitchen with a sigh. The mess would have to be dealt with. I could leave no signs of a struggle. No one could ever know what happened here. I took a container of Lysol wipes from the cupboard under the sink and went to work. My prisoner's cries echoed softly in the small room as I wiped down the stove and counters. I frowned as I realized that the music had stopped. I pressed PLAY and it immediately began again. Frank Sinatra this time, demanding that I have myself a merry little Christmas. I finished washing away the evidence of my crimes, and dried my hands with a satisfied nod. I glanced at the draining rack, remembering the bodies. I shrugged. I would have to wait until they were completely dry and then dispose of them. Pausing in the doorway, I turned and gave the kitchen a final once-over. Nothing more to be done. Ignoring the protests of the soaking pan, which were just barely audible over Sinatra's crooning baritone, I switched the light off and walked out of the kitchen. 

Now in the living room, I assessed the state of things. I tsked to myself as I took in the rumpled, unmade bed and the clothes and blankets strewn carelessly over the faux-leather armchair. A lone pillow lay in the middle of the floor, separated from the mismatched herd that decorated the comfy, oversize bean bag chair nearby. Bags of recycling overflowed in the corner. Shaking my head disapprovingly, I decided to start by making the bed and bagging up the rubbish. As I worked, I realized that the insanity was beginning to wane slightly. Perhaps the demon had been satiated? In a fleeting moment of lucidity, I wondered if perhaps I would soon be myself again. I looked over at the small pine coffee table in the center of the room. It was a hand-me-down, and showed several signs of wear. I cleared the rubbish off of the top, ignoring the stuck-on piece of paper that no amount of vigorous scrubbing with Lemon Pledge could ever seem to remove. I crouched down to see if there was more garbage underneath. Here I spotted two empty drinking glasses that had fallen over and been forgotten. The flickering glimmer of hope I had harbored seconds earlier was immediately extinguished. I felt myself grinning again as the now-familiar wave of madness overcame me once more. 

Yes, Mr. Sinatra. It would be a very merry little Christmas, indeed.