Explanation

I only have time for a short one again today. I haven't posted in a while. My mother had a heart attack, and I'm back to working almost full-time, and this past weekend was choir tour. I'm exhausted from being the useful engine that I am.

My blog is called "Not A Henry James Novella". When people hear that, they tend to give me a polite "What the fuck?" look. To which I say, read a book once in a while please.

You may remember Henry James from such works as Daisy Miller, Portrait of a Lady and The Beast in the Jungle. He was a 19th century writer and an important figure in literary realism. He was also a very sad, sad man.

James was a man who never really got what he wanted out of life. His was a life of unrequited love and unfulfilled passions. He was constantly striving for the greatness he was capable of, but he was never able to make that one connection, that gesture, that makes all of your efforts worth it.

Insert literary realism. A lot of James's works mirror his own life. In both of the James texts I read in school this past year, a man desperately loves a fabulous woman who is desperately in love with him. The man, mostly from fear of ambiguity, is unable to make it happen. And then, the woman dies. It's ridiculous and makes me horribly upset.

I'm afraid that I'm going to let my life become a Henry James novella. I'm afraid that I'm going to be too afraid to ask for the things that I want out of life. I'm afraid that I'm just going to let things happen instead of going out and making things happen. I'm afraid of waking up one day and realizing that I am in love with someone who JUST died of bone cancer. So at this point, my goal is not letting my life becoming a series of missed becomings.

And that is why my blog is called "Not A Henry James Novella".