Yeah, I was wondering that too.
It’s not because I liked the book. I actually didn’t know there was a book before I made the blog (oops, my bad). There’s also a band. They’ve got a MySpace link on their page. I think they might be defunct.
Mostly I picked ‘Dear Thief’ because I was looking for something that wasn’t “Elena’s Blog” (which was taken), and I didn’t particularly want to mull over it for more then an hour or two. (I’d told myself it was going up that day, so it had to get up, even though really more time to think about it might have been good.)
My car had been stolen the month before. I’d gotten it back, but at the time I’d been filled with a kind of driving curiosity. What had they stolen it for? It’s an old 1991 Toyota Camry, and not in great shape. Were they going to try and sell it? They could have made a few hundred dollars that way. Harvest it for parts? The cops said that was normal for fancy cars, not old ones. Did they just need it to get somewhere in a hurry? And what did they think of me? Would they read the notebook I’d left in the glove compartment? Would they think my beat up glasses case was strange? Who would they think I was? Would they care?
It was this kind of desperate, unrequited, one-way communion. They had all the information. I’d just put myself out there, and it was up to them to do what they would.
When we got the car back, they left me nothing to go on. They’d scattered things around, looking for something, and taken the car battery. The car had been found less then a mile away. So I don’t know. I don’t know enough about stealing cars to know what this meant. A comment, but in a different language. A reply, but not one I could understand. (You can probably see where I’m going with this.)
In some ways, a blog is a two way communication. Cool people leave me comments, let me know what they think, react and like posts, and stuff like that. Do I see their faces? Do I know their names? Can I hear their hearts, beating? (Well, yes. Sometimes. But that’s not the point!)
Writing is an act of intimacy. A piece of the soul, put out on display.
But there’s no one else in the room.
Another similarity: Having my car stolen wasn’t just the event of my day, it was the event of my month, and it took my time and energy for weeks. But to the person who stole it, it was (probably) hardly worth noting. They may do that kind of thing regularly, even more then once a night. (Of course, for all I know this was a one time job, inspired by a sudden, desperate need for cash, since the scholarships disappeared, mom got back from prison unexpectedly, dad died without warning…)
In the same way, these posts are the work of a week, often more. But readers are here only briefly, and they walk away carrying a piece of me, which they will keep or toss casually, which I will never see the end of. I will never know where those pieces of me have walked. And my ten hours is my reader’s (maybe) fifteen minutes.
So I suppose I named my blog ‘Dear Thief’, because having a blog is a lot like having your car stolen.
Only when your car gets stolen you can skip work.
But when you post in your blog, you just have to start over.
The book! It was… well, huh.
It was interesting. The author is a poet. I mean, I don’t know if she technically is, but she just does some crazy word things. Very pretty writing. And I mean very.
That being said: The book is a letter, written from the main character to her best friend. In a situation like that, I need to feel the characters. I mean, the plot is hardly there (which is chill), so what’s dragging me through the book?
Well, it should be the characters. I should feel like I know this woman. Or at least like I don’t know her and it’s strange. But I didn’t.
So, it was okay. I recommend it if you want to read some really pretty writing and don’t care if it’s about horrible (or possibly just boring) people.
(Just realized that the character was also engaged in unrequited one-way communication. Interesting.)