Aching to Write Something Wonderful

I just finished reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Sigh. I devoured every little bit. The basic premise is this: story about a close-knit community of neighbors and how they survived the German Occupation of their island of Guernsey during World War II. Now the genius of this book is for a couple of things.

1. Format. It is written in letters which, generally speaking, I find distracting. But somehow it works marvelously here. The protagonist, Juliet, is a journalist/writer that writes letters back and forth between her editor, friends, and the people on Guernsey. Seeing as this is 1940s, very appropriate. Even telephone communication was limited due to the war, so letters were it. Also it is so lovely the way that the author demonstrates the kind of connection that people shared through letters. We just don’t do that anymore--how sad for us.

2. The subject matter is captivating, but not overwhelmingly so. The depressing/depraved nature of war is balanced with the love of the people for each other and with their attempts to retain their humanity. The role of good literature and having something substantial to think about while the world is falling apart shines gloriously over everything.

3. The author’s overall love of literature, and leanings toward classical literature, in general permeates everything. There really were moments when I ached to be able to express my thoughts in such lovely and stirring ways as the author had. For instance, the premise that reading good literature sort of ruins one’s ability to enjoy poorly written books. SO TRUE. I’ve struggled with this for years. I enjoy lots of different kinds of literature for many different reasons, but truly inspiring literature is EUPHORIC. I tried to explain this whole concept to Todd this morning and actually shed a few tears over the joy I feel when I read something wonderful, but also the tragedy of wishing so badly to be able to write like that myself. Sigh.

4. This may be a very shallow reason, but I’m going to admit it anyway. I LOVE the name Juliet. I’ve always wished my name were Juliet or, at the very least, Julia. There is such a romance and classiness about the name Juliet. Julie, on the other hand, conjures up a vision of a pert gal, of nothing grand. Simply run-of-the-mill. (Now this is not an insult to those of my friends that actually share my name. Truly, I haven’t met anyone named Julie that I didn’t think was outstanding in some way. It’s just my childish longings seeping out.) So as I read the charming letters of Juliet to and from her friends, I find myself wishing to be that wonderful friend who has a gift for writing fabulously funny, but honest and down-to-earth descriptions of her life that reflects the sincerity of her soul. Some day.