I’ve only recently discovered the “Stats” page of this blog, a strange device which graphs the views I get to my blog. Since this was never intended to be a widely entertaining thing, I’m feeling trepidations about my 6 daily viewers. That’s right. SIX. (sarcasm.)
Six is weird because it isn’t nobody; it’s six individual human beings. But it’s not a lot of people either. So I’m just going to go about my business ignoring the six.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath is one of the most amazing published entities I’ve ever read, and I am less than a quarter of the way into it. I’ve always been fascinated with diaries and the intricacies of people thoughts, and Sylvia’s diary* gives a full-spectrum view of this woman, who, contrary to popular belief, was not pure emoschizophrenic. And while calling her one of my favorite writers does seem to cause many acquaintences of mine to back slowly away from me, the crazed suicidal tortured artist**, I would recommend everyone to read Sylvia’s works.
* I feel so inclined to call her Sylvia, since reading someone’s diaries does indeed make you good friends. Plath just sounds wrong, cold. Sylvia is a kindred spirit.
** I’m not suicidal or emo. And Sylvia wasn’t either, at least, not until she married Ted Hughes. She was a perfectly normal young woman with fears about love, time and the future. Which, if I am assuming correctly, is the definition of most young women.