I've avoided posting writing, which is my strongest suit, only because I don't want to waste publication on a website that won't pay me for it. Some places are picky like that, so it's best not to risk it.
That being said I won't talk about my fiction, however I have to share delightful thoughts on American Literature. Mostly because I found this:www.zeldacollectorsmuseum.com/…
I'm not sure how I might ever obtain this little box of joy, but if there ever was a way I would surely find it.
It then strikes me as interesting, as I prepare to write out some papers regarding F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. The novel, not to spoil it for those of you who haven't read one of the greatest works of American fiction yet (guys, it's been eighty-nine years, come on), is largely about money--in a very general way of looking at it.
It's about wealth, class, and climbing the ladder we've created through the former two. It's a weird and vicious circle that we passionately refer to as The American Dream.
We strive to teach the next generation that money isn't everything, yet when our literature and some of our greatest cultural figures are based on the concept of rags to riches it seems to be in direct contradiction with what we supposedly strive for. There's nothing wrong with success, but isn't it odd that we base success on the right job, the right "kind of" spouse, the right paycheck every other week?
Even with school, we demand school out of our younger counterparts not because we want them to understand the complexity of human history and development, but because we want them to have good jobs. We want them to have a good life--meaning getting into a good college, getting the right degree, and making the right acquaintances.
I suppose we prepare for the reality while always hoping for the idyllic.
Don't worry about me. I'm part of the reality. I want that limited edition.