Reading Forché’s poems felt like learning to read English when I first came to America. I read the words but didn’t understand the meaning. Needless to say, I was lost in a poetry of of words. The only poem I understood is “Hue: From a Notebook.”

I read this collection in one sitting. I didn’t get too much out of it. Bidart is the winner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry; therefore; his work must be good. I’ll reread this collection again, but I also found something I like from “The Moral Arc of the Universe Bends Toward Justice”.

I had been shied from poetry because I didn’t get it. Lately, I have read more poems online and even started a poetry category on this blog to share poems I liked. Over the weekend, I went to the library to look for poetry books to read and came across Amanda Gorman’s Call Us What We Carry. It’s a beautiful, powerful collection. From politics to pandemic, equality to justice, her writing is sharp and accessible. I didn’t understand everything I read, but I just loved her craft. I am going to get myself a copy so I can reread it and read it with my sons. Of course, I saved my favorite verses.

Đọc mấy truyện đầu không cảm nhận được vì chưa quen cách viết của tác giả. Khi nắm được lối đưa văn của tác giả thì mấy truyện sau cảm thấy hứng thú hơn. Tôi đọc tập truyện ngắn này khá lâu vì gần đây viết nhiều hơn đọc. Đồng thời bị phân trí nên cũng không nhớ rõ những câu chuyện đã đọc. Tôi chỉ nhớ nhất là truyện cuối “Tục đế” với đề tài xã hội, tình dục, và Phật giáo. Chắc chắn sẽ quay lại với tập truyện ngắn này trong tương lai.

Wang’s memoir, in which she takes readers through her immigrant struggles, reminds me of my own childhood. I shared similar experiences as someone who didn’t speak a word of English and lived in an cockroach-infested apartment. Her family faced more challenges than our because they were undocumented. We were chained migrations. Although Wang’s writing is moving, I find the content a bit too long. For almost 300 pages, Wang only covered up to her middle school years. She skipped her entire life in Canada where her family had to moved to because they were still illegal in America. It’s still a good read.

From compelling writing to gripping story lines, Jean Hanff Korelitz’s The Plot keeps you on the edge of your seat from beginning to end. It’s a masterpiece of fiction. I don’t want to give the plot away; therefore, just read it for yourself if you’re into novels.

Đọc truyện Kiều tiếng Việt không hiểu nỗi. Đọc lời dịch tiếng Anh của ông Huỳnh Sanh Thông cũng lú luôn. Sau khi bắt đầu lại vài lần vẫn không hấp thụ được tôi đành phải đầu hàng. Văn thơ không vào não tôi được. Có thể sau này tôi sẽ quay trở lại đọc tiếng Việt kỹ càng hơn. Giờ đang đi nghỉ hè nên đọc sách nào để giải trí chứ không phải động não nhiều.

A brief book exams the role of cursive in typography, provides the history of the cursive style, and explores the construction of the cursive form. The book includes lots of historical examples as well as visual illustrations of italicized letterforms. The English edition is translated by Dan Reynolds. The writing is a bit dense, but it is an informing, intriguing read for type lovers.

Jami Attenberg writes, “To fuck was divine, but to write was eternal.” In her breathtaking memoir, Attenberg shares her remarkable journey to be a writer. Even though her first few books didn’t do so well, she didn’t give up. She reflects:

Now, nearly twenty years later, I fully understand what the words do for me: when I write, it’s a place I can go to feel safe. It has always worked that way for me, ever since I was a child. The safety of a sentence. The sensation when I push and play with the words is the most pure I will ever feel. The calm space of my mind. I curl up in it. I love when sentences nudge up against each other, when I notice a word out of order and then put it in its correct spot. I can nearly hear a click when I slot it into place. I love making a sentence more powerful, more dramatic or moving or sad. Or when I make a sentence quiet enough that I can almost hear the sound of my own breath. More than anything, I love when a sentence makes me laugh. The words light up for me on the page, showing me what to do, where they want to go. They have always been my best friends in the world. All I need is for a few of them to show up. To soothe me.

In addition to writing, Attenberg reveals personal and intimate details of her life. I appreciate her honesty on friendships, relationships, and self-consciousness. I have to quote the following section in full to remind myself that no one is perfect:

I thought I would be happy by now. I am, for periods of time. I don’t know why I think I deserve to be happy. I’ve done so many things wrong in my life. I’ve lied to protect myself, or for my own benefit. I’ve been mean, said mean things, hurt people’s feelings, and felt justified doing it if I felt they hurt me first. I’ve been selfish, emotionally, physically. I’ve taken what I’ve wanted without asking for it. I’ve been grabby. I’ve taken the last bite. I’ve committed crimes, minor ones, and I suppose it depends on how you feel about the laws of the society anyway, but nonetheless I’ve done these things, knowingly. Stolen things, broken things, vandalized. Consumed illicit substances on both a regular and irregular basis circa 1990 to 2004, and also sometimes still during Carnival season. I’ve cried to get out of a situation. I’ve been grouchy. I’ve yelled at people, lost my temper. I’ve been unfair. I’ve had bad days and taken it out on people, strangers, and loved ones alike. One is no worse than the other. No one deserves any one else’s bad day. I’ve judged people silently and out loud. I’ve taken things in bad faith. I’ve been jealous. I’ve blamed a lot of it on drugs and alcohol, but that’s not an excuse. I have to own up to my faults.

Why do I deserve anything good at all? Is this a question I should even be asking? Why do I deserve happiness? I don’t—not more than anyone else, anyway.

But still, I want it.

I’m a better person now. I’ve grown up, I’ve wizened, I’ve matured. It is time for me to behave well. I still have to live with my guilt for the rest of my life, but the rest of my life is a long time, and I can use what’s left wisely. It is important to me to be of service to my community as best I can.

This doesn’t mean I am perfect now. I will never be perfect. This doesn’t mean I won’t still get things wrong. I have acquired too many scars to be fully healed. I have broken so many bad habits but not all of them. Even the experience of writing a book is just making one mistake after another until you’re not anymore. Every day we sit down to work we swim in a sea of our own fuck-ups. On the shore is one good sentence.

But it does mean I am trying, that I have to try every single day. I am obligated by my beliefs and the lessons I have learned to wake up and consistently try to be a good person. Even if it is not inherent within me, it doesn’t matter. I can still try. And there is no guarantee of happiness to come from this. I don’t have any control over that. I only have control of what kind of person I can be in this world.

I admire this memoir. It’s an invigorating read.

Whether keeping a journal or writing handwritten letters, Novelist and Journalist Anna Quindlen makes the case why you should Write for Your Life. From Anne Frank to the Freedom Writers, Quindlen demonstrates the importance of everyday writing. She argues, “When you write, you connect with yourself, past, present, and future.”

I have been writing on this blog on a daily basis for almost two decades. It is not easy sharing your deepest thoughts and feelings to the world. I often questioned myself if this is the place for me to write, then this sentence she writes hit me, “Writing is undoubtedly interaction with another human being, even if that human being is only yourself.” I have been writing to myself all these years.

If you want to get some inspiration to write, read this short, page-turning guide.