It's sure been hard to get out of bed lately. The relentless onslaught of frigid temperatures and blizzards inspires me to do only one thing - curl up in bed with a book. On such cold winter days, I find myself lamenting that my life is lacking a certain literary quality. I know it would certainly encourage me to get out of bed in the morning if I could imagine I was a character in a novel. Someone should invent something that would allow you to experience living in a novel - when your day is dreary and you need a little something extra, you could press a button, and the voice of your author of choice would narrate throughout your day. There could even be different authors to match your different moods.
For those days when I need an extra kick in my step, I would press the Jane Austen"" button. A rather common occurrence in my day is that I get to class five minutes late because I stayed in bed too long, and everyone turns and stares as I come in. However, if Austen narrated - in what I imagine to be a crisp, British accent - something awkward and ordinary would instantly be turned into something lively and witty. It would probably go a little something like this:
Anna breathlessly made her entrance, and despite her every attempt to maintain an air of composure, her appearance was greeted with a disapproving glance. Crossing the room, she noticed with displeasure the stares from her classmates, and once seated, reflected upon the events of the morning and came to the conclusion that her habit of rising from bed at a leisurely pace was the cause of her late entrance. However, Anna was of a disposition that was disinclined to lay blame upon any person, and she was kind enough to extend this attitude to herself.
Now that's much better than, ""Anna was late again because she's a lazy-ass."" But perhaps it's a cold winter day, I'm feeling moody and I want some drama in my life. Then I would press the ""Charles Dickens"" button:
The morning was chill and damp, and Anna pulled her coat close around her as she hurried down the crowded streets, fetid and teeming with students. As she pushed through the fog, the Carilon Tower sounded a deep and penetrating tone. Anna recoiled with a dread of horror at the 10 resounding rings of the deafening bells, each one complaining of her tardiness, and the chilling glances she would soon endure.
But then there are those really bad mornings, when it's freezing and snowing, and it's probably best to stay in bed. For those days, nothing else will do but Sylvia Plath shaping my morning into a poem:
The morning is decay / I entomb myself in bed. / The alarm clock sings / with a mouth of rotten teeth. / Tardiness is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well.
Unfortunately, I don't think anyone is going to invent such a device anytime soon. Until then, I may just have to do the job myself. So if you ever see a girl walking up Bascom Hill whispering feverishly to herself, don't worry, it's not a crazy person. It's just me, adding a little narration to my day.
Use your own literary personality to e-mail Anna at akwilliams1@wisc.edu.
