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bcgoakander 's review for:
Scrambled Eggs at Midnight
by Heather Hepler, Brad Barkley
This was a bit of an emotionally risky re-read for me, and I'm happily relieved to emerge relatively unscathed.
This book features heavily in my teenage past. I read it first when I was around 15 years old (the same as Cal and Elliot in the novel itself). I didn't read much YA romance, but this book stood out to me and became so significant because of the way it took young love so seriously: this book dared to entertain the idea that the very young could experience - and be correct about - the reality of true love.
At the time I first read this, I had recently emerged dazed and bruised from my first 'real' relationship, and the emotional fallout had seemed to be boundless in its devastation. The first time I'd fallen in love had been euphoric and glorious and soft and sweet and joyful; it taught me the foundations of what I should come to seek in a life partner. And the breakup was eviscerating in its messy, complicated exodus. The whole experience had introduced me to a significant proportion of the emotional spectrum to which I can currently lay claim.
During this time, most of the mentors I had previously respected disappointed me with their responses to it. So few of them were happy for me. We were young, yes, so was their skepticism of our eternal romantic endurance understandable? Perhaps. Was it necessary, though, for them to openly scorn my experience instead? From the early joys of first love to the agonizing sorrow of losing it, I consistently felt criticised, ignored, and worst of all, pitied, by those whose joyful guidance I had eagerly anticipated.
This book vocalized for me, in the settling dust of it all, what it was I had loved so much about falling in love, and how complicated it was to do so. The book let me examine which parts of love I had been wrong about, and learn from them; and showed me which parts I'd been right about, and rejoiced in them.
This book so openly reflected my heart's desires that I drew from it many mantras to guide my hungry search for eternal love thereafter. "The forever kind of deal" became the star by which I sailed my ship towards passion.
I confess [bizarrely: here and now] that it wasn't a perfect bible for finding love, of course, and also that it did influence me in an ultimately unfortunate way. I later fell in love was with a man who now reminds me so thoroughly of Elliot that this reread became a sort of autobiographical spectre. Nonetheless, at the time, I was decidedly smitten. I wrote in my Christmas card to him that year - in full sincerity - that I humbly and truly hoped that what we'd begun would indeed be the forever kind of deal.
Two months later, I met my soul mate. I met _my_ Elliot, and knew his heart at first sight. My existential joy in meeting my binary star was nonetheless not insignificantly affected by my sorrow in losing the man I had I loved. Swallowing those words I'd so vulnerably proferred to my former lover has been a frog in my throat for many years. How can I have meant it so sincerely and still been wrong? It had severe consequences on my trust in my own decisions. I knew I was right about my now-husband; but, at the time, I was also right about my former lover.
This re-read reminded me that both can be true. That being in love, and being right or wrong, aren't part of the same galactic axis.
(Maybe tbc?)
This book features heavily in my teenage past. I read it first when I was around 15 years old (the same as Cal and Elliot in the novel itself). I didn't read much YA romance, but this book stood out to me and became so significant because of the way it took young love so seriously: this book dared to entertain the idea that the very young could experience - and be correct about - the reality of true love.
At the time I first read this, I had recently emerged dazed and bruised from my first 'real' relationship, and the emotional fallout had seemed to be boundless in its devastation. The first time I'd fallen in love had been euphoric and glorious and soft and sweet and joyful; it taught me the foundations of what I should come to seek in a life partner. And the breakup was eviscerating in its messy, complicated exodus. The whole experience had introduced me to a significant proportion of the emotional spectrum to which I can currently lay claim.
During this time, most of the mentors I had previously respected disappointed me with their responses to it. So few of them were happy for me. We were young, yes, so was their skepticism of our eternal romantic endurance understandable? Perhaps. Was it necessary, though, for them to openly scorn my experience instead? From the early joys of first love to the agonizing sorrow of losing it, I consistently felt criticised, ignored, and worst of all, pitied, by those whose joyful guidance I had eagerly anticipated.
This book vocalized for me, in the settling dust of it all, what it was I had loved so much about falling in love, and how complicated it was to do so. The book let me examine which parts of love I had been wrong about, and learn from them; and showed me which parts I'd been right about, and rejoiced in them.
This book so openly reflected my heart's desires that I drew from it many mantras to guide my hungry search for eternal love thereafter. "The forever kind of deal" became the star by which I sailed my ship towards passion.
I confess [bizarrely: here and now] that it wasn't a perfect bible for finding love, of course, and also that it did influence me in an ultimately unfortunate way. I later fell in love was with a man who now reminds me so thoroughly of Elliot that this reread became a sort of autobiographical spectre. Nonetheless, at the time, I was decidedly smitten. I wrote in my Christmas card to him that year - in full sincerity - that I humbly and truly hoped that what we'd begun would indeed be the forever kind of deal.
Two months later, I met my soul mate. I met _my_ Elliot, and knew his heart at first sight. My existential joy in meeting my binary star was nonetheless not insignificantly affected by my sorrow in losing the man I had I loved. Swallowing those words I'd so vulnerably proferred to my former lover has been a frog in my throat for many years. How can I have meant it so sincerely and still been wrong? It had severe consequences on my trust in my own decisions. I knew I was right about my now-husband; but, at the time, I was also right about my former lover.
This re-read reminded me that both can be true. That being in love, and being right or wrong, aren't part of the same galactic axis.
(Maybe tbc?)