Divine Providence?

I always find it weird and rather frightening that my interest in specific things tend to make them prominent in the world. I suppose it can always just be attributed to the fact that once you KNOW about something, you are more attuned to it, and thus see it everywhere. Like when you get a new car, you suddenly notice that EVERYONE has a car just like yours.

My latest example of this has come in the form of G.K. Chesterton's The Man Who was Thursday. I found this book while poking around Goodreads and thought that it would be something I would like to read. I go to buy the thing at BN (yes, I know, they're the devil to the book world), and though their website had said it was in stock, they were sold out when I got to the store. Someone else had caught the Chesteron bug. Since then, I haven't been able to find a copy and was starting to talk myself out of wanting the thing. But, once again, the book entered my life through the latest issue of The New Yorker that contained an article about the book's and Chesterton's history. Apparently, the book is celebrating its 100 year anniversary, so it is no wonder that it has been popping up all over the place.

It just always feels like an odd coincidence when these sorts of things happen, how my fixation seems to be the world's, though this probably has something to do with my subconscious narcissism.

The State of Funds... and Literature

Once I'm finished here, I'll be off to fill out my FAFSA. (Yes, I know that I'm ridiculously late.) But it always annoys me that you can be a poor married couple, make a combined income less than the poverty line, and still not receive jack from the government--though if some guy from the government named Jack showed up on my doorstep, I'd probably refuse him. I just find it rather annoying that it almost seems like you have to have more of an ethnic background for the government to even take notice.

I'll admit that I'm probably quite wrong on this matter and that the whole system is based on nothing but numbers, but I can't help but wonder that if my last name was something a bit less generic than Smith, I might get a few extra bucks from Uncle Sam's pocket.

The same goes for literature--or more precisely, The New Yorker. Granted, I enjoy the magazine, the fiction is almost always worth my time, but I've noticed a startling trend--and I'm not talking about how so many of the stories end with the word "home." Over this last year of my subscription, I've noticed that the majority of the author's that get published in that magazine are either already famous or have an ethnic background. True, famous writers are famous for one reason--which is mostly correct--they are really good friggin' authors. But, like the monies, I can't help but wonder if those with a name like Xing Chin or Jason Shawasha don't get an extra recommendation. Again, they are good stories--for the most part--and I can't really argue against their inclusion within the magazine. It's just something that got my brain a tumblin'.

In the end, I suppose any budding writer tries to come up with whatever reason they can to squash their bit of an ego and keep them from doing something crazy, like actually submitting their work. Ah well, one of these days, I just might have to scatter my marbles somewhere I won't find them and submit.