I decided to read Frankenstein, by Mary Shelly, (should I say the full title?) Frankenstein; or the modern Prometheus. There are many reasons I chose to read this, primarily because I know the original story was radically different than the old Hollywood movies. Also, because Mary Shelly created an everlasting meme from her story. Everything from monsters to genetically modified crops.

While I was reading this, I found my progress to be very slow. I’m not a speed reader at the best of times, but this was becoming ridiculous. As I reflected on the words, I began to realize why I was so slow. The vocabulary used, and the construction of the phrases were more akin to the Victorian era, and not the twenty-first century.

The secret to reading works like this is to not race through the words. As a reader you need to forgive yourself for slow reading and in your mind apply yourself like a formal English gentleman. It may take longer, but it’s a lot more fun.

Casting my mind back to other classic writings, I thought of Shakespear. His writings were theatrical and more poetic. Whilst reading Shakespear in school, it had to be read slow, if only to enjoy the rhythm and his unique descriptives. Reading it slowly enhanced his words.

Then my English literary teacher introduced us to Geoffrey Chaucer. “Open your books to page one.” We were told. Are you kidding me? I couldn’t even read it, never mind understanding it. “Please sir, can I do a double class in mathematics instead?” I asked because I had to get out of there.

“Shut up Wozny! Sit in the front row and behave yourself.”

Chaucer turned out to be some of the greatest writings I ever encountered. Our teacher instructed us with a simple trick; read it in an old English accent. The closest I can describe is Somerset or Cornwall accents, similar to pirate slang. The entire class took off, and we competed amongst ourselves to read aloud.

So, what is the point of all this? I’ve led you through part of my literary appreciation for what reason?

Reading is a remarkable thing; in a sense, it is not natural for us. Modern humans are about 300,000 years old, while we’ve only had writing for about 5,000 years. Yet look at how the written words guide you along, suggesting to you how fast or slow to read it. I have read some passages (Stephen King) which made me jump out of my seat. Other comical books can cause me embarrassment while I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

If you are a writer, bear these thoughts in mind. The art of reading is the direct result of the art of writing. I cannot begin to advise how to construct such lively text, I have enough challenges of my own.

Remember, your words must be read.

They say that writers should share their personal experiences with their readers. They say it adds depth and makes you look real, well here it goes.

When I lived in England, I frequently gave blood. I did this because hospitals are always in need, and I could rest assured that I indirectly saved lives. I was not paid for my efforts, but the National Health Service (NHS) did provide all you can eat ice cream and cookies.

At each session a pint of blood was extracted. The body replaces that pint very quickly from bone marrow reserves. However, it takes time for the reserves to recover, so donating blood could only be done every month or two.

When I came to California, one of the first things I did was stop at a hospital and ask if I could donate blood. They asked, “Are you from England?” I had to answer affirmative, whereupon they refused my blood. The reason being CJD, or Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, also known as mad cow disease. This incurable Illness was killing British cattle, and if you ate infected beef, you would also succumb.

I did get some free ice cream though!

More recently this American restriction was lowered, and by chance I came upon an offer where I could donate plasma. This time it wasn’t for ice cream; I would get paid for my bodily life fluids. Plasma is the fluid that carries the red blood cells, it is made up of 90% water and the rest is protein and minerals. They extract the blood, separate the red cells and platelets with a centrifuge. They keep the plasma and return the red stuff back into your arm in a saline solution. This is done in stages, extracting and returning and the whole process takes about an hour.

The downside is you have a piece of plumbing stuck in your arm which is connected to a big device which seems to be a cross between a washing machine and a drinks dispenser.

The upside is plasma can be donated (or sold) twice a week. Which also means I get paid twice a week.

I thought this was super cool!

Pretty soon, my arms began to look like that of a drug addict. To coin a phrase, I began to feel drained. The processing that preceded each session was repetitive, and tedious, a bit like checking into hospital. The dollar signs that previously lit up my eyes were fading. I realized I need my plasma more than I need their money. In future, I will stay true to my principles of giving to those in need.

The moral of this story?

Good things don’t always last.

If they don’t then they probably weren’t good things to begin with.