When I get into Atlanta Wednesday, I'm going to try to take in the Margaret Mitchell House and GWTW museum in the lull before conference craziness. The only time I've ever been in town before was in a speeding car on my way to Florida, so I'm going to play the tourist as much as time allows. I've always been a fan of the movie, of course, but I remember reading the book the first time for my junior year term paper and spending a good three days lying on my bed with the thing, probably the longest thing I've read cover to cover, taking breaks only long enough to go to school, go to the bathroom, and I suppose to eat dinner (actually I think I brought it to the table to my mother's horror.) It was the first novel I remember ever loving, the first time schoolwork was actually fun. I was such a smug little brat in those days too--always the overachiever. I think I chose it initially because it was the thickest most impressive book I could find in the JHS library, far bigger than what everyone else was reading. I knew the movie only vaguely then, not really what happened, so when I started reading, I was hooked. Feverish. Besides bad romances and horror books, it was the first real "literature" (though some snobby lit types would argue even this point) that evoked that sort of response in me. I wanted to BE Scarlet. Not some mealy-mouthed good girl, but one who says what she wants, means what she says. In some ways Scarlet formed who I wanted to be--unfortunately I also inherited her bad choice in men.
