What I'm Reading
I've decided to keep track of my reading for a while. Just for fun.
January, 2006
All the Pretty Horses, Cormac McMarthy
Dialogue reminds me of Hemingway, all manly and terse and shit. Then he goes off into these very descriptive, long, flowing sentences. Interesting. Generally, I really like his writing tho the Mexican grandmother's dialogue seemed off to me. I think this is due to the fact that in the novel's reality, she would speak in Spanish. He's writing in English. So sometimes her words seem very formal, which I understand. Spanish can be both more formal and more ornate--even the language of so-called "uneducated" people--so this may be the reason it stuck out to me. Loved some of the descriptions of the night and the stars. In general, I like his work and found myself underlining or checking things I admired.
I first read this book back at UT for a Life and Literature of the Southwest class. Almost every year I try to read McCarthy's Blood Meridian but I can never get past page 50 or 60 because of all the blood and violence. A lot of people consider that his best (or one of his best) books. They also say, "Page 50 or 60? That's the beginning! It gets a lot more violent after that." Which is why I've never finished it.
Survivor in Death, J.D. Robb (Nora Roberts)
I've never read Nora Roberts' romances but I have read some of her "fill in the blank" in Death series. They're tight, fast reads, low on description and characterization. Good airplane reading. Also, for me, the kind of book I reach for when I want to read but don't want to think too hard. (Yes, I know how this sounds.) She's prolific as hell, too. My mother-in-law, who has read some of her romance novels, doesn't like this series. I think that's somewhat common, in that her romance readers probably don't cross over much to these futuristic cop dramas (? mysteries ? not sure what the actual genre is) and vice versa. I don't think I would read her romances, for instance.
Way of the Cheetah, Lynn Viehl (e-book)
A writing book, and like all writing books, offers up advice that could be helpful or not, depending on the writer. Fast paced (I know that sounds like a funny description of a writing book) but she doesn't include a lot of padding. At 72 pages, it's pretty lean. She suggests exercises and a few tips on How to Boost Your Productivity (her subhead), and she's in favor of becoming a better writer by producing more books (versus focusing on rewriting). She's written 32 books in five genres in six years. So if your goal is crafting careful sentences and being an arteest, you may disagree with her approach. Things I found helpful: using things you enjoy (surfing the internet, reading, watching porn--kidding! she doesn't mention porn tho I think that would be on the list for a lot of writers I've known, whatever works, right?) as carrots that you give yourself only after you've completed your daily goal. Smart. Also, using a timer (which creates that self-inflicted deadline a lot of writers need to produce).
Currently reading:
Jacob Have I Loved, Katherine Paterson
Are you picking up on anything yet? I read some odd books in tandem.
Tuesday
Monday
Missing Austin
Sometimes, for no particular reason, I miss Austin.
I miss coffee shops that stay open past ten.
I miss avocado margaritas (I know how it sounds, but trust me; they're gooooood).
I miss the hike and bike trail.
I miss Yoga Yoga.
Today, Nate and I were chatting about what we miss.
"What was the thai place we used to eat lunch at?"
"Thai Passion," he wrote.
"I loved the pho that one place had on Sixth Street."
Before I had hit send, he wrote, "The pho place closed."
Nate has this eery way of of knowing what I'm about to say before I say it. He does it all the time in conversation, too. Either he is very intuitive, or I have a very easy mind to predict.
In any case, I'm very sad the pho place closed. I used to go get chicken pho when I was feeling under the weather.
All that said, there are some good things about Dallas, too. We're finally starting to feel like we have friends. We got out to dinner, drinks, plays, art openings, readings, wine tastings, we have people over for dinner, and get invited to parties. I know these are very mundane things. But each time you move, you have to rebuild your friendships and your favorite places. This is finally starting to happen for us here, about 18 months in. (That's about how long it took in Chicago, too.)
Sometimes, for no particular reason, I miss Austin.
I miss coffee shops that stay open past ten.
I miss avocado margaritas (I know how it sounds, but trust me; they're gooooood).
I miss the hike and bike trail.
I miss Yoga Yoga.
Today, Nate and I were chatting about what we miss.
"What was the thai place we used to eat lunch at?"
"Thai Passion," he wrote.
"I loved the pho that one place had on Sixth Street."
Before I had hit send, he wrote, "The pho place closed."
Nate has this eery way of of knowing what I'm about to say before I say it. He does it all the time in conversation, too. Either he is very intuitive, or I have a very easy mind to predict.
In any case, I'm very sad the pho place closed. I used to go get chicken pho when I was feeling under the weather.
All that said, there are some good things about Dallas, too. We're finally starting to feel like we have friends. We got out to dinner, drinks, plays, art openings, readings, wine tastings, we have people over for dinner, and get invited to parties. I know these are very mundane things. But each time you move, you have to rebuild your friendships and your favorite places. This is finally starting to happen for us here, about 18 months in. (That's about how long it took in Chicago, too.)
Tuesday
Scenes from the past
I’ve been keeping journals regularly since about 1996 or so. Ten years. Some of the entries are lists, goals, writing down my dreams (nightly dreams, not my, you know, dreams), funny things that happened, and ideas for future stories. Sometimes even a first draft of something.
Last night, because I was supposed to be revising, I picked up an old journal and started reading. Right after I graduated from college and before I began my first “real” full-time job, I had several gay male friends.
Like a lot of women, I went through a phase when gay men sought me out. I’m still not sure why this happens. There are a lot of factors, I suppose. You have things in common. Cute clothes, an appreciation of good-looking men, a knowledge of skin products, you know, the important things in life.
I had a job on campus my last year of school and I met my friend H. there. How do I explain this … H. and I were both looking for a man. But we had an appreciation for each other. I thought he was cute; he thought I was. People often thought we were dating because we sat side to side, often with our arms around each other, holding hands, squeezing each other’s cheeks, etc. I think we used to kiss hello and good-bye, but that was the extent of it. We liked each other, but we didn’t like like each other. We wanted to, and we both often commented on how much simpler our lives would be if a. he were straight or b. I had a penis.
Now … don’t get the wrong idea. This is not one of those “I was in love with my best gay friend stories.” I thought he was cute and I thought he was funny but I never seriously entertained the thought of dating him. Mainly because, well you know, I didn’t have the necessary … equipment.
I started going out to dinner with H. and his band of gay male friends and it was always fun. For one thing, they liked girly drinks and weren’t embarrassed about it. They liked to go to good restaurants. And they always appreciated my outfits. They also cracked me up. In one of the journals I read last night, I found an entry about one of these dinners. The “girls” had an extra chair for “accessories,” for all of our bags/man-bags, sweaters, and such. When I reached over to put my bag on the table, one of H.’s friends said, “Girl, you better not. One of these queens will snatch it.”
Later that night, this same friend hugged my goodbye. He squeezed me tightly, looked down my shirt and said, “Ooh, they’re real.”
Because I was used to going out with gay men that summer, and specifically going out dancing with them, I stopped taking suggestive dancing very seriously. Usually my friends were peering around my shoulder to look at the cute guy behind me, so you know, it was just dancing.
One night I went out with a girlfriend. We had gone to a salsa club, I’m pretty sure, which closed at 2 a.m. This is in Austin, by the way. If it’s after 2 a.m. in Austin, there’s pretty much only one place that’s still open for another two hours with music and has no cover. And that’s the gay bar down the street. We started dancing and almost immediately two guys come over and start dancing with us. You know, typical suggestive pseudo-sexual kinds of things.
I was dancing with a very good-looking guy. Tight designer jeans, check. Gym rat, check. Tight black shirt to show off biceps and six-pack, check. Beautiful skin, showing a love and knowledge of the skin products, check.
“I like your perfume,” he said.
Typical appreciation of fragrance, check.
“What is it?” he asked.
At this point, I should have known something was wrong. Very wrong. A gay man would have known.
“CK1,” I said.
I squeezed his bicep.
“Wow, you work out,” I said.
“Every day.”
“I can tell.”
I squeezed his butt.
“Squats?” I asked. “I wish my butt was that firm.”
Meanwhile, my girlfriend is waving frantically to me.
“I like your shirt,” I told him. “Where do you like to shop?”
He starts laughing.
My friend disentangles herself from her dance partner and hisses in my ear, “They aren’t gay.”
I had what you might call a moment of clarity. That perhaps a girl has been hanging around with too many gay men when she squeezes a complete stranger’s ass and asks him if he works out. Check.
I’ve been keeping journals regularly since about 1996 or so. Ten years. Some of the entries are lists, goals, writing down my dreams (nightly dreams, not my, you know, dreams), funny things that happened, and ideas for future stories. Sometimes even a first draft of something.
Last night, because I was supposed to be revising, I picked up an old journal and started reading. Right after I graduated from college and before I began my first “real” full-time job, I had several gay male friends.
Like a lot of women, I went through a phase when gay men sought me out. I’m still not sure why this happens. There are a lot of factors, I suppose. You have things in common. Cute clothes, an appreciation of good-looking men, a knowledge of skin products, you know, the important things in life.
I had a job on campus my last year of school and I met my friend H. there. How do I explain this … H. and I were both looking for a man. But we had an appreciation for each other. I thought he was cute; he thought I was. People often thought we were dating because we sat side to side, often with our arms around each other, holding hands, squeezing each other’s cheeks, etc. I think we used to kiss hello and good-bye, but that was the extent of it. We liked each other, but we didn’t like like each other. We wanted to, and we both often commented on how much simpler our lives would be if a. he were straight or b. I had a penis.
Now … don’t get the wrong idea. This is not one of those “I was in love with my best gay friend stories.” I thought he was cute and I thought he was funny but I never seriously entertained the thought of dating him. Mainly because, well you know, I didn’t have the necessary … equipment.
I started going out to dinner with H. and his band of gay male friends and it was always fun. For one thing, they liked girly drinks and weren’t embarrassed about it. They liked to go to good restaurants. And they always appreciated my outfits. They also cracked me up. In one of the journals I read last night, I found an entry about one of these dinners. The “girls” had an extra chair for “accessories,” for all of our bags/man-bags, sweaters, and such. When I reached over to put my bag on the table, one of H.’s friends said, “Girl, you better not. One of these queens will snatch it.”
Later that night, this same friend hugged my goodbye. He squeezed me tightly, looked down my shirt and said, “Ooh, they’re real.”
Because I was used to going out with gay men that summer, and specifically going out dancing with them, I stopped taking suggestive dancing very seriously. Usually my friends were peering around my shoulder to look at the cute guy behind me, so you know, it was just dancing.
One night I went out with a girlfriend. We had gone to a salsa club, I’m pretty sure, which closed at 2 a.m. This is in Austin, by the way. If it’s after 2 a.m. in Austin, there’s pretty much only one place that’s still open for another two hours with music and has no cover. And that’s the gay bar down the street. We started dancing and almost immediately two guys come over and start dancing with us. You know, typical suggestive pseudo-sexual kinds of things.
I was dancing with a very good-looking guy. Tight designer jeans, check. Gym rat, check. Tight black shirt to show off biceps and six-pack, check. Beautiful skin, showing a love and knowledge of the skin products, check.
“I like your perfume,” he said.
Typical appreciation of fragrance, check.
“What is it?” he asked.
At this point, I should have known something was wrong. Very wrong. A gay man would have known.
“CK1,” I said.
I squeezed his bicep.
“Wow, you work out,” I said.
“Every day.”
“I can tell.”
I squeezed his butt.
“Squats?” I asked. “I wish my butt was that firm.”
Meanwhile, my girlfriend is waving frantically to me.
“I like your shirt,” I told him. “Where do you like to shop?”
He starts laughing.
My friend disentangles herself from her dance partner and hisses in my ear, “They aren’t gay.”
I had what you might call a moment of clarity. That perhaps a girl has been hanging around with too many gay men when she squeezes a complete stranger’s ass and asks him if he works out. Check.
Friday
Funny Writer
Just wanting to pass along a link to a post and a writer I find funny. Very talented, this one is (imagine Yoda's voice here).
This story is what I consider a short-term gain (I'm referring to the boss in the post, not the writer).
Just wanting to pass along a link to a post and a writer I find funny. Very talented, this one is (imagine Yoda's voice here).
This story is what I consider a short-term gain (I'm referring to the boss in the post, not the writer).
Valentine's Day
You may not be thinking about this holiday yet. I hope you aren't. Retailers are, though. I was in a grocery store this week and saw an aisle devoted to red and pink. This got me to thinking about something that happened last year around Valentine's Day. I worked with two women. A day or two before Feb. 14, one woman got a bouquet of flowers. I can't remember what she said, but I got the impression she had "reminded" her husband to buy the flowers for her.
The other woman oohed and aaahed and asked where the flowers were bought. I believe she wrote down a phone number. The next day -- lo and behold! -- she had the same exact bouquet. I could be wrong, but I think she went home and told her husband to buy her flowers. At this point, the first woman turned to me and said, "Your husband better get on the ball."
Apparently we had regressed to junior high and didn't even know it!
Nate and I don't celebrate Valentine's Day. Besides the fact we find the "holiday" silly, we started seeing each other on Feb. 13. (No, we didn't want to go out on Valentine's Day when we first started dating. We both felt like that was a jinx or something. And, oh yeah, cheesy as hell.) We still celebrate our "dating anniversary," so that's usually when we got out to dinner or do something fun.
Nate does buy me flowers and surprises me with gifts from time to time. They are usually unexpected and I certainly don't go home and insist on them. Here's the thing: I believe a gift should be just that, given. If you have to browbeat your boyfriend/husband to buy you something, is that a gift? Is that "romantic?" I guess that's up to each woman to decide for herself.
Accidental Premonition
Back in '97 or '98, I worked for a travel publisher in Austin. That's where I met my friend John Black. In the afternoons, he and I used to walk across the street to get a mid-afternoon pick-me-up at Starbucks. Only, I used to accidentally call it "Starbooks" all the time. Looks like Starbooks has come to be.
Thursday
Just Wondering
How do you get the direct phone line to God?
"Woe unto any prime minister of Israel who takes a similar course to appease the EU, the United Nations or the United States of America," Robertson said on the January 5 program. "God says, 'This land belongs to me, and you'd better leave it alone.' "
You can read the rest here.
How do you get the direct phone line to God?
"Woe unto any prime minister of Israel who takes a similar course to appease the EU, the United Nations or the United States of America," Robertson said on the January 5 program. "God says, 'This land belongs to me, and you'd better leave it alone.' "
You can read the rest here.
Conflicted Feelings
In a lot of ways, I hate cars. I hate how dependent Americans are on cars and the gas that fuels them. I hate how much money is spent on cars and how much time is spent in them. I can’t stand that a simple form of transportation is a status symbol.
All that being said, I grew up with a father who liked cars. One of the first cars I remember was a ’68 or ‘69 Camaro. I think it was painted “midnight blue” with silver racing stripes and those big, fat racing wheels. It looked a lot like this one. Dad sold that car when I was young.
Then he had a Cougar. I don’t know what year it was, but based on these images it was sometime between ’67-’70 because it wasn’t as big as the ’71-’73 . When my mom was pregnant with my younger sister, he told me he was going to sell the Cougar to get something more practical. I was four years old and cried when he told me. I loved that car. If I remember correctly, it may have had a soft versus a hard top. I wonder if it was a convertible.
What all this means is that even tho my mind is firmly in the 21st century and I believe in using public transportation or walking when possible, and using hybrids if you can afford to buy the currently higher-priced models, my heart is still in an earlier era. I miss the sound of those heavy doors when they closed, the feeling that cars were made of metal and not plastic. And hearing that rumble, rumble, rumble of a really mean engine.
I bring this up is because the Camaro has returned. At first I thought, that's silly in this day of elevated gas prices. Then I thought, I like Camaros. Like a lot of Americans, I think I have conflicting feelings about cars, the rising price of gasoline, and the role that cars will play in our future versus our past.
At least my Dad couldn't afford a Porsche. Then I'd be really conflicted.
Wednesday
Don't you love lists?
A random list of things I did in 2005:
Visited Alabama for the first time (an actual visit, not just driving through).
Got a puppy who now weighs 70-75 pounds.
Worked a job I hated.
Found a new job I really like.
Wrote a second draft of the novel. (God that sounds lame. It took a whole year to do that?)
Made some new friends.
Met some famous authors.
Bought a second car.
Spent the first year in a house I co-own.
Bought a refrigerator, washer and dryer, dishwasher, lawn mower, television, dining room table, and too many other household things to mention.
Did not reduce my credit card debt, but didn't add to it. (Reason? See above.)
Painted the three bedrooms and the hallway in the house.
Started taking a yoga class fairly regularly.
Found two favorite bars.
Went to a Texas Rangers game with my parents and Nate.
Spent a lot more time with family.
Tried to throw a surprise birthday party for Nate he found out about.
Got addicted to The Shield, Deadwood, and Lost.
Some things I'd like to do in 2006
Bump yoga from "fairly regularly" to "regularly."
Start running again.
Learn how to make my own candles and/or soap.
Finish a third draft of the novel and then a fourth.
Go to New York for a visit.
Apply for a few writing fellowships and retreats.
Submit excerpts from the novel to a few literary magazines.
Consider joining a writing group. (I have mixed feelings about this.)
Paint the living room and Den. The Den is going to be a whopper, thus the capitalization. It's a multi-phase project. Retexture the ceiling, get two new ceiling fans, add a skylight (maybe), get new French doors, paint walls, paint fireplace, saw some decorative scrolly crap off bookshelves and built-in desks, maybe get a new carpet. Looking at that list, this project might bleed over into 2007.
Sod the back yard.
Find a good spot for an herb garden. (Good spot = a place where Walker can't eat the herbs. That dog eats everything.)
Have more fun.
Have more fun with clothes. I used to wear some pretty funky outfits when I was younger. Somehow I've gotten more conservative with my dress as I've gotten older. You have to ask yourself, what's the point of that?