Posting will be light this week.
I’ve got several top secret missions happening at once, not to mention what looks to be a dark and depressing book club selection to read. I’m only about 20 pages in, but so far, my diagnosis is Too Many Overwrought Similes.
“Out of the long windows of Henry Ko’s studio, the hills and shacks of Echo park tumbled toward Sunset Boulevard like a child’s bedspread scattered with toys.”
“Bare winter jacarandas broke the view with their angular arms, round pods hanging from their branch wrists like castanets.”
“She missed him like fire.”
What does that even mean? She missed him like fire.
I have no patience for fiction these days. I had lunch with my friend Mike the other day, and he was all “How’s the novel coming?” I just stared at him. “I’m not writing a novel.” Why does everyone assume that anyone who writes anything secretly wants to write a novel? I do not wish to write a novel. I don’t even to wish to READ a novel right now.
Amanda blogged like an egg yolk. Cracked yet whole. Steam rose like anger from the mid-priced heat and air unit outside her living room window. She had wanted to buy the cheaper one, but Larry had insisted this came with a better warranty. Plus, that dude pushing the Trane unit was kind of an asshole. It was winter all right. Regardless of what the novice weatherman in his ill-fitting too-shiny suit (just $199 at The Men’s Wearhouse!) predicted. Spring was still several weeks away. And Amanda was late for work.