So, my day was crappy until about 3 p.m. when the internet at work went out, which seemed like the cherry on top of a yucky sundae. Dejected, I decided to go home.
I was about to the river when it started to snow. And snow. And snow. Within minutes, the road was nearly invisible. But I went slow and made it home.
Following Nashvillians on Twitter reveals I’m one of the lucky ones.
Today it’s hit me. I haven’t been able to walk the dog in three days. I feel like my whole life is moving from one seat to another. And I have no window in my office, so everything has a “it might rain” type not-quite-well-lit glow about it.
And so, it turns out, I cannot give a shit about things today.
Which is unfortunate, because there’s a lot going on.
I picked up The Ghost Writer because I love a good ghost story and because I read it was written in first person and I wanted to see what Harwood was doing when it came to issues of “how many times do you say ‘said’ before your reader gets annoyed?” But people in his book rarely speak! When they say ‘said’ it’s not annoying because they so rarely say anything. Otherwise, I’m really enjoying it.
I’ve been terrible about wanting to know what the twist at the end is and also not wanting to know. Every review seems to be like this one, where they heap lavish praise and then are kind of like “eh, the end is weird.” I could just skip to the end, but my urge to not know is still too strong. I want to find out, I guess.
Cambridge is releasing a book about how the Devil functions in literature. This press release raises questions. Do women not write about the Devil? Are women not great writers? Or is it that women can’t really sell their souls to the Devil or wrestle with him as a peer, because we’ve so long been considered already belonging to him?
I’ve just been thinking about that in terms of my own book–I guess I’ve been writing it as if there’s really nothing Hannah can do or not do that will alter her course once she decides to go get the baby. There’s no deal for her to make. Even trying to act under her own agency, she can’t avoid getting caught up in these grander narratives.
It’s a strange position to write from–where the main character is kind of constantly dealing with the fallout from other people’s (and supernatural beings’) stories and then moving on without really knowing how they turn out.
The Devil is just one more person with a narrative already in motion.
Ha, shoot, I’m going to have to start rewriting soon, if only for my own sake and the sake of the quilt.
Tiny Cat Pants 