I wanna have a sleepover with you, so we can cuddle in bed and watch movies all night. First we'll watch a scary movie, then after we'll watch a funny one. When our bodies get all uncomfortable from being in a certain position too long, we'll move around so that we're comfortable again but somehow cuddling still. Ya know? Then when we get hungry we can go to the kitchen and make a midnight snack. Then we'll go back to your room and maybe play video games and whoever dies first has to give the winner a kiss. That kiss will lead to more kissing and cuddling and all that cute stuff. And when we're all tired and restless, we'll be able to sleep in each others arms til the sun rises, if it hasn't already.
“I had this idea of what the writing life would be like. There were cocktail parties involved, and lots of socially acceptable binge drinking … It’s actually more like [being in] a mental institution. … I spend long periods of time thinking about invisible people who only exist in my head.”—Justin Kramon (FINNY), on the writing life (via wordbrooklyn)
“Memoirs have been disgorged by virtually everyone who has ever had cancer, been anorexic, battled depression, lost weight. By anyone who has ever taught an underprivileged child, adopted an underprivileged child or been an underprivileged child. By anyone who was raised in the ’60s, ’70s or ’80s, not to mention the ’50s, ’40s or ’30s. Owned a dog. Run a marathon. Found religion. Held a job.”—
Not a perfect piece by any means, but the take-home point that just because you CAN write a memoir doesn’t mean you SHOULD is solid.
“So the novelist is always working with at least three languages. There is the author’s own language, style, perceptual equipment, and so on; there is the character’s presumed language, style, perceptual equipment, and so on; and there is what we could call the language of the world—the language that fiction inherits before it gets to turn it into novelistic style, the language of daily speech, of newspapers, of offices, of advertising, of the blogosphere and text messaging. In this sense, the novelist is a triple writer, and the contemporary novelist now feels especially the pressure of this tripleness, thanks to the omnivorous presence of the third horse of this troika, the language of the world, which has invaded our subjectivity, our intimacy…”—James Wood, How Fiction Works
Oh, where does one begin? Does one start by saying “it’s not as bad as people say,” a backhanded insult both true and defensive? Does one mention that one laughed; can one reject the fear that whatever one says about the Snooki book says more about the reader than the book? Is it possible to even…