I’ve actually been very good, writing a little over 10,000 words in the past two weeks. But sometimes, when the words get mucky and the sentences are tangled and the plot isn’t moving, it’s time for me to go visual.
Some people might not see the value in rifling through photos when I need to be churning out words. But I think it gives the word section of my brain some time off and exercises the “shiny! pretty! colorful!” part instead. (Yes, that’s the scientific explanation.) It’s basic cross-training.
I also started some Pinterest boards to collect ideas for various writing projects. These act as digital vision boards. I turn to them whenever I get stuck on a character’s look, am confused about setting, need some help with location or could just use a big, beautiful shot of inspiration.
Here are some images that inspired me today. What do they do for you?
Bagan, Burma. From National Geographic.
Whitehaven Beach, Australia
From Patterson Maker.
YingXi Corridor of Stone Peaks, China.
Holi. By Porus Chaudhry.
Lac Rose in Senegal. From Gingerleaf.
Colorful door.
Mirror statues in Scotland. From http://imgur.com/sD1sd
Wooden churches in Russia. From That Bohemian Girl.
I don’t mind the heat so much. I live in a desert. Warm weather comes with the territory.
What bothers me is that my car has no air conditioning. This isn’t a problem most of the year. But in summer months — when the sun is blazing and temperatures climb above 110 degrees — it is torture.
It makes me think of when I was little, and my pastor gave ominous sermons about what awaited unrepentant sinners in hell. None of it frightened me until he got to the Lake of Fire part, which is downright terrifying. This is a lake … made of FIRE. As someone scared of both drowning and burning, it is the worst possible scenario.
What I didn’t expect was that my car would become my own personal lake of fire. My hand is scorched by the steering wheel, even through the fabric that covers it. Sweat rolls down my eyelids and pools in the bottom of my sunglasses. I once made the mistake of leaving some coins on the seat — I now have Abraham Lincoln permanently branded to the back of my thigh.
Rolling down the windows brings little relief. It’s merely opening the doors to the blast furnace. The breeze feels more like I’m holding a hair dryer to my face. I arrive at my destination exhausted, dehydrated, red-faced and soaked with sweat. I am drowning and burning, simultaneously.
And the worst part is that I’m still here on earth, racking up sins. I’m not supposed to feel like I’m in hell yet.
Thankfully, The Husband and I are buying a new-to-us car. We found a fantastic, affordable 2010 Honda Accord WITH AIR CONDITIONING! I am so grateful and so happy.
The only minor setback is that this vehicle is in Ohio, so we’re making a little vacation out of it. We’re flying home to spend time with our loved ones in the Midwest, then we’ll pick up the car and drive it back to California.
On our way back, we’re doing a mini version of the Great American Road Trip — even though it’s more like The Teeny-Weeny American Road Trip, Southern Fried With Gravy on Top.
Here’s our itinerary:
Flying: 2,106 miles
Driving: 2,804 miles
Stops: Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans, Houston, El Paso.
Along the way: Family. Friends. A former crush. Two editors. A brother-in-law. An adorable niece. Graceland. BBQ. Bourbon. Tacos.
Have any suggestions for what to see, do and eat along this route? Send them my way!
Last night I rolled over in bed and accidentally elbowed my husband in the forehead.
“Ow.” He rubbed his head.
“Boom!” I said. “You’ve been 50 Shades of Greyed.”
And then I promptly fell back asleep.
I guess the book has been on my mind a lot, since it’s the selection for our new book club at UCR Palm Desert. (We meet at 7 p.m. Tuesday, June 19, if you’re interested). I’m one of the facilitators for the group conversation, so I have to read the book carefully enough to pick up discussion points. I can’t just skim it for the sexy sex parts. And let’s be honest. If I wasn’t reading this for book club, I would only be skimming it for the sexy sex parts.
For those of you who don’t consume any kind of media whatsoever, here’s a quick summary of this international bestseller: This is the story of Anastasia, a boring virgin who meets businessman Christian Grey. He is instantly bewitched by her. She is beguiled by him. Those are direct quotes from the book.
“You beguile me, Christian.”
“Oh, Anastasia. You’ve bewitched me.”
Later, Christian finds Anastasia challenging. We know this because Christian says, “Oh, Anastasia. You challenge me.”
Christian also happens to make $100,000 per hour (seriously) and showers Anastasia with lavish gifts, like books that cost $14,000 and an Audi that costs however much Audis cost.
Periodically, Ana’s inner goddess — of course she has an inner goddess — rejoices and performs some kind of audition for “So You Think You Can Dance.” Direct quote: “My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.” Later: “My inner goddess sits in the lotus position looking serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face.”
Throughout the book, Anastasia remains hopelessly naive, even after getting trussed up and flogged in Christian’s Red Room of Pain. She refers to touching “his thing” and him reaching for “her sex.”
So far this all sounds like one of my childhood fantasies. I used to cut out photos of sparkly jewels from the Sears catalogue and glue them to my head. Then I would boast to my friends, “Someday I’ll meet a man who makes one billion-jillion dollars! And then we will kiss. And we will do it. With his thing.”
But whatever. Let’s just all accept that this is some terrible writing. Even the author, E.L. James, admitted this is bad writing. I started making hashmarks every time our protagonist bit her lip or said, “Damn!” — but then the margins of my book began to look like Andy Dufresne counting out the days of his jail term in “The Shawshank Redemption” and I got tired. (I say this as a person who reads and enjoys a lot of crap. I devoured nine “Pretty Little Liars” books in two days straight.)
I’m surprised this book has been at the center of such a media firestorm. These days you can’t swing a dead cat (or flog a naive virgin) without hitting a blog post or article about this book. Most of the pieces fall into the incredibly condescending “Whaaat? Women like erotic things?” category, while others are of the “Oh noes! They do the intercourse in ways in which I am not familiar!” variety. This essay by Roxane Gay is the best, smartest piece I’ve seen yet — perhaps the only smart piece I’ve seen.
Is “50 Shades of Grey” erotic? I don’t know. I personally didn’t find it arousing. Maybe I was just distracted by the fact that I dropped $15.95 on this book when there are naked people all over the internet for free. The book definitely contains a lot of explicit scenes, but it’s all hopelessly heteronormative and only serves to play up the old storyline of a broken man and the woman who gives up her own identity in an effort to fix him. And though I’m not intimately acquainted with the BDSM scene, I’m pretty sure this book paints an inaccurate portrait of the domination/submission world.
Beyond all that, I was truly confused by some of the things in “Fifty Shades.” For instance:
* How come Ana didn’t have an email address until she met Christian? I’ll give you the Red Room of Pain stuff, but a college student in the year 2011 with no email? Girl, please.
* Ana has a landline? No email, but she has a landline?
* How did Christian get an Apple product before its release date? Even Steve Freaking Wozniak has to wait in line for the new iPad.
* Why do these two email so much? Why aren’t they texting? The technology in this book is batshit crazy.
* I swear Ana has worn her roommate’s plum dress for about 10 days straight.
* Why would she get into a stranger’s helicopter? Stranger danger, Ana! That’s, like, the first rule of dating. Don’t get into aircraft with strange men.
The one redeeming thing about this whole book — and trust me, I had to work hard to find this one redeeming thing — is that Christian encourages Ana to eat a lot. And I like that in a man. Even more than a Red Room of Pain or a billion-jillion dollars.
My father visited Palm Springs earlier this year, just as arguments about the paint job on the Saguaro hotel were really heating up. There were a bunch of meetings and angry people and letters to the editor … the whole bit.
My dad’s take? “If you’re that upset about paint on a hotel, you need more problems.”
(Here is the super offensive paint in question.)
So the other day I was scrolling through some Palm Springs restaurant reviews on Yelp, and I realized that some of you need more problems.
Yeah, I know it sucks to spend money on a meal that is less than satisfying. But to say that too much pepper on your filet mignon was a tragedy? Oh my god. You’re right. How could you possibly go on living after such trauma?
Check out some of the other ridiculous Yelps I stumbled upon:
it was the only place in town I wouldn’t feel outlandish wearing a floor length ball gown. As for the food … I should have known better than to order heirloom tomato salad in February.
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I would like the “era” of the deceptive lobster pot pie (or pot pies that are not) to end. Serving a cup of “stew” with a bread stick is not as advertised.
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we were offered a prix fixe choice of (yaaawn…) turkey, salmon or beef short ribs. We started with an “appetizer: ” a tiny, bland boiled potato that was advertised as having “lemon crème fraiche and caviar,” however, I think they forgot the crème fraiche on mine and the “caviar” turned out to be black tobiko. (Perhaps the similar amuse at Manressa was too fresh in my memory – simple yet bursting with flavor.)
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we ordered a pinot noir from the Russian River Valley. But the waiter brought out the same brand of pinot noir but with California as the appellation.
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they were subbing green mussels for the original black ones. I should have known and steered clear because green mussels are nothing like black, they are usually tough and way too gamey. But I chose it anyway and regretted it.
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Minus 1 star for not providing us the fancy little flashlights to read our menu.
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I ordered the Bisque de Homard ($14). This dish was utterly inexcusable. I had to let it sit for quite some time as it was absolutely scalding hot when it was poured from a cast iron vessel into my soup bowl at the table.
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The appearance of the apples in the risotto was less than appealing.
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They claim the Filet is 8 ounces. Bring a scale. I’m contesting the claim.
