currently playing on my iPod: The High Road by Broken Bells
Last night I began reading LOVE WALKED IN by Marisa de los Santos and, once again, I am reminded of how much I love other writers. The varied ways they present their truths. The way they always seem to “get me”. (Side note: I feel rather strongly that the period is where it should be in that sentence–post to follow at some point–I’ll warn you before I mount the soap box to regale my arduously dull grammatical disturbances.) In this book, Ms. de los Santos mentions lovely scenes in old movies in which Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn make the rest of us look pale and undeserving. With obvious delight, she paints the heaviness of the fabrics, the lines of the eyes, and temperature of the meaningful glances in those beloved films —all the while apologizing for her devotion to the ridiculously trite setups. And in addition to enjoying her story, I find myself jealous that she feels comfortable acknowledging the reader. It must be refreshing to simply address the audience. To implore them to sympathy, to ignite their fury as need be. When I write, I feel I must keep the story playing as a movie in the reader’s mind. I must not disturb the reader with a reminder that this is a book. Hist fic (that’s what I write) has been written in journal style–I am not here to say it does not work–only that it takes a certain writer to do it. One must commit either way. All in or totally out of the way. Which way do you like it? Completely immersed in the tale or pleasantly engaged in a sort of conversation?