Tonight I saw Meg Cabot at the local independent bookstore, and I haven’t laughed so hard in, oh, like 7 weeks. She talked about her “journey as a writer,” but in this very hilarious, grown-up valley-girl-esque way that was at once self-mocking and adoring. I love, love, loved the talk, and now I’m fired up to work on my novel, currently without a title...
My novel suffers from a bit of an identity crisis, in that it wants to be a smart chick lit book, but so far I think I’m the only one who would see the “smartness.” Gotta work on that. Also, the real question is how, um, smutty, or explicit to make the story. I’m currently at a crucial point in the action and have to decide how to proceed, the 19th century fade-out, the coy tell-but-don’t show, or the no-holds barred laying it bare (so to speak).
K. and I chatted at length yesterday about our respective novels and the great fun of dressing the characters. I find that I have my characters wear clothes that I’ve seen/tried on and have no place for or not enough money for in my own life. Case in point: this amazing emerald silk halter gown, super low back and plunge front, with a soft train in the back, simply stunning. I’ve never felt quite so pisces-esque as when I had this gown on. So now Sarah’s wearing the gown (although she’s about not to...see the previous paragraph).
In culinary creation news, I made a cinnamon honey ice cream today, though ice milk might be more apt, as I used 2% milk and heavy cream instead of whole milk and twice as much cream. The texture’s different, but I love the lightness. The ice cream will be the accompaniment of the peach pie I intend to bake tomorrow...I made the crust today (I use about 3/4 butter and 1/4 shortening for the best of both worlds). Yumm. S and I will enjoy this tasty treat after our inaugural tennis match of the summer (which promises to be hilarious as neither of us are v. good). We played often last summer, in part to try and meet some nice (read smart, funny, fit, single) men, but were caught in the “cougar” conundrum (see recent reporst on mass media outlets for the definition of this term)...that is, either being cougars ourselves (much younger men) or the cougar prey (much older men). Where’s Andy Roddick when you need him?
As you can tell, this blog seems to be taking a turn to the chatty...blame it on the summer breezes, which make me feel fine and help me not to take myself so gosh darned seriously:)