Nom de Plume

Of course I went. Of course I was expecting to hate it. And of course I was surprised by how GOOD it was. The cast was all fabulous — and I adore Tilda Swinton. She was FABULOUS.

Touted as a novel in stories, The Bride Wore Red is a series of stories about the cultural clash between India and America. Sally and her Sikh husband Deshi navigate the differences between what family means in the East and the West, just as Deshi’s cousins also marry American women. Families descend for months, straining marriages — sometimes irrevocably. Sethi has an ear finely attuned to difference, and she conveys it well.

I first encountered Ron Carlson in an anthology called New Writers of the Purple Sage a few years ago, and I think he’s one of the most underrated short story writers of our time. And his book of shorts At the Jim Bridger does not disappoint. From a genius trying to fit in with his wife’s crowd to a story about the consequences of saving another man while caught in a snowstorm, these are wry and heartbreaking stories that capture the eternal in our daily actions.

I’m finally making a dent in my summer remaindered book order from Edward R. Hamilton. Remaindered books are a funny lot; many sadden you that they are not better known and in the discount bin while others are a complete and total waste of paper. And then there are some, such as Edwardo Jackson’s Neva Hafta, that make one actively reconsider the benefits of book burning.

Nick has an MBA (as we are told several times) who leaves a $70,000 jobs (as we are told even more times) to move to L.A. to become an actor. He learns that his mother is dying of breast cancer, and instead of spending time with her, decides that he needs to get married so she will die happy. Meanwhile, his editor friend says he’ll pay him to write a weekly column about his quest for Ms. Right. Which is crap. Just like the book. Seriously, I don’t know what made me buy this; at $1.99, I feel completely ripped off.

Bright, sunny, and cold … perfect long walk weather. Elizabeth and I headed over to Kubota Gardens for a nice Friday midday break. Harry was in heaven. He wants to go back.

I hate them. You know, the “Abortion stops a beating heart” bumper stickers. Or anything about politics. But I’m an equal opportunity hater too; if I see another Volvo with “Pro-child, pro-choice” displayed on the back, I’ll scream.

Yesterday, on my way back from a Trader Joe’s run, I saw a bumper sticker that read, “God was my co-pilot but we crashed in the mountains and I ate him.” And all I could think about was that this person is NO BETTER than all the “God is my co-pilot” people. I mean, come on. Talk about disrespectful.

Daily headline juxtaposition on Yahoo:

Air Marshal Kills Passenger, Citing Threat
FEMA Official Warned About Unprepared Teams

I am starting to look forward to driving down to Julian for Christmas. Steve thinks I’m insane to drive, but I want to be able to take Harry, and also bring some things up here … so it makes sense. Also, I realized the other night when Elizabeth and I were walking, that I’ve never done a road trip completely on my own. And while I love traveling with Steve, he never wants to stop and see people; it means he has to be social.

Mom knows an Archbishop for the Greek Orthodox Church (she calls him the ArchB); they have a monastery/convent in Northern California. Harry and I are stopping overnight there on the way down. Which should be fun and very interesting. On the way back up, I want to see Steph. I should probably call her and ask if she’s going to be around.

Mike Hurley is in town for a conference, and I’ve invited him over to dinner.

Which, alas, means that my housework strike is at an end. Not that anyone has even noticed that I’m on strike. And not that I’m bitter or anything.

“You have to read this book,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “There were some sections that totally reminded me of you.”

Then she proceeded to read me one of the sections in question:

Being a writer guarantees that you will spend too much time alone — and that as a result, your mind will begin to warp. If you are in a small workspace, your brain will begin breathing and contracting like the sets in Dr. Caligari. You may begin showing signs of schizophrenia — like you’ll stare at the word schizophrenia for so long that it will start to look wrong and you won’t be able to find it in the dictionary and you’ll start to think you made it up, and then you’ll notice a tiny mouth sore, one of those tiny canker sores that your tongue can’t keep away from, that feels like a wound the size of a marble, but when you go to study it in the mirror, you see that it is a white spot roughly as big as a pinhead. Still, the next thing you know — because you are spending too much time alone – you are convinced that you have mouth cancer, just like good old Sigmund, and you know instantly that doctors will have to cut away half of your jaw, trying to save your miserable obsessive-compulsive head from being cannibalized by the cancer, and you’ll hav to go around wearing a hood over your entire face, and no one will ever want to kiss you again, not that they ever really did.

Frankly, I didn’t know whether to hug Elizabeth for proving that I’m not alone in my hypochondria or to smack her for giving me yet another thing to worry about.

I did, however, buy the book, and it’s filled with little pearls of wisdom that inspire one to plunk down consistently and work on one’s own stuff. Highly recommend for all writers out there who love the idea of the writing life and hate the actual writing …