Feb. 1st, 2011

d_aulnoy: (Default)
I had forgotten how deeply and truly tired antibiotics make me.  All I want to do is curl up in a quiet little ball and sleep.

So!  Since my brain is apparently good-for-nothing, which movie should I watch tonight - "Mirrormask" or "The Last Seduction?"  Additional suggestions welcome in the comments.

d_aulnoy: (Default)
Present tense.  Terse.  Loaded with implications.  Basically, the kind of writing that Stephen King accuses Harold of in The Stand.

My Life in Clothes is the kind of book that I ought to like, at least on paper: each chapter is marked by some garment and its contribution to self-image.  However.  instead, I'm rolling my eyes at the pretension.  She doesn't talk about clothes, either (I feel bait-and-switched): instead, it's all casual segues from, like, an overpriced bra her mom wanted to buy to the abuses that she suffered in her childhood, from the pedal-pushers she wears to meet a former lover onto their torrid resumption of a tawdry affair.  Ugh.

It seems like this is a subgenre within a sub-genre that might be doomed: the last book in this style I read was called something like "Little Black Dress," but it appears that I either hid it well enough to not be ashamed of myself for having bought it, donated it to some unworthy cause, or otherwise jettisoned it (and when I try to search on Amazon, all I get is a bunch of suggestions for "Mennonite in a Black Dress," which, no).  That one wasn't quite as pretentiously depressing (depressingly pretentious?), but the narration was equally self-obsessed and tiresome, if in a fluffier mode.  Perhaps - heavens forfend! - this implies that women with an interest in their own attire are tiresome and self-obsessed?

Nah.  Out of a sample-size of two, I merely choose to believe that they're bad writers.

Really bad writers.  Be warned, y'all. 

* To be fair, it doesn't seem this one has gotten an MFA.  Nevertheless, her work bears the deadly stamp.  If you, Dear Reader, have an MFA, please do not take this as a personal criticism, but accept it as a tongue-in-cheek jab at your most loathsome classmate.  In turn, when you jibe at self-important academics and their addiction to jargon, I will know that you do not mean me.

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