perhaps that's why I sympathize with mr. hornby.
Okay, so I've already mentioned that I'm reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, a.k.a. Funniest Man in Britain. Or maybe not. Truth is, this one just isn't that great. I mean, it's not bad really... It's just that I don't much care whether or not I finish it. After all, I have other books I could be reading that the whole world knows are good. It's a matter of loyalty, I suppose. I've read all his other novels... What if I run into him at Book Soup? (Not that I actually shop there, but I could.) Oh, sorry Mr. Hornby, I've let you down this time. I just didn't care if they threw themselves over or not. Not the most lovable characters, this lot. And I'd say the "this lot" part just to sound more British. Not that it matters anyway.
I'm in desperate need of a vacation. I've had family here and more coming soon, and that's great and all...but I physically need to move. A customer was telling me yesterday about how she accidentally left a book on a plane and wants to know how it ends. And all I could think was, Ooo. I wanna get on a plane. Pitiful. Of course, this time last year I was just about to leave Switzerland. Switzerland! Now I'm excited about maybe spending two days in San Diego!
As you may have guessed, what with the lack of entries lately, not much is going on with me at all right now. I talk about what I'm reading because that's literally (ha ha, books, literally...need vacation now) all that I've been doing. Except for laundry. Today I'm going to do laundry.
What's weird about this nothingness is that the little voice in my head (you know, the one that says things like Is that canteloupe ripe yet? and I wanna go home. I hate these people. No, we don't sell magazines. No, I don't remember who wrote The Devil Wears Prada and did you even try looking yourself at all?) it's been being very writerly lately. Sometimes I do that. My inner-monologue voice will play everything out like it's happening in a story. I'm starting to realize that this only happens when I'm really bored. As though I'm trying to point out to myself that this is the point in the story where I'd be tempted to close the book and turn on the TV.
I'm in desperate need of a vacation. I've had family here and more coming soon, and that's great and all...but I physically need to move. A customer was telling me yesterday about how she accidentally left a book on a plane and wants to know how it ends. And all I could think was, Ooo. I wanna get on a plane. Pitiful. Of course, this time last year I was just about to leave Switzerland. Switzerland! Now I'm excited about maybe spending two days in San Diego!
As you may have guessed, what with the lack of entries lately, not much is going on with me at all right now. I talk about what I'm reading because that's literally (ha ha, books, literally...need vacation now) all that I've been doing. Except for laundry. Today I'm going to do laundry.
What's weird about this nothingness is that the little voice in my head (you know, the one that says things like Is that canteloupe ripe yet? and I wanna go home. I hate these people. No, we don't sell magazines. No, I don't remember who wrote The Devil Wears Prada and did you even try looking yourself at all?) it's been being very writerly lately. Sometimes I do that. My inner-monologue voice will play everything out like it's happening in a story. I'm starting to realize that this only happens when I'm really bored. As though I'm trying to point out to myself that this is the point in the story where I'd be tempted to close the book and turn on the TV.
Labels: books., travel/tourism.
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