Wow. I don't know if you read that last post, but I just did and boy, I have to say that it may have bordered on whiny (gasp!) and also it's possible that it came pretty close to bratty (who me?). My apologies...my editor is on summer vacation. (Clearly. I mean, did you see that last sentence? Three punctuation marks in a row. Ahem.)
Speaking of which (bad editors and bad writing), I joined the Relief Society book club. I won't tell you the name of the book I was supposed to read for this month, but I will share this sentence with you:
There weren't any washcloths smeared with makeup left behind, no sounds of water running hollowly through the pipes from upstairs while Josey and her mother and Helena sat in the sitting room downstairs and watched television.
I nearly killed myself after that one.
It was on page twenty-eight. I had been bullying myself through it up to that point, talking myself down from every bad simile and heavy-handed adverb, but I could not read past this sentence. You only live once.
I told David, "I just can't. The writing is so bad."
Caleb overheard us and said, "Don't all of your book clubs end like this?"
You know what this means don't you? I may be a brat and a snob. Sobering news.
On a positive note, The Closer started up again this week. Thank heavens. Last night when we went to Lowe's for a gallon of paint, David asked me for the synopsis. I gave him my best Brenda Lee impression. (He was not very impressed.) Well. It sounded better in my head.
Then again, most things do.
And on an even more positive note, did you see the great shot of my cleavage in the picture above? (You can't have too many of those.) In a few days, my darlings and I are headed back to the beach. We almost cancelled because I forgot that I was supposed to be enjoying my life. David reminded me just in time. Good thing, too, because my favorite things in life are sunscreen and sand and salt water and little pools of drool under my children's sunburned cheeks. Oh baby.