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GLINT


Smoking a lot seems more refreshing than sleep, but I am still not getting anything done: 5.25.04

This week finds our cranky heroine feeling lazy and out-of-sorts. So much out-of-sorts that she is referring to herself in the third person.

So, I finished up with all that Raymond Chandler, and moved on to a new author blitz: Rick Moody. I’ve already read some of his stuff but came across everything I hadn’t read yet in a used bookstore a few weeks ago. So convenient. But man, he makes Richard Yates seem like “Leave it to Beaver;” all of a sudden Cheever’s Bullet Park looks like Mayberry. Not to mince words, the guy is a total downer. He makes me, well, moody.

Aren’t the dog days still supposed to be in cute little puppy form? It’s only May and it’s like Clifford the Big Red Dog is panting all over us already. But the season is not all bad. Cicadas may be the best cure for writer’s block. I keep hearing people trying to come up with the perfect simile for their sound. Anne Tyler described them in one of her books as a sound “like a rusty zipper being pulled up and down.” Not really. I’ve heard “like a car alarm,” which is sort of applicable to the weird nighttime hum, but certainly not to the full daylight effect. I’ve heard “like a lawn mower,” (boring) and one person said it sounds like opening and closing sewing shears really quickly. Kind of. Here’s mine:

By the middle of the day, the bugs sound like millions of old ladies shaking Yahtzee dice in the woods.


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