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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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@esterbloom
Guess Which Movie?
esterbloom: “can you not feel his despair? try again!” me: WE PERISHED EACH ALONE ester: “can he love her? can the soul be satisfied with such polite affection?” me: “esteem him highly?” ester: LIKE him? ester: oh a cottage! how charming! a little cottage is always very snug me: I am EXCESSIVELY fond of a cottage
Some days there is nothing to do but turn off everything and turn on SENSE & SENSIBILITY.
A first look at my novel THE SEX LIVES OF OTHER PEOPLE, courtesy of Joyland!
Tooting my own horn here a bit, but hey, a kid ought to look up to his dad, right?
"You were right! Ever since we started White Couch Feeding with Emmett, he’s been eating like a champ."
Oh, demons.
You know that little voice (or plural! little voices!) that start firing off in your head for sometimes no particular reason? Or sometimes with good reason— because you’re thinking about doing something risky, or you just did or said something that made you feel squishy… then BAM,...
Talking back to the Mean Voice! A key part of living life to the fullest, or just making it through the day.
“Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.” ― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
PERFECT.
Night in the Rockaways. Out with lesbians, wearing pants, a wedding ring, and a shirt that showed no cleavage, and a man at the Surf Club bar bought my bourbon lemonade. Then I danced in the surf under the moonlight. #StillGotIt
30.
Every year (every. single. year.), I apologize for this. It’s self-serving, it’s stupid, it’s a time waste. But this year, I’m unapologetic, word to Rihanna. I learned to cook from 2 Chainz’ cookbook, where Step 12 was to “celebrate myself.” So that’s my MO from now on, that’s what I’m doing here. This year I:
Read More
"Everyone got married, everyone had kids, I napped a lot. ‘Liked’ a FB page to get a free cookie, un-‘Liked’ it afterwards." My cousin Jeff everyone. His birthday's today, as is his twin's. Happy birthday coincidence!
“But after a moment a sense of waste and ruin overcame him. There they were, close together and safe and shut in; yet so chained to their separate destinies that they might as well been half the world apart.” ― Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence
Even more perfect than the last perfect one.
Alex Halberstadt speaks with Daniel Genis, who read 1,046 books during his decade in prison: http://nyr.kr/1ohg4Gt
“Aside from consuming The New Yorker, Harper’s, and The Atlantic (‘not the easiest magazines to give away in prison’) nose to tail, Genis lavished the bulk of his attention on serious fiction, especially the long, difficult novels that require ample motivation and time under the best of circumstances. He read Mann, James, Melville, Musil, Naipaul. He vanquished ‘Vanity Fair’ and ‘Infinite Jest.’ He read, and reread, the Russians, in Russian.”
Photograph: Spaarnestad Photo/Redux.
By my friend & teacher, who is everywhere these days! (Especially the middle of nowhere New Hampshire.)
PURCHASE: Two books from BookCourt.
COST: $38.10
NOTE: One for me. One for my son. And that’s it for the Stephen King money this year! Later today I’ll be posting the tally and what’s in store next year.
WOULD STEPHEN KING LIKE IT: True, there is always something a little disturbing in a Margaret Wise Brown book, but The Fever by Megan Abbott is probably the winner here. Given what The Blondes is about I’ve been excited to read Abbott’s novel. Also, the definitive article is very important in today’s book titling climate.
THE STEPHEN KING MONEY IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE STEPHEN KING MONEY.
From my ongoing photo series #SignsOfNewYork
By far the most chilling passage in the old family paraphernalia I’ve dug through over the years is this one, from a letter sent by Terrell State Hospital (aka the North Texas Lunatic Asylum) to inform my grandmother’s mom that her daughter, Louise, died from tuberculosis-related complications:
We are sorry this girl could not have been mentally restored. We assure you we cared for her as far as she would allow us to do, and we wanted you to know the circumstances concerning her death.
Back when I regularly wrote about ancestry on my site, Louise was a favorite topic, and if you’re interested you can read more about her life and its aftermath over there.
Someone once called my posts about my family faux-Southern Gothic, to which I can only say that while I completely respect that my writing style and the subject matter — a great aunt dying in a mental hospital, a grandfather being shot by one of his (alleged) twelve wives (of thirteen marriages), a great-grandfather killing a man with a hay hook, etc. — won’t appeal to everyone, “Southern Gothic” isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe my own work.
Having grown up in Miami I am well aware that I do not qualify as southern; “gothic,” well, that’s in the eye of the beholder.
I like Flannery O’Connor’s observation: “I have found that anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the Northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic.”
The photo at the top of this post is of Great Aunt Louise (at left) and my grandmother (at right). The letter below it is the letter my great-grandmother received about Louise’s death.
My mother once told me that these were the years that I grew a permanent smirk on my face, like I was always thinking of a joke not worth wasting on the people around me. A healthy portion of my attitude was surely due to the anger I’d built up following my parents’ split and the general weight of my teen angst. But what had also risen inside me was the sense that I was a loser for living in Tucson, as if I’d come up short in a geographical lottery and now needed to take it out on the yokels too dumb to understand how dreary our days were in comparison to those being lived out elsewhere. I became the embodiment of the truth that there is nothing in the world crueler than an embarrassed person attempting to save face. I got meaner than I’d ever been. My temper grew shorter. I said hurtful things to people who loved me and even more hurtful things to strangers who crossed me. When people called me on being rude or malicious, I ignored them. What did they know? They were from Tucson.
there’s a thing i will eventually write about the stickiness of leaving a hometown that everybody else loves, but damn, cord jefferson beat me to a lot of it. (via dynamofire)
Selfie as Author Photo. Just crazy enough to work?
ETA: Reactions!
My mother: "I think you are much prettier than either picture conveys and you probably should not be posed in front of the ladder with the articles on it. The vase almost looks like an adornment to your hair. If this is a serious picture, then I would go have my hair done and have the hairdresser take a picture with your camera. Also, you're wearing your glasses."
My cousin itsthereal (Jeff): "i think the picture's okay? it's a little blurry, but that could be an aesthetic choice or whatever. VERY ROCOCO? ... GET BEN TO TAKE THE PICTURE. or lara, very artsy shot by lara"
sigh.
“A woman had to choose her own particular unhappiness carefully. That was the only happiness in life: to choose the best unhappiness. An unwise move, good God, and you could squander everything.” —Lorrie Moore, Bark
Three geniuses at work here.
