(no subject)
My friend SB has a friend who is a writer. She's also one of those tiny people with a personality that's not forceful, but is contagious. Two minutes in her vicinity and I find myself consciously trying not to borrow speaking patterns (and consciously thinking, I hate when I use a girlie voice; I want to sound like that). We went to see her read tonight, with an author whose books I haven't read, and they were funny and smart and since both books involve psychiatry, the audience questions devolved, at some point, into "I just want to hear myself talk about this topic on which I feel I know so much," and as you might imagine, my tolerance for that is a little low right now.
But it was otherwise very fun (see? I purposefully didn't say "quite fun," as I am not a tiny British author) and involved a Klosterman sighting. I whispered to SB, "Is that a real Klosterman or a fake one?"
"Real," she said.
"Cool," I replied, adding, "There are so many fake ones." I have a friend who was a fake one, but actually better looking. But I digress.
I found myself, after the reading - after the laughing and the deciding to read all the other author's books someday, when I finish reading all the books I'm supposed to be reading - talking to this other writer's extremely self-possessed 13-year-old son, who was entirely gleeful about having had a tour of the Marvel offices earlier and was also very concerned about spoilers. He didn't want to hear spoilers about anything, as far as I can tell, which was as charming as his description of the comic he's going to write. I liked being asked who my favorite superhero was by a kid who had clearly never gotten the memo that supposedly Girls Don't Like Superheroes. I refrained from mentioning The Invisibles. He'll get there soon enough.
And then I left SB and her friend to their friend-date, not wanting to be a crasher but wanting to hear more stories, and came back to Greenpoint, where I babbled copiously to S. about this job that I really, really want. It's been that kind of summer, really: Lots of doing and talking and seeing people and then sinking into - and fighting the pull of - the Oh God A Job I Need One vortex. I went to another reading, earlier in the week, that was notable largely for the socializing, the long discussion of comics crossed with running into other friends crossed with meeting a vaguely familiar face who seemed delighted that I later found her on Twitter. I've gone to see Frightened Rabbit and Alkaline Trio and half-loathed the oddly fratty, domineering crowd at each show; I've done nothing on the weekends but enjoy air conditioning and episodes of Dead Like Me, despite being continually amused by the show's insistence that Mason is not attractive and no one would make out with him, like, EVER (except Jewel Staite in goth makeup).
I've been not writing so much I've lost the habit. The Other Blog needs posting, and as I may, it turns out, still get to do a movie top ten for the old job, there are several dozen movies that need seeing, and I probably need to write something about them in order to figure out what I think about them. That's what I've forgotten to do: In this era of the authoritative, self-important blog, I've forgotten that I like to write to figure stuff out, not to tell anyone what I've already figured out. That's easier to do here than it is on myname.com, where I feel weirdly like I ought to be all official and certain and shit. But that's not me, and it never has been. I want the questions and the personal and the mess all wrapped in, and I don't need to give a shit who likes it.
But it was otherwise very fun (see? I purposefully didn't say "quite fun," as I am not a tiny British author) and involved a Klosterman sighting. I whispered to SB, "Is that a real Klosterman or a fake one?"
"Real," she said.
"Cool," I replied, adding, "There are so many fake ones." I have a friend who was a fake one, but actually better looking. But I digress.
I found myself, after the reading - after the laughing and the deciding to read all the other author's books someday, when I finish reading all the books I'm supposed to be reading - talking to this other writer's extremely self-possessed 13-year-old son, who was entirely gleeful about having had a tour of the Marvel offices earlier and was also very concerned about spoilers. He didn't want to hear spoilers about anything, as far as I can tell, which was as charming as his description of the comic he's going to write. I liked being asked who my favorite superhero was by a kid who had clearly never gotten the memo that supposedly Girls Don't Like Superheroes. I refrained from mentioning The Invisibles. He'll get there soon enough.
And then I left SB and her friend to their friend-date, not wanting to be a crasher but wanting to hear more stories, and came back to Greenpoint, where I babbled copiously to S. about this job that I really, really want. It's been that kind of summer, really: Lots of doing and talking and seeing people and then sinking into - and fighting the pull of - the Oh God A Job I Need One vortex. I went to another reading, earlier in the week, that was notable largely for the socializing, the long discussion of comics crossed with running into other friends crossed with meeting a vaguely familiar face who seemed delighted that I later found her on Twitter. I've gone to see Frightened Rabbit and Alkaline Trio and half-loathed the oddly fratty, domineering crowd at each show; I've done nothing on the weekends but enjoy air conditioning and episodes of Dead Like Me, despite being continually amused by the show's insistence that Mason is not attractive and no one would make out with him, like, EVER (except Jewel Staite in goth makeup).
I've been not writing so much I've lost the habit. The Other Blog needs posting, and as I may, it turns out, still get to do a movie top ten for the old job, there are several dozen movies that need seeing, and I probably need to write something about them in order to figure out what I think about them. That's what I've forgotten to do: In this era of the authoritative, self-important blog, I've forgotten that I like to write to figure stuff out, not to tell anyone what I've already figured out. That's easier to do here than it is on myname.com, where I feel weirdly like I ought to be all official and certain and shit. But that's not me, and it never has been. I want the questions and the personal and the mess all wrapped in, and I don't need to give a shit who likes it.