It's Friday afternoon. This is my blog. I can type ANYTHING I WANT and the internet has to either deal with it or click away to an awesome gif of a sloth hugging something. Well GUESS WHAT INTERNET.
I've realized in years past that I read a lot of lady authors. I don't know if this was a conscious decision on my part, but probs a mixture of conscious and un-. Because lady authors, especially from the 19th century, were rare, and so if their stuff got famous you're kind of like "Oh yeah. They must've been pretty cool maybe probably." So we have the Brontes and George Eliot and George Sand (I HAVE GEORGE SAND FEELINGS) and Edith Wharton and Austen and...other people I'm not thinking of right now. And they're all swell. And then you've got like Dickens and Wilkie and Balzac and Hugo and Scott and Trollope, and I haven't read ANY Scott or Trollope and that's really terrible, but there it is.
I dunno, you want to read about women, and men sometimes suck at writing women (ditto about women writing men -- this is part of why Charlotte Bronte's The Professor sucks so hard). Whereas Edith Wharton's like "Here, let me give you an awesome/amazing portrayal of a lady who is Going Through Something." And I say "Okay!!" Then I go to NYC and visit Washington Square Park and get all Wharton moony-eyed until I see two hipsters sharing some tofu while reading to each other from Baudelaire and then my eyes narrow and I walk off to defiantly eat a hot dog and listen to Britney Spears.
In terms of lit today, I'm suspicious in different ways of female/male writing. Women I sometimes expect to be obnoxiously feminist (feminism is NOT obnoxious, but The Mists of Avalon is) and men I expect to be either overly pretentious or overly into their own emotions. Which is maybe why I like Westerns like The Sisters Brothers. More shooting things, please. Just not kids. Or animals. Just bad people. (one of my little brother's first phrases was "Shoo' ba'guys," apropos of nothing)
In conclusion, WE'RE VOTING ON TUESDAY OMG. Also turn your clocks back this weekend. And listen to Huey Lewis and the News' 'Back in Time' if you're awake Saturday night, BECAUSE IT WILL ACTUALLY BE TRUE.
Acclaimed (in England mostly) lady Caitlin Moran has a novel coming out. A NOVEL. Where before she has primarily stuck to essays. Curious as we obviously were about this, I and a group of bloggers are having a READALONG of said novel, probably rife with spoilers (maybe they don't really matter for this book, though, so you should totally still read my posts). This is all hosted/cared for/lovingly nursed to health by Emily at As the Crowe Flies (and Reads) because she has a lovely fancy job at an actual bookshop ( Odyssey Books , where you can in fact pre-order this book and then feel delightful about yourself for helping an independent store). Emily and I have negotiated the wonders of Sri Lankan cuisine and wandered the Javits Center together. Would that I could drink with her more often than I have. I feel like we could get to this point, Emily INTRODUCTION-wise (I might've tipped back a little something this evening, thus the constant asides), I am Alice. I enjoy