Found from Janet, who always posts neat things.
SlyGly:
1. needs…to paint the garage door, which has been avoided for two years.
2. has a dog named… Trixie the Snuggly Jellybean.
3. drives like…a paranoid elderly person.
4. craves…Ferrero Rocher chocolate-hazelnut-crunchy things.
5. favorite TV show is…Smallville, duh.
6. alcoholic drink of choice is….dry and spicy Cabernet.
7. nonalcoholic drink of choice is….jasmine green tea.
8. favorite musical artist is…REM.
9. hair is… shiny, strawberry and fabulous.
10. celebrity crush is… Matt Damon! He has nice arms.
11. favorite book is….Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. But there are so many, many runner-ups.
12. favorite color is….green.
13. wishes….to figure out how to pack scoops of ice cream to take to work for lunch because it would be cheaper than buying it from the cafeteria.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Vacation
I was off from work for five days and it was fabulous. I didn't tell anyone that I was free. I wanted to do just what I wanted to do, which is as follows:
1) Trixie time
2) Novel reading
3) Writing
4) Plotting about plotting for NaNoWriMo
5) Cooking huge pots of food
6) Not cleaning or fixing anything around the house
7) Running
8) Staying up late
9) Sleeping in very late
It was wonderful! OK, OK, I don't luuuuurve running. But I'm seeing progress. My knees have resigned themselves and don't complain much anymore. Trixie and I have had things to say to each other, I have made a teensy dent in the "to-read" pile, I wrote lots and thoughtfully chewed over lots more pastry in coffee shops, my fridge is full of stew, I am well-rested, and my house is shabby and cozy.
I leave you with a recipe that you've got to try, right now. Cheese-stuffed meatballs with tomato-basil sauce and roasted broccolini. Cheesy meatballs?!
I did not make the cheesy potatoes because of the carb issue. I will not hold it against you if you do.
I doctored up the tomato-basil sauce. I started the pan with four garlic cloves and an onion and added a can of crushed tomatoes before adding the pesto. The San Marzano tomatoes, though, are mandatory.
1) Trixie time
2) Novel reading
3) Writing
4) Plotting about plotting for NaNoWriMo
5) Cooking huge pots of food
6) Not cleaning or fixing anything around the house
7) Running
8) Staying up late
9) Sleeping in very late
It was wonderful! OK, OK, I don't luuuuurve running. But I'm seeing progress. My knees have resigned themselves and don't complain much anymore. Trixie and I have had things to say to each other, I have made a teensy dent in the "to-read" pile, I wrote lots and thoughtfully chewed over lots more pastry in coffee shops, my fridge is full of stew, I am well-rested, and my house is shabby and cozy.
I leave you with a recipe that you've got to try, right now. Cheese-stuffed meatballs with tomato-basil sauce and roasted broccolini. Cheesy meatballs?!
I did not make the cheesy potatoes because of the carb issue. I will not hold it against you if you do.
I doctored up the tomato-basil sauce. I started the pan with four garlic cloves and an onion and added a can of crushed tomatoes before adding the pesto. The San Marzano tomatoes, though, are mandatory.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Coffee
Sunday Scribblings #128 -- Coffee
COFFEE. Feelings about it? Love, loathing, indifference? Is it an important part of your life?
I have always liked coffee. I did not need to gradually gain appreciation for the brew. I did not need to add lots of sugary stuff to it. It was an instant mutual fondness. Nothing else pairs with chocolate so well.
I became a regular coffee consumer in college. My college was the site for the first Starbucks in Indiana. I remember drinking my first caramel macchiato and setting off for a biochemistry lecture. I had never felt so alive and alert before. My vision was clear and bright and focused. Nothing escaped my attention: the fake wood grain of the table, the sharp point of my pencil, stubble on the professor's chin, the continous coughing and sneezing and throat clearing from all corners of the hall. I was sweating and my heart was pounding and I felt a thrill in my chest. I furiously scribbled biochemistry notes as well as unrelated items in the margins: fiction story ideas, lists of things to do that night and that weekend, names of old friends I wanted to contact suddenly, books I needed to read. I felt powerful and productive. I felt happy.
I got a little coffee machine when I moved off campus. I got a bean grinder shortly after. I still have both of them. None of my many roommates drank coffee with any regularity. Making coffee was my own satisfying morning ritual.
I drank coffee every day for years and years without exception. Then I started teaching part-time. My class met early in the mornings, right after my morning cup. Students make me terribly nervous. My baseline was trembling and sweating. Coffee made it worse. My skin smelled like coffee most of the time. My teeth took on a yellow tinge.
So I quit. I switched to green tea. It wasn't easy. I took one month. I switched from a large mug to a normal-sized mug of coffee. A week later I only filled the mug 75%. A week later, 50%. Then 25%. Then none. I had withdrawal symptoms. Headaches, blurred vision, grogginess, irritability. Sometimes I took shots from the community coffee pot at work. This was a very effective strategy. The community coffee was weak, cheap, burned, and not improved with the addition of partially-hydrogenated lightener.
Once I got over the transition, the green tea was a wonderful addition. I felt calm, serene, strong. I felt antioxidized. I drank tea every day for three years.
I quit teaching.
I missed coffee, sometimes. I still loved tea, but it didn't mesh as well with chocolate. Tea is peace and clarity and comfort. But coffee.....coffee is chewy and rich and frothy. Coffee looks nice in a thick white mug with a generous handle.
I am drinking coffee again. In moderation, this time. I drink coffee when I write--it seems to provoke my creativity. I drink coffee when I visit my parents, because nothing is better than Mom's coffee, topped with heavy whipping cream because they're out of half n half. I drink coffee when I work at the hospital on a Saturday morning, because it allows me to answer two phones at the same time while replying to an email. When I drink coffee now, I can recapture a little of the delight of that day in biochemistry.
I will drink coffee tomorrow morning, because it is past my bedtime.
COFFEE. Feelings about it? Love, loathing, indifference? Is it an important part of your life?
I have always liked coffee. I did not need to gradually gain appreciation for the brew. I did not need to add lots of sugary stuff to it. It was an instant mutual fondness. Nothing else pairs with chocolate so well.
I became a regular coffee consumer in college. My college was the site for the first Starbucks in Indiana. I remember drinking my first caramel macchiato and setting off for a biochemistry lecture. I had never felt so alive and alert before. My vision was clear and bright and focused. Nothing escaped my attention: the fake wood grain of the table, the sharp point of my pencil, stubble on the professor's chin, the continous coughing and sneezing and throat clearing from all corners of the hall. I was sweating and my heart was pounding and I felt a thrill in my chest. I furiously scribbled biochemistry notes as well as unrelated items in the margins: fiction story ideas, lists of things to do that night and that weekend, names of old friends I wanted to contact suddenly, books I needed to read. I felt powerful and productive. I felt happy.
I got a little coffee machine when I moved off campus. I got a bean grinder shortly after. I still have both of them. None of my many roommates drank coffee with any regularity. Making coffee was my own satisfying morning ritual.
I drank coffee every day for years and years without exception. Then I started teaching part-time. My class met early in the mornings, right after my morning cup. Students make me terribly nervous. My baseline was trembling and sweating. Coffee made it worse. My skin smelled like coffee most of the time. My teeth took on a yellow tinge.
So I quit. I switched to green tea. It wasn't easy. I took one month. I switched from a large mug to a normal-sized mug of coffee. A week later I only filled the mug 75%. A week later, 50%. Then 25%. Then none. I had withdrawal symptoms. Headaches, blurred vision, grogginess, irritability. Sometimes I took shots from the community coffee pot at work. This was a very effective strategy. The community coffee was weak, cheap, burned, and not improved with the addition of partially-hydrogenated lightener.
Once I got over the transition, the green tea was a wonderful addition. I felt calm, serene, strong. I felt antioxidized. I drank tea every day for three years.
I quit teaching.
I missed coffee, sometimes. I still loved tea, but it didn't mesh as well with chocolate. Tea is peace and clarity and comfort. But coffee.....coffee is chewy and rich and frothy. Coffee looks nice in a thick white mug with a generous handle.
I am drinking coffee again. In moderation, this time. I drink coffee when I write--it seems to provoke my creativity. I drink coffee when I visit my parents, because nothing is better than Mom's coffee, topped with heavy whipping cream because they're out of half n half. I drink coffee when I work at the hospital on a Saturday morning, because it allows me to answer two phones at the same time while replying to an email. When I drink coffee now, I can recapture a little of the delight of that day in biochemistry.
I will drink coffee tomorrow morning, because it is past my bedtime.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Me, the Missing, and the Dead
Me: Lucas Swain, 16 years oldMissing: Pete Swain, Lucas's father who disappeared without a trace five years ago
Dead: Violet Park, who may or may not be trying to communicate something important to Lucas from her urn.
Me, the Missing, and the Dead by Jenny Valentine. This is a tough one to discuss without unraveling the plot. I found it to be thoroughly enjoyable but not terribly memorable. The style of writing reminds me of Nick Hornby: abundant internal dialogue, list-making (I love lists!), witty, and without a trace of snobbery. Lucas's inner turmoil was endearing and relatable. Some relevant quotes:
"Pansy is a live wire. She'll talk about anything and has theories about stuff she's hardly heard of, like jungle music, PlayStation, and Internet dating. She swears all the time; but she never actually says the word, just mouths it with her face screwed up, her gums and false teeth colliding slightly, the insides of her mouth sticking together and then pulling apart so swearing becomes this strange, spongy, clacking sound. It's quite effective." (p. 47)
"Jed's not good with elevators. He always stops like a rabbit in headlights when he's supposed to get in one, because he thinks the doors are going to close on him. Because he stops and takes that little bit longer to get in, they usually do." (p. 93)
My only complaint about the book is that I wish it were longer.
Cultural awareness tidbit: "bin liners" is another way of saying, "garbage bag." Isn't that quaint and discreet?
Chipotle-Lime Heaven
I used my slow-cooker all the time in college. I would toss in chunks of frozen whatever, wait six hours, and find it replaced with something wonderful. But then I discovered 30-minute meals and decided that nothing could be tasty enough to wait 4-8 hours for. I estimate that about 80% of my dinners in the past 4 years have been Rachael Ray-inspired. I've used my slow-cooker only for fondue as of late.
Today was rainy and lazy. I had time. I wanted every room of my house to smell delicious. So I made this: Slow Cooker Chipotle Lime Chicken Thighs with Jamaican Rice and Beans. Anything chipotle-lime is going to be good at baseline, but this was unbelievable. It was fabulous! I could eat this every week. The chicken is ultra-tender and falling apart and spicy and does not have that unpleasant chicken-y taste (you know what I mean). The rice and beans is a perfect contrast to the chicken with a coconutty but not sweet angle. The avocado cools it all down.
My alterations to this recipe: I was dubious about the chicken thighs. I'm not a dark meat fan, so I substituted half the meat with chicken breasts. But guess what?? The thighs were tastier! I doubled the amount of garlic and chipotles in adobo sauce because I'm no wimp. I used instant brown rice instead of white. I chose low-fat coconut milk.
Oh yeah, and the recipe calls for 4 lbs of chicken. You are supposed to reserve half of it to make the Chicken-Green Chili Straws with Jalapeno-Honey Dipping Sauce later in the week. I might make those too, if I have any left. Two lbs of meat would be plenty for one dish.
Today was rainy and lazy. I had time. I wanted every room of my house to smell delicious. So I made this: Slow Cooker Chipotle Lime Chicken Thighs with Jamaican Rice and Beans. Anything chipotle-lime is going to be good at baseline, but this was unbelievable. It was fabulous! I could eat this every week. The chicken is ultra-tender and falling apart and spicy and does not have that unpleasant chicken-y taste (you know what I mean). The rice and beans is a perfect contrast to the chicken with a coconutty but not sweet angle. The avocado cools it all down.
My alterations to this recipe: I was dubious about the chicken thighs. I'm not a dark meat fan, so I substituted half the meat with chicken breasts. But guess what?? The thighs were tastier! I doubled the amount of garlic and chipotles in adobo sauce because I'm no wimp. I used instant brown rice instead of white. I chose low-fat coconut milk.
Oh yeah, and the recipe calls for 4 lbs of chicken. You are supposed to reserve half of it to make the Chicken-Green Chili Straws with Jalapeno-Honey Dipping Sauce later in the week. I might make those too, if I have any left. Two lbs of meat would be plenty for one dish.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Finish the Metaphor
My writing group met tonight. We had a new member and we spent some time introducing ourselves and discussing our usual routines. Just as we were jumping into activities, another new member arrived! He regularly writes by himself at that cafe and this was his second time observing us. His poetry was incredible!!!
Tonight was my turn to lead an exercise. I chose "letter poems." You can write poetry or prose, really, as long as it is from an "I" to a "You." The "I" and the "You" can be anybody: living or dead, known or unknown, human or animal or inanimate, whatever. I suggested that they spend five minutes coming up with a list of I's and Yous and see what interesting matches might arise. We wrote for 15 minutes and then shared. I was dumbfounded by everyone's creativity. I might share the letter I wrote later; two posts are enough for one day.
I will post what I wrote for last month's exercise, which was a fill-in-the-blank metaphor activity. We were given a list of the beginnings of metaphors and were asked to finish them as fast as possible. Most of them were bizarre or reminded me of ACT logic exercises. Then we could choose one or two as the start of a poem or prose work. I chose two:
The solution was hydrochloric acid; the problem was, therefore_____________.
“No, no, a thousand times no!” he said, his hand_____________________.
Here are my fragments. I have been reading a lot of YA lately and I'm in the mood for high school angst.
(Both activities described above originated from The Practice of Poetry by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell)
*****
The solution was hydrochloric acid; the problem was, therefore, the sodium hydroxide. My eyes were watching the satisfying progress of my hand recording calculations in tiny script in my notebook when the fluffy violet foam rushed in. The ink blurred and swirled into a jumbled lavender sea. I turned to Elizabeth. Her face was in an open-mouthed lip-glossed mask of mock horror. The amber dropper bottle was still raised in her hand, frozen. I snatched it from her hand and read the label.
“Did you do this on purpose?” I was calm, smooth. My voice sounded as if it came from somewhere far away.
“What do you mean?”
“We needed benzene, not sodium hydroxide.”
“I guess I…Well, the letters are so small, aren’t they?” Elizabeth offered a feeble smile.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I felt a twinge on my side. I discovered that a trickle of acid which had not yet been neutralized with lye was burning a hole through my shirt.
****
“No, no, a thousand times no!” he said, both of his arms flapping as if trying to take flight. “You treat this laboratory with as much respect as an old gum wrapper!”
Mr. Brooks looked like a goose in his lab coat, barrel-chested and long-nosed. I understood why he was upset, of course I did. I’m frustrated with myself as much as everyone else, really. But I think his level of drama was completely unnecessary. Students from far corners of the room crept closer to gape at the lovely purple paradise spreading between Alex and me.
“I’m sorry. It’s my fault,” I shrugged.
I studied the surface of the table, the dull flame-resistant slate which had been stained by decades of Elizabeths of the past. I pressed my palms to the cool plane and felt the ghosts of other blunderers surround me in sympathy. Garish foam dripped stealthily to the tile floor.
“I can’t watch you two every second. You both need to take some responsibility.”
Mr. Brooks handed me a stack of paper towels and two pairs of gloves, his head shaking in righteous indignation. I sighed and began mopping up the mess, wearing an expression of composed nonchalance to discourage the onlookers. I sneaked a glance at Alex from the corners of my eyes. He was silent, as usual, but his lips were pursed into a colorless thin line. His posture was so rigid that I bet I could have knocked him over with an unexpected elbow swipe. He scribbled furiously on a fresh sheet of paper, trying to recreate the calculations that I had obliterated.
“You can copy my work if you want,” I offered grandly. “I don’t mind.”
Alex stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.
Tonight was my turn to lead an exercise. I chose "letter poems." You can write poetry or prose, really, as long as it is from an "I" to a "You." The "I" and the "You" can be anybody: living or dead, known or unknown, human or animal or inanimate, whatever. I suggested that they spend five minutes coming up with a list of I's and Yous and see what interesting matches might arise. We wrote for 15 minutes and then shared. I was dumbfounded by everyone's creativity. I might share the letter I wrote later; two posts are enough for one day.
I will post what I wrote for last month's exercise, which was a fill-in-the-blank metaphor activity. We were given a list of the beginnings of metaphors and were asked to finish them as fast as possible. Most of them were bizarre or reminded me of ACT logic exercises. Then we could choose one or two as the start of a poem or prose work. I chose two:
The solution was hydrochloric acid; the problem was, therefore_____________.
“No, no, a thousand times no!” he said, his hand_____________________.
Here are my fragments. I have been reading a lot of YA lately and I'm in the mood for high school angst.
(Both activities described above originated from The Practice of Poetry by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell)
*****
The solution was hydrochloric acid; the problem was, therefore, the sodium hydroxide. My eyes were watching the satisfying progress of my hand recording calculations in tiny script in my notebook when the fluffy violet foam rushed in. The ink blurred and swirled into a jumbled lavender sea. I turned to Elizabeth. Her face was in an open-mouthed lip-glossed mask of mock horror. The amber dropper bottle was still raised in her hand, frozen. I snatched it from her hand and read the label.
“Did you do this on purpose?” I was calm, smooth. My voice sounded as if it came from somewhere far away.
“What do you mean?”
“We needed benzene, not sodium hydroxide.”
“I guess I…Well, the letters are so small, aren’t they?” Elizabeth offered a feeble smile.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I felt a twinge on my side. I discovered that a trickle of acid which had not yet been neutralized with lye was burning a hole through my shirt.
****
“No, no, a thousand times no!” he said, both of his arms flapping as if trying to take flight. “You treat this laboratory with as much respect as an old gum wrapper!”
Mr. Brooks looked like a goose in his lab coat, barrel-chested and long-nosed. I understood why he was upset, of course I did. I’m frustrated with myself as much as everyone else, really. But I think his level of drama was completely unnecessary. Students from far corners of the room crept closer to gape at the lovely purple paradise spreading between Alex and me.
“I’m sorry. It’s my fault,” I shrugged.
I studied the surface of the table, the dull flame-resistant slate which had been stained by decades of Elizabeths of the past. I pressed my palms to the cool plane and felt the ghosts of other blunderers surround me in sympathy. Garish foam dripped stealthily to the tile floor.
“I can’t watch you two every second. You both need to take some responsibility.”
Mr. Brooks handed me a stack of paper towels and two pairs of gloves, his head shaking in righteous indignation. I sighed and began mopping up the mess, wearing an expression of composed nonchalance to discourage the onlookers. I sneaked a glance at Alex from the corners of my eyes. He was silent, as usual, but his lips were pursed into a colorless thin line. His posture was so rigid that I bet I could have knocked him over with an unexpected elbow swipe. He scribbled furiously on a fresh sheet of paper, trying to recreate the calculations that I had obliterated.
“You can copy my work if you want,” I offered grandly. “I don’t mind.”
Alex stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.
Ice Cream
I have eaten at many, many hospital cafeterias. I make it my business to try as many items as possible at each location. I have happy memories scattered across the Midwest. Lutheran Hospital in Fort Wayne has a divine chocolate mousse which is made by scratch. Sinai Hospital in Milwaukee has the best Friday Fish Fry ever. IU Hospital in Indianapolis has a vending machine in a lonely corner of the fifth floor that dispenses two peanut M&M packets for every one you pay for. And I have always found institutional macaroni and cheese to be agreeable.
People complain all the time about the hospital cafeteria where I work now. OK, I agree; the cream of whatever soup tastes strongly of whatever. But there are many things to be thankful for! There is chocolate cream pie for when you are feeling sorry for yourself, working on a Friday night. Taco Tuesdays are a bright spot in the week. And the desserts are commendable; I am particularly impressed by the baklava. The salad bar is comprehensive enough to include pickled herring!
The cafeteria has eight kinds of ice cream. I always look for something chocolatey, obviously. Unfortunately, six of them are usually fruity. What kind of person chooses fruity ice cream? Nobody I know. I have a network of informants in the hospital who will notify me immediately on the days that chocolate peanut butter or coffee truffle are available.
This week on my ice cream mission, I saw five varieties of fruity nonsense, vanilla, something unlabeled that looked like cookie dough, and chocolate. Cookie dough is OK, but the chocolate chips tend to be waxy and tasteless. I asked for chocolate.
"Maybe you should try a taste of this first," said the ice cream man, gesturing towards the unlabeled selection. "You will like it."
"Cookie dough?" I asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Nah, it's something with toffee in it. Granite City Crunch, I think."
I tasted it and was indeed impressed. It seemed to be vanilla loaded with toffee. The ice cream man offered to give me 1/2 scoop of that and 1/2 scoop of chocolate. But really (!), I got nearly two scoops of ice cream altogether.
Soon I discovered that this ice cream had more (!) than just toffee. It was crammed with huge macadamia nuts. I thought about swooning with happiness onto the floor, but I didn't. The floor was probably dirty.
People complain all the time about the hospital cafeteria where I work now. OK, I agree; the cream of whatever soup tastes strongly of whatever. But there are many things to be thankful for! There is chocolate cream pie for when you are feeling sorry for yourself, working on a Friday night. Taco Tuesdays are a bright spot in the week. And the desserts are commendable; I am particularly impressed by the baklava. The salad bar is comprehensive enough to include pickled herring!
The cafeteria has eight kinds of ice cream. I always look for something chocolatey, obviously. Unfortunately, six of them are usually fruity. What kind of person chooses fruity ice cream? Nobody I know. I have a network of informants in the hospital who will notify me immediately on the days that chocolate peanut butter or coffee truffle are available.
This week on my ice cream mission, I saw five varieties of fruity nonsense, vanilla, something unlabeled that looked like cookie dough, and chocolate. Cookie dough is OK, but the chocolate chips tend to be waxy and tasteless. I asked for chocolate.
"Maybe you should try a taste of this first," said the ice cream man, gesturing towards the unlabeled selection. "You will like it."
"Cookie dough?" I asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Nah, it's something with toffee in it. Granite City Crunch, I think."
I tasted it and was indeed impressed. It seemed to be vanilla loaded with toffee. The ice cream man offered to give me 1/2 scoop of that and 1/2 scoop of chocolate. But really (!), I got nearly two scoops of ice cream altogether.
Soon I discovered that this ice cream had more (!) than just toffee. It was crammed with huge macadamia nuts. I thought about swooning with happiness onto the floor, but I didn't. The floor was probably dirty.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Sugarrrrrrrr
Clayton said today that the Twilight saga is like a dish of candy. You don't really love it, you know it's not so good for you, but it's there, and you keep eating.
Some Twilight linkage for you:
-As you may or may not know, Midnight Sun (Twilight from Edward's point of view) was leaked early to the public, and so a heartbroken Stephenie Meyer posted it legally for all to see. Yep, Edward's mind is as dull as I imagined, but it isn't all bad!
-Occupation: Girl posted her incredible commentary on Midnight Sun. "I'm sick y'all. I need help."
-Breaking Dawn was an amazing book, and you're selfish for thinking otherwise. If this doesn't persuade you, then I don't know what will. (Spoilery here.)
(Above links discovered via Bookshelves of Doom)
Some Twilight linkage for you:
-As you may or may not know, Midnight Sun (Twilight from Edward's point of view) was leaked early to the public, and so a heartbroken Stephenie Meyer posted it legally for all to see. Yep, Edward's mind is as dull as I imagined, but it isn't all bad!
-Occupation: Girl posted her incredible commentary on Midnight Sun. "I'm sick y'all. I need help."
-Breaking Dawn was an amazing book, and you're selfish for thinking otherwise. If this doesn't persuade you, then I don't know what will. (Spoilery here.)
(Above links discovered via Bookshelves of Doom)
Monday, September 1, 2008
Rebecca
I confess that I was denied the pleasure of reading Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier for years and years because I thought that I had already read it. I had heard the book described as a dark and suspenseful classic, which made me confused and scornful because I didn't find it to match that description at all. But I thought that maybe my memory of the book was foggy. It was a long, long time ago that I read Rebecca. Then I realized! I had never read Rebecca! I had read Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm! (RoSbF is one of those coming-of-age farm girl growing up stories ala Anne of Green Gables.)
So I opened the other Rebecca book and these were some words that I found on the first page: supernatural, spirit, twisting/turning, narrow, stealthy, insidious, encroached, tenacious, menace, crowded, dark, uncontrolled, tortured, straggled, monster, choked, impediment, gnarled, skeleton. This was just the first page! It isn't even a full page of text! There isn't even dialogue or action yet!!
Wow, so, I loved it, every page. I would have loved it even if nothing happened, because the imagery was so satisfying. I would have loved it regardless of the ending because I like secrets and creepy people and narrators with no names. But the highlight of the book was the ending--I loved the book throughout, but I had a smug attitude during 90% of it. I was fully in control of the plot. I could see how other people might be surprised by each turn but I certainly was capable of accurate predictions. But in the last two chapters, I fell in the trap! I didn't see it coming! I was gobsmacked!
So I opened the other Rebecca book and these were some words that I found on the first page: supernatural, spirit, twisting/turning, narrow, stealthy, insidious, encroached, tenacious, menace, crowded, dark, uncontrolled, tortured, straggled, monster, choked, impediment, gnarled, skeleton. This was just the first page! It isn't even a full page of text! There isn't even dialogue or action yet!!
Wow, so, I loved it, every page. I would have loved it even if nothing happened, because the imagery was so satisfying. I would have loved it regardless of the ending because I like secrets and creepy people and narrators with no names. But the highlight of the book was the ending--I loved the book throughout, but I had a smug attitude during 90% of it. I was fully in control of the plot. I could see how other people might be surprised by each turn but I certainly was capable of accurate predictions. But in the last two chapters, I fell in the trap! I didn't see it coming! I was gobsmacked!
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