Hey, look it! There I am again! Go on over and say something because, once again, the world watches to see if anyone bothers to comment. And the world feels that I shouldn't be ignored. By "world" I mean me and the dog that's leaning against me. Except wait, no, never mind. She's closed her eyes and is snoring. Half the world has stopped watching. I'm still here though, watching, watching, watching. . .
I'm loving the Eloisa James books I'm reading. She follows a formula but what do I care? Answer: more power to her. I'm only sad that Carol Bly (her mom) didn't get it. I love Carol Bly's work--I read her essays years ago and they haunted me.
The idea that down-deep examinations of the darkness within is the only way to think and write properly seems sort of sad because it means that that's the only capital T Truth you can see. I think it's a bad idea not because I'm a (reverse) snob but because bleak doesn't provide total sustenance. You need some other vitamins in there now and then. I suppose people can get the fun and fluff in their lives without considering it worthwhile -- although we know better, of course. The nice thing about fun and fluff is that it usually doesn't care if you treat it with respect. It wishes to amuse and, if there's a challenge to your thinking, it's going to be disguised, wrapped up in pretty paper so you won't even notice.
But back to James's formula. The only thing I hope for is that one of her epilogues will not feature children. Do all of those people have to find happiness with off-spring? Do the kids have to be so 21st century interacting with the rents?
Eh, never mind. Whatever she wants.