romance

"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse for the sake of the provision and security of a wife.... It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." -- p. 49

Yes folks, I'm reading Sense and Sensibility, digging on Marianne's blissful romantic ignorance and Elinor's painful down-to-earth sense.




Ooh, and thanking my lucky stars I'm not 17 anymore. But rather, erm, 27. (Yikes. Clearly I'm at the advanced age wherein any romantic attachment would merely be me playing nursemaid to my older, sickly lover. Any takers?)

(I just wrote, "any takers?" on my blog. While talking about my love life. Le sigh.)

Besides evaluating the merits of high school reunions (skipping) and sleeping (true bliss!) and taking full advantage of brackets (grammar is for losers), I really did think a lot about romance this weekend.

In part because I read my first romance novel in a very long while. At least, my first true romance novel in a long while -- it was a joint venture written by Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer, but much smoother than their last outing. Last time, I found myself skipping all the parts written by Mayer, whereas this time I didn't really notice the switch between writing styles. And, like all Crusie novels, it kind of avoided the typical "woman is five-foot-eight, size six, drives red sports car and listens to Springsteen" cliches. Instead, woman is plump and loves food and is given to bouts of scary, scary anger that are rather unbecoming. (Jane would not approve, let's be honest. The woman preferred William Cowper's sleep-inducing religious poetry to Alexander Pope's joking. Yeesh.)

Bizarrely, I sort of forgot these stories end with happily ever after. (Spoiler, sorry.) In fact, this one really had to reach to get to the ever after part. And at points I wasn't sure I bought the whole Agnes-softens-wants-long-term-relationship-with-hitman scenario. Or, alternatively, hitman-softens-starts-picturing-Agnes-as-wife-and-mother-to-his-children play. Can five days really work such magic? And should it?

Clearly I've been reading too much Margaret Laurence of late. Now, I've only just read two books by now, but I'm thinking Laurence is not a big one for the fairy tale endings. Which is pretty awesome -- perhaps even skewing my sense of reality back to.... reality....?

"Does one have to choose between two realities? If you think you love two men, the heart-throb column in the daily paper used to say when I was still consulting it daily, then neither one is for you. If you think you contain two realities, perhaps you contain none." -- p. 150

feelin' hot hot hot

Mm. Glad to get that song stuck in your head, dear reader (Mom, Dad, Granny).

It's been deliciously hot in Edmonton the last couple days. The kind of hot that makes you want to have picnics on the legislature grounds, or really just sit in your air-conditioned apartment sucking on a popsicle and trying to write fiction.

I blame my sudden need to write really bad fiction on Jennifer Crusie, whose light touch makes you want to write stories of your own. Reading a book of hers is kind of like eating a cherry popsicle on a sunny day. Okay, maybe one of those blue, white and red popsicles.

I continue to take a break from Anna Karenina (perhaps until the fall, when it will be cold again and I won't want to leave my apartment and so I'll be stuck with Tolstoy's prose) and even from 28 (a gorgeous book that breaks your heart on every page -- it's actually been a rather rough week, so I needed a breather). And so I am reading a frothy,* fun Crusie novel, Don't Look Down, co-authored by Bob Mayer.

I've never read Mayer before, however I assume he is to blame for the testosterone-charged graphs about military weaponry that I've been skipping. Crusie, of course, is responsible for the witty dialogue and a female heroine who isn't a size six with perfect hair and a penchant for listening to Bruce Springsteen. (Seriously, why must all romance heroines listen to Springsteen? Does anyone in real life listen to Springsteen anymore?)

I'm sure I had a point in this blog entry that had nothing to do with making my family sing the "Hot, hot, hot" song to themselves for the rest of the day.... But it's summertime and I can't focus. So, a few sidenotes:

• HURRAH! How many summer nights did I spend while in university drinking strawberry daqs and watching Sex and the City? Too many to count, really. Perfect summer news.


• Thanks to a friend, I have a new book to add to my Must Read list.... unfortunately, I can't find the relevant CP article online anywhere, and I don't want to pilfer it. So please, dear reader (Granny, Mom, Dad), bear with this article from salon.com
  

*Have you ever noticed "frothy" is a term almost wholly reserved for the work of female writers, most often chick-lit authors? Erm, when not speaking of coffee of course. No matter how ludicrously commercial the work of King or Grisham, one rarely calls it "frothy." Hmph.