Right now I’m reading Bellweather Rhapsody by Kate Racculia and it is splendid. Yesterday, the author published a piece on The Toast celebrating her writing role model, the one and only Jessica Fletcher.
In my mid-twenties I started to joke about it. I told people I wanted to grow up to be Jessica Fletcher. It seemed a funny shorthand description of my essential personality: I’m highly observant. I like to read. I like to write. I’m an indoor girl, and I have a cat. I know how to kill you with poison (but I won’t). I’d probably do better in a small town where I loved a lot of people, where said people loved me too but knew when to leave me alone.
And then I realized it wasn’t a joke at all. I do want to grow up to be Jessica Fletcher. All those hours watching Jess tromp around Cabot Cove had drawn up a blueprint for a life, and had presented an ideal woman to become: A woman who writes books. Who supports herself by writing those books, who has artistic integrity but isn’t paralyzed by her own insecurities as an artist and remains humble in the face of success. Who gets intense satisfaction from finding the right word, finishing her novel and closing that sweet leather portfolio.
My husband really outdid himself today.
- Chunky glasses in an unusual shade
- Patterned scarf
- Confident lean
CASE CLOSED, George Saunders is real hip. He’s also good at being interviewed.
Finally, if you’re a guy writing a funny, fast-paced, relatable comedy of manners, with a Jewish protagonist, you’ve written a book. If you’re a girl and you wrote that same thing, you’re… me. I remember, years ago, picking up Jonathan Tropper’s The Book of Joe, and thinking, “Wow, this guy writes like I do!”
I still think it’s true. Except Janet Maslin reviews him on the regular, and the most I’ve ever gotten from Maslin is a few sentences in what I call the Vagina Flyover that she comes out with every May, where she’ll review a whole bunch of books with nothing in common but female authors.
Earlier this week, the Times published yet another stuffy article, ”The Best Iced Latte in America?”. It’s about a couple of bros who specialize in making their own almond-macadamia milk, which is “so creamy and delicate that it makes the nut milks you pour out of a box taste like cheap extract” OR SOMETHING.
It’s one of the most worthless things I’ve ever read, but happily, it has this super strange bit of dialogue that I’ve been laughing at all week. It happens here, in a description of the bros’ coffee shop:
On weekends, when the soul singer Charles Bradley or Michael Jackson is playing over the sound system, the crowd can be four deep.
This changes the energy. Early one afternoon, a couple set their coffees on the bar and started making out.
Mr. Glanville wasn’t surprised. “They’re doing that because they’re in love,” he said with a shrug.
Yes, please! “A cross-country hitchhiking journey with America’s most beloved weirdo.”
"When you’ve seen Instagram comments like, ‘You’re so ugly, you should kill yourself’" – her tone is remarkably cheery – "it’s like, I went to college. How could I be offended by someone who talks about what you look like? I wouldn’t even deem you a person I’d speak to.”
"I don’t know if I’d have felt this way when I was 22. But I feel this way at 34."
Mindy Kaling in The Guardian