warning: this post has no merit in a help-you-write sense :( - - - but I am emerging today from the last few very difficult weeks, and am in fact going to write immediately after sending this, and I didn't want to start with anything too hard.
I was reading the New York Times book review yesterday and something struck me as kind of funny. the front-page review is of a new biography of flannery o'connor, who I LOOOOOVE, and there are some pix included. I don't know if i would have liked her in person - frankly she seems like she must have been a prickly crazy bitch - but I think I would have liked hanging out with her.
Flip to the middle and there is a 2-page spread for Danielle Steele's latest. Now, DS has got to be about a million years old. Hang on, actually, i'll wiki her.
....okay, i'm back, and to my shock she is only 62. Wow. Anyway, she's got this author photo where she looks better than I did in my 20s, though Im' kind of wondering if she's got an assistant back there tugging on her shirt and her bra and the skin of her face, you know, kind of keeping everything up in the air.
And I have NOTHING bad to say about her writing. Rock on, DS, clearly the woman knows how to write a story that speaks to a lot of people and NOBODY has any business putting that down, ever. But I guess I was just thinking about how much of a role image played or didn't play in the two writers' lives. See where I'm going? Flannery was the kind of gal who, if you were going to take her to your friend's house for dinner, you'd have to call ahead and say "now about my friend, she's a little weird...". DS - well, I think you'd probably die of perfume poisoning on the cab ride over.
Where are you on the scale, do you suppose? me, I figure I'm somewhere in the middle.