the only genre my life would be is literary fiction.

Over the weekend Dad and I went camping with Senoir Princesses (it’s a dad/daughter organization, for those who’ve ‘graduated’ from Indian Princesses or whatever you want to call it). I got a sunburn that is slowly turning into a particularly nice tan. We slept in a tent, survived sweltering heat, rowed a canoe 10 miles downriver, stayed up till 4 am watching the fire, fished, lived on a diet of cereal/soymilk, peanut butter/jelly, and hotdogs/brats. And walked like a mile to the bathroom. The good thing was that at night, the mile-long bathroom journey was actually pleasant, because the fireflies lit up the soy fields like fairyland. It was all misty, with a full moon, and then here’s these golden sparkles going off by the hundreds. And lots of ferns and mushrooms and things you might associate with little wood sprites. So yeah. Many adventures and interesting things…

In other news:

Driving school is excessively, excruciatingly, interminably boring.
ZZZZzzzzzzzz.
Yeah, two more days of that. Joy. The driving instructor said “Car-eeming” instead of “careening” about seven times today. Then we watched movies with dead people and 80’s celebrities (“Hi, I’m so-and-so from Roseanne.” Huh? And the cheesiness!!! Thank you, God, for making me not be alive in the 80’s).

Dad and I watched Sherlock Holmes (special thanks to Gwen for letting me borrow it) earlier tonight and it was pretty good. Except the American girl annoyed me. Why does there have to be an American? I wanted a movie with Brits; gimme my money back! Oh well, the rest was worth it.

Then I have to read this book called “Look Again”, and it’s horrible writing. The author describes everything in absolute detail. The whole room, all the people in and around it, what they all look like, do, live, and are wearing. Blehhhh. How does this junk get published? Oh, I know, because they know someone. Or they’ve already been published so the editor allows misplaced modifiers to run rampant, and similies to overrun the pages like dieased rabbits. (Haha, get it? except that is so not a description this author would use. She’s more like “the soup poured into the bowl like smooth liquid of the heavens” or whatever. It’s supposed to be a thriller. Move on!) 

Basically not that much going on around these parts. But I wanted to post because I’m hogging the cool basement all to myself, mwahaha. Plus I didn’t want to have a long space of silence between posts.

So.

A lot of thriller novels and films, but unfortunately my life right now is literary fiction. Blehhh and good night.

Yours till the hub caps,
Pen

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3 thoughts on “the only genre my life would be is literary fiction.

  1. that sounded like a wonderful night walk in fairyland (much better than a book I once was reading…………..where it was creepyy!) so glad you had fun camping!

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