10 Dark and Twisty Books for ‘Gone Girl’ Fans

Flavorwire

Fun fact: Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl was released in paperback last week nearly two years after its initial release. In publishing terms that means it’s a monster, gigantic hit, but that shouldn’t be a surprise to the numbers of people who’ve read it and the number of times the “Cool Girl” monologue has been cited as sheer truth and quite reminiscent of Jennifer Lawrence’s whole persona. (And it’s a “truth” laced with irony to anyone who’s read the book.) Gone Girl will only get bigger once the David Fincher film adaptation is released in October.

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Writers I Want To Kiss on the Face(book)

Karissa Morton’s blog on how we should support one another hits home with me. She writes:
It doesn’t take much to open someone’s link & read a poem he or she is proud of. It takes even less to click “like” or make a congratulatory comment, to metaphorically say, “Hey, I see your achievement in this tough, competitive world!” If we’re really a community, let’s engage like one.

Karissa Morton Carter

 

“We have all known the long loneliness and

we have learned that the only solution is love and

that love comes with community.”  Dorothy Day

 

On last count, Rebecca Makkai’s Ploughshares column, “Writers You Want To Punch in the Face(book),” has been shared almost a dozen times on my Facebook newsfeed today.  I have to wonder why.  Are we really all that passive aggressive?  Each time someone posted it, I couldn’t help but wonder who they were silently jabbing at.  (I can guarantee they each had at least one person in mind when they hit “share”—otherwise why share it if they hadn’t seen it themselves?)

In the column, Makkai invents a hypothetical writer, Todd Manly-Krauss.  Our dear Todd is described as a “good enough guy in real life,” but his Facebook presence is depicted as insufferable.  He’s the guy who claims to be “so…

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No grandkids yet

Beans on the back porch begging to be let in.

Beans on the back porch begging to be let in.

Several weeks ago, I was at home alone, reading, when a very friendly orange cat came up to the window and wanted to be let in.  He was persistent.  I finally let him in.  I got his owner’s phone number from his tag and sent a text.  Beans (the cat’s name, according to his tag) followed me from room to room, making me feel less alone.  He was adorable.  I suddenly wanted a cat.

Growing up, I didn’t have a cat.  “Do you know what they do?” my mother asked.  “They’re nasty!”

When my children were still at home, we got a cat.  It was a sickly kitten that crawled up to my friend’s back door one night in a rainstorm.  My children loved him.  I was busy with school, so I didn’t bond with him the way they did.  They let Fitz sleep with them, they laughed at his “kung-fu kitty” moves, and said he moved like Neo in The Matrix.  Fitz was always trying to cough up a hairball.  I finally mentioned that to the vet.  “Have you ever seen a hairball?” I hadn’t.  Fitz had asthma.  That was the sound we’d heard him make so often.  He suddenly had two prescriptions that he’d always have to take.  Even with his meds, though, Fitz had awful asthma attacks.  Emergency vet kind of asthma attacks.  At least three times when I took him for an emergency, he had to be put in an oxygen chamber.  I finally told the kids it was cruel for us to let him keep suffering.  They would miss him.  We chose the day, and they all spent good time with him, loving him and willing themselves to remember everything about him.  He was three years old.

Heartbreaking as that sounds, my feelings were much stronger for my children and what they were going through than they were for Fitz.  I hadn’t spent much time with him.  But I loved how much my children loved him on top of their love for our dog, Honey, who we had long before Fitz and long after.

So I guess you could say I was never a cat person.  Then along came Beans and opened my heart. Too bad he had an owner.  He (or she) texted me back hours later and said to let Beans back outside and he’d find his way home.

I looked a long time for a kitten.  I was told it was not the right time of the year yet for kittens, that there are kitten seasons when they’re ubiquitous.  Like a mother feathering her nest, I bought all of the things I would need for my kitty.  One Saturday I drove from pet store to pet store to visit adoption events, hoping I’d find my kitty.  And then, when I went back to the first pet store because they had a litter box I really liked, there were cats there for adoption.  I hadn’t seen them earlier in the day.  I asked the woman if they were up for adoption and were they there earlier.  She said, “Yes.”  There was a female tortie in a cage with a too-active little calico.  She was sweet.  She responded to me.  I put my fingers in the cage and started talking to her.  “Yes, I said.  You are the kitty for me!”  I looked at the woman, excited.  “I thought there was no way I would find my kitty today.  I’d given up hope.”  She said, “I’m about to pack up and leave.  She’ll be here tomorrow.”  What?!  “Well, is there an application? I don’t want someone else to adopt her before I do.”  She gave me an application, then squatted down and started putting things in a box.  As I quickly filled it out, she loaded up her van with the cats and her stuff.  She didn’t say another word to me.  I put the completed application on her bag and went back to get my litter box.  When I came back, she was gone.

She was not there the next day, nor was the kitty.  The woman who came that day– with the cats she fostered, which is how it works, so the lady the day before was fostering “my” kitty– contacted the other woman by phone after she didn’t show up all day.  She didn’t know I was serious about adopting the cat, she said.  That was a lie.  The truth is, she somehow decided that she wasn’t going to let me adopt that kitty.  Whether she misjudged me or what, I won’t know because she wasn’t honest enough to say.  “It’s probably the best thing that ever happened to you,” my fiancé said, which is what his mother would always say to him when things didn’t go his way.  And it was the best thing that could have happened to me that day, because it kept me looking for a kitty– and I found Audrey.

The story of Audrey is still to come.  For now, I’ll share a photo of her.  IMG_0550

 

 

Alec Baldwin Speaks for Men and “The Ladies”?

by Suzannah Gilman

Reblogged from The Gloria Sirens.

 

For “The Big Question” in their April issue, The Atlantic asks “Who is the greatest fictional character of all time?”   Alec Baldwin brings all his sensitivity and intelligence to bear on this question, as you will see below, by speaking for everyone, not just himself, and by recognizing a difference in the sexes.  Gag.

You can read all of the responses online at The Atlantic here.

Image

(Try not to cringe at the unequal representation of women, both as commenters on the question and as writers whose works are cited in their answers.)

 

http://thegloriasirens.wordpress.com/2014/04/07/alec-baldwin-speaks-for-men-and-the-ladies/

Poll: Have You Had a Hair-Raising Experience?

There is perhaps nothing more devastating than a hair catastrophe.  If you haven’t had one yet, you are very, very lucky.

Feel free to share your stories in the “What do you have to say?” (comments) section.

 

When Everything Has to Be Absolutely Perfect: My Hair-Raising Experience

by Suzannah Gilman

The Gloria Sirens are posting “hair pieces” today.  This one, by me, makes 6 hair pieces.  Reblogged from The Gloria Sirens.

Before that evening, I hoped that everyone would be stealing glances at me, wondering who I was. And they were. Not for the reason I thought they would, but I giggled to my fiancé. “They will all remember me tomorrow!” And I’m sure they did.

susan boyle

Read the entire post here: My Hair-Raising Experience.