Maybe it started with the Raymond Chandler novel my aunt encouraged me to purchase at The Last Bookstore, or maybe it’s my mood about my dog’s cancer, but I recently abandoned my usual girlie reading material for more macabre fare.
(Translation: no more Emily Giffin for a minute.)
I read the entire Chandler classic in the Mexico City Airport.
Now I’m reading two rather grim books, and I’m LOVING both of them.
(If you must know: The Murder Room by Michael Capuzzo, and Pretty Girls by Karin Slaughter are riveting. The former is non-fiction, the latter, fiction.)
The Last Bookstore is AMAZING, and you ABSOLUTELY have to go if you’re in LA. It’s like the only real culture we have here.
Aptly named, it’s also basically THE Last Bookstore in LA.
Inspired by my dark books, I tweeted last weekend, “Given the state of my love life, I think it’s time to shelve my rom com ideas and write stories about serial killers instead.”
I gained a few new followers after the tweet, so maybe I’m on the right track.
I have been utterly unable to write ANY of the soapy/rom commy ideas I’ve outlined in the last six months. Every time I sit down to write, I feel hollow, empty, and devoid of inspiration.
Sure, I actually had feelings for the first person in FOUR YEARS this year, but that was a raging dumpster fire of a disaster, and while the fallout SHOULD have sent me into a writing frenzy, it has utterly failed to do so. I spent hours journaling, trying to mine my heart and brain for reasons, but I came up empty.
Why was I crazy about him and unable to put the experience into words?
What was different this time?
Other heartbreaks have inspired my best work.
I mean, I should have known better than to fall for him in the first place, but feelings aren’t logical and that’s why I find them so maddening.
I had a date last week, but I couldn’t bring myself to go on a second with the poor guy. My feelings on the practice of dating remain unchanged. (#ihateit) I’d rather just hang out casually and slowly decide if someone annoys me or not.
Sure, I can be sentimental, and I am a bit of a princess (or so my friend Tim says when he hands me my Sauvignon Blanc after work), but I’m not sure I’m suited for the traditional trappings of romance. It all feels forced, contrived, conventional, and more disgusting to me than a rotting corpse covered in maggots.
I spent my adolescence devouring Stephen King, Thomas Harris, Christopher Pike, and Peter Benchley. (I read Jaws in the fifth grade for crying out loud.)
My friend Mike was recently shocked to learn that I have never seen The Notebook. He’s known me HOW long, and he’s surprised by this?!? (In his defense, I guess I was equally surprised to learn he HAD seen it.)
I think maybe my perky, let’s-put-a-bow-on-it, party planing side throws even my closest friends, but COME ON…
Have you seen the art on my walls?!?
My living room is a shrine to David Lynch.
(I am QUITE aware the prints are not hung symmetrically and it KILLS me.)
The stills are limited edition Richard Beymer originals from the set of Twin Peaks.
Who hasn’t noticed my creepy bathroom art situation?
My sorority roommate’s mother let me pick out one of her prints at the Ann Arbor Art Fair back in the day, and I selected the most disturbing one she had.
It’s a vintage mannequin head, and it looks simultaneously serene and unsettling to me.
I love it.
So, anyway, I think maybe it’s time to write about murder because I’m just NOT feeling love at the moment.