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Quote of the day:
"There is, after all, no happier occasion for a writer than another writer writing something bad."
—Steve Erickson, Amnesiascope
To which I counter, "It depends on the writer."
Certainly, if a writer is patronizing, self-aggrandizing, pompous, pissy, or Michael Crichton, I take great glee in them putting out a bad piece of writing. Anyone else, I generally feel bad for them.
But Amnesiascope was not a bad piece of writing. Great piece of fiction—dystopic, hilarious, erotic, ultimately moving. And set in a post-Apocalyptic L.A. What more could a girl want?
I especially loved the scenes in the Sand Castle, a wonderful old gothic building that used to sit on Santa Monica beach. Something from the bygone days of grand ballrooms and sweeping staircases, but at the end of its days converted into apartments. Sadly, it didn't survive the last major earthquake and had to be raised to the ground. They replaced it with a modern building that tries to convey, on the outside at least, the spirit of the old Sand Castle. It succeeds to a certain extent. It could have been a real chumpy endeavor, but it's not a bad building at all. I haven't been inside to see if they duplicated anything like the splendor of the old building. I doubt it. No one can afford to build splendor anymore.
I spent a wonderful night in one of those apartments in the old Sand Castle in my misspent youth, the kind of night that stays with you forever—the smell of the sea; the plushness of the carpet (admittedly a bit moldy-smelling); the feeling of camaraderie and togetherness and friendship; the balmy summer air through the open windows; being so high up, above the world and looking down; the crash and hiss of the sea in the night. A night of storytelling, true confessions whether they were fictional or not, of feeling young and free and immortal.
Not all of it disappeared with the old Sand Castle, of course. It will always be inside me. But I admit a part of my heart crumbled with the wrecker's ball.
Such is life. And glee is fleeting.
"There is, after all, no happier occasion for a writer than another writer writing something bad."
—Steve Erickson, Amnesiascope
To which I counter, "It depends on the writer."
Certainly, if a writer is patronizing, self-aggrandizing, pompous, pissy, or Michael Crichton, I take great glee in them putting out a bad piece of writing. Anyone else, I generally feel bad for them.
But Amnesiascope was not a bad piece of writing. Great piece of fiction—dystopic, hilarious, erotic, ultimately moving. And set in a post-Apocalyptic L.A. What more could a girl want?
I especially loved the scenes in the Sand Castle, a wonderful old gothic building that used to sit on Santa Monica beach. Something from the bygone days of grand ballrooms and sweeping staircases, but at the end of its days converted into apartments. Sadly, it didn't survive the last major earthquake and had to be raised to the ground. They replaced it with a modern building that tries to convey, on the outside at least, the spirit of the old Sand Castle. It succeeds to a certain extent. It could have been a real chumpy endeavor, but it's not a bad building at all. I haven't been inside to see if they duplicated anything like the splendor of the old building. I doubt it. No one can afford to build splendor anymore.
I spent a wonderful night in one of those apartments in the old Sand Castle in my misspent youth, the kind of night that stays with you forever—the smell of the sea; the plushness of the carpet (admittedly a bit moldy-smelling); the feeling of camaraderie and togetherness and friendship; the balmy summer air through the open windows; being so high up, above the world and looking down; the crash and hiss of the sea in the night. A night of storytelling, true confessions whether they were fictional or not, of feeling young and free and immortal.
Not all of it disappeared with the old Sand Castle, of course. It will always be inside me. But I admit a part of my heart crumbled with the wrecker's ball.
Such is life. And glee is fleeting.