I approach things in an optimistic fashion I think. When I pick up a book to read, or settle down to watch a film or TV show, or play music, I am hoping to be absorbed and delighted. I want it to be great, really, that’s what I am rooting for.
It seems ages since I have been dazzled. Even with the decent stuff I start out thinking ooh, this is good, which peters out into, well, it’s not so bad, before it finishes and I think, oh.
Veronica Mars ( yeah, on and on I go about VM) was great, I was impressed throughout by plot, dialogue, acting, dammit, I even liked the clothes! But that’s it. That’s the sum total of me being impressed this year so far. Sigh.
So what is that about? Am I old and jaded and way too fussy, is there a dearth of dazzle, is it my hormones?
Every book of short stories at work seem to come with some proclamation that this author is the best writer of his/her generation, and is endorsed by x, y and z authors who all agree that here is rare talent. And I flip open the book and read blah stories that leave me cold. I don’t know what I am looking for but I’ll know it when I see it. I can’t write it either, it’s what I want to write and read and watch and hear, for now it is utterly elusive.
(Actually, it probably sounds a bit like Beth Ditto, and reads like Janice Galloway’s “The trick is to keep breathing” and looks like Veronica Mars…seen it anywhere?)
Sara Crowley 