But, over dinner I have decided that Annie Dillard, for all her deftness with words, must be shelved while I'm eating. At least her Pilgrim at Tinker Creek where insects get dis-emboweled or eaten alive while I’m trying to enjoy Trader Joe’s Teriyaki Bowl of Rice.
At first it’s a rare luxury to skip a meal. Then several hours after meal time I feel that empty, fainting sensation that is only romantic in Victorian novels. I reluctantly pull out a pile of distasteful looking leftovers and try to warm or sauce them into a meal. Last night’s attempt of combining Marinara sauce with rice pilaf led to an uncomfortably unsettling feeling in my tummy. Tonight I dug a styrofoam carton out of the back of the fridge. It held seven-day-old Buffalo wings. They looked like shriveled mummies.
But Annie hasn’t really cooperated with dinner time etiquette. She’s just described a tremendously vivid picture of a frog being eaten alive. At least I was half way through the bowl of rice before I got to this point.
How I wish I could write like that, not about dying frogs, but about what I want people to notice.
Where do people learn to write like that? My husband says its due to Annie spending most of her time alone. If that’s the key then I’m doomed, I love regular meals and my husband too much.