Up that jelly hill, under water

So tired this week. I feel like I'm walking under water, or through jelly, or up a hill that is not very steep but goes on and on past the horizon. This morning I woke up when the alarm went off then fell asleep for another 35 minutes--only thing that got me out of bed was my arm, which had also fallen asleep. Anyway, my tired draggyness has mucked up my gymming and my writing (I have a new little project, which I'm enjoying) so I am in self-loathing mode. My commute book this week is Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi and when I compare my fatigue and sick ham to their ayatollahs and chadors I loathe myself even more. So it just feeds itself, you see?
Speaking of sick hams--Vodka is doing well. Every evening we have to put lady cream on his tummy, and under his chin, and on his legs--all the places he's rubbed his fur off with scratching, poor little pet. It is a two-person operation. Tim holds him by the scruff of his neck and I spread the cream on while he kicks and shakes with fear. It is a pathetic sight.

Ha! I deserved that

Apologies to Diana Peterfreund, who took a peek at SanFrantastic. (BTW, this is my first celebrity visit. If I mention Ryan Phillippe, will he turn up here too? Please?) Turns out the writing challenge she is taking part in is 70 days, not 70k words. And she only writes a book a year... Which still makes me feel like a lazy bum.

Sick habit

I have been stalking writers again. Online. They're not necessarily writers I like or even read, but I can't keep away. I keep checking in on this perky young thing called Diana Peterfreund who writes teen novels and ocassionally poses for romance novel covers. She is prolific--three books in about a year-and-a-half--and quite the little marketer. At the moment she is taking part in a challenge to write 70,000 words in something like a month. I am jealous and admiring at the same time although I can't imagine how you could produce 70,000 good words in a month.
I also like to keep tabs on Miss Snark, a publisher who recently stopped blogging but left her archives online, and this literary agent based in little ol' Denver who keeps making big sales. The Jennifer Trio--Weiner, O'Connell and Crusie--are other fave stalkees. They are all chick lit writers I have read at times when I needed a nice, comforting, caramel-choccie kind of literary experience, andf they all have feel-good websites that make you believe they are much like yourself except exponentially more successful.
But theirs are not the sort of books I wish I could write. Mostly I like stuff that makes me feel just a leeetle uncomfortable, like this new short story collection I just finished reading, Twenty Grand by Rebecca Curtis, about misfits and freaks with money woes. Loved it, and in a week or so, when it's had time to settle, I'm going to read it again. I would be stalking Rebecca Curtis, but she doesn't have a website. Yet.

The secret of my ennui

Gosh that Sylvia Plath is a downer. The Bell Jar is fantastic -- wish I'd read it years ago -- but I'm afraid I identify with the main character a bit much. I really like her, I'm sure we could be friends, and now the poor chook is being sent for electroshock treatment.
I was feeling a bit Plath-like last night as I drove across the Bay Bridge towards the bookstore. Esther (the electroshock girl) has got to the point where she can't be bothered changing her clothes or washing because she knows she'll just have to do it again. And again. And again, until lights out. On a lesser level, I have got to the point where I just wear the same thing to work over and over again because there is absolutely no point in dressing well when you are going to be squatting at the base of bookshelves, dusting, lugging huge carts this way and that, and dealing with sticky children. I do wash my clothes, however.
I continue to be amazed at the success of The Secret, the book that purports to condense centuries of wisdom into one teeny little book that will change your life. It is flying out the door. They literally can't keep it on the shelves. Oprah plugged it on her show and the whole country has gone bonkers for it. It feels like a very American phenomenon to me. As far as I can tell, the secret is that you draw to yourself whatever it is you are sending out into the universe. So if you are sending out vibes of satisfaction and success, that is what you will reap. Clearly I am sending out great waves of mediocrity and ennui. And yet I can't seem to stop. What is a girl to do?