I type constantly, all the time, for work and pleasure and boredom and organization, and yet I'm so much worse at it than I was at one time. I have some kind of typing dyslexia lately, constantly switching letters and drawing a blank when I try to figure out if I mean role or roll, bale or bail, peel or peal.
Hey, the Queen's last corgi may have died, but the Queen is not without dogs. In case you were picturing her bereft and dogless, having reached the true end of her life, the end of life with dogs. She's fine.
I wrote this weeks ago, and now there's a beautiful young American woman who's joined the royal family and also her American beagle.**
Also, I read about half of I'll Be Gone in the Dark and it was just too scary for me. I am so much more squeamish and anxious about certain scary things than I used to be. I remember reading a pile of true crime novels when I lived alone in my first solo apartment. I did terrify myself doing it, but I couldn't stop reading. Now I'm old, and I cover my eyes at the gory stuff on TV.
I am also re-reading both Outline and Transit by Rachel Cusk after reading this amazing review of the trilogy by Patricia Lockwood and in anticipation of the third book, Kudos, for which I am waiting in a virtual library line. These are in the category of slow down and read every word books for me. I get in this mode that's better suited to thrillers, gobbling books, sometimes.
The monologues in the trilogy are controlled trances, like Stevie Nicks at the end of ‘Rhiannon’: you enter the speed and the artifice and the belief of it with her. They seem to have been written compulsively; they certainly read compulsively. There is a relentlessness to them, an onslaught that is like the onslaught of life. Occasionally you find yourself wishing for someone to get up and go to the bathroom, but most of the time you are transported.
**Ahhh weeks and weeks and weeks ago! But still. Her beagle.