“I told you that writing was like boxing, but it’s also like running. That’s why I keep sending you out to pound the pavement: If you have the moral courage to run a long way, in the rain, in the cold, if you have the strength to keep going until the end, to give it all you have and to reach your goal, then you’re capable of writing a book. Never let fear or fatigue stop you. On the contrary: You should use them to help you keep going.”

-Joel Dicker, The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

Obsessed with this book.

The Caribbean has curb appeal. (at Nevis, West Indies)

The Caribbean has curb appeal. (at Nevis, West Indies)

Supposedly, I’m catching a flight back to NC tomorrow. Debatable. (at Nevis, West Indies)

Supposedly, I’m catching a flight back to NC tomorrow. Debatable. (at Nevis, West Indies)

Family Vacation: The Non-Instagramable Version

Earlier in the week I asked one of our taxi drivers to buy me some of the local (illegal) rum. Yesterday, he left it with one of the hotel bell men for me.
My mom: Sarah, while you were gone we picked up your rum from some guy named Glendon.
Me: Great. How much do I owe you?
Mom: You need to go find and pay Glendon. We didn't pay him.
Me (with what I thought was obvious sarcasm): What?! You got the goods, but didn't pay him?? What, is this your first time buying illicit goods in a foreign country or something?
Mom (literally stomping off): I'M SORRY. I was TRYING to do you a favor, picking up your moonshine. That's the LAST time I do that again.
Family bonding, you guys.

Nevis trip, day one. I like it here a lot.

My earliest memories of my grandmother are on Pawleys Island. I have a distinct impression of sitting in the warm sun with her on the deck of our family’s old seaside cottage.
I have a million other memories with her since. I lived with her for two summers. And I often took trips to Texas to visit her. We spent Easter together this year—dressing up for church and then going straight to her favorite Mexican restaurant for tacos and salsa. We got along so well. She was smart and funny. She loved God and great stories and beautiful art and good food and strong drinks. Gran felt more like a close friend who just happened to be 96.
She called me last Sunday afternoon to tell me how much she’d enjoyed a recent visit with my dad and to say I was always welcome in Dallas. I told her I’d call her again soon to tell her when I’d be back. Early this morning, surrounded by people who love her, Gran died. And I wonder now what else I would have said if I’d known that afternoon would be the last time I’d hear her voice.
A few years ago I spent a lazy Sunday  at her kitchen table flipping slowly through scrapbooks full of bleached and brittle pages while she told me stories from her 20s. She told me that afternoon that when she heard something funny, she would forget for a second that my grandfather was gone and she’d think of how she would share it with him.
I like to think that’s what she’s doing right now. Sharing 16 years worth of funny stories with the person she loved most. Doesn’t that sound like the best day ever? I think that’s what I would have said if I’d known it was the last time: Make sure you remember the funniest ones for him. I’ll be doing the same for you.

My earliest memories of my grandmother are on Pawleys Island. I have a distinct impression of sitting in the warm sun with her on the deck of our family’s old seaside cottage.

I have a million other memories with her since. I lived with her for two summers. And I often took trips to Texas to visit her. We spent Easter together this year—dressing up for church and then going straight to her favorite Mexican restaurant for tacos and salsa. We got along so well. She was smart and funny. She loved God and great stories and beautiful art and good food and strong drinks. Gran felt more like a close friend who just happened to be 96.

She called me last Sunday afternoon to tell me how much she’d enjoyed a recent visit with my dad and to say I was always welcome in Dallas. I told her I’d call her again soon to tell her when I’d be back. Early this morning, surrounded by people who love her, Gran died. And I wonder now what else I would have said if I’d known that afternoon would be the last time I’d hear her voice.

A few years ago I spent a lazy Sunday at her kitchen table flipping slowly through scrapbooks full of bleached and brittle pages while she told me stories from her 20s. She told me that afternoon that when she heard something funny, she would forget for a second that my grandfather was gone and she’d think of how she would share it with him.

I like to think that’s what she’s doing right now. Sharing 16 years worth of funny stories with the person she loved most. Doesn’t that sound like the best day ever? I think that’s what I would have said if I’d known it was the last time: Make sure you remember the funniest ones for him. I’ll be doing the same for you.

A few weeks ago I decided I wanted some light summer reading. So I bought the latest Jennifer Weiner, David Baldacci, and Gillian Flynn novels. And disliked each one more than the last.
So, when M (I can randomly introduce new characters into my blog, right?) suggested that I read Michael Crichton’s 1988 non-fiction memoir-ish book, Travels, I agreed. Actually, M didn’t suggest it so much as take my iPad, download the book, and read me the preface before turning it over. So it seemed like a good idea to read it.
As it turns out, I loved this book. There’s some strange stuff—psychics and exorcisms, auras and mysticism. There are also some amazing descriptions of place and subsequent experience—Mt. Kilimanjaro, New Guinea, Jamaica, Shangri-La, London. But ultimately it doesn’t matter if Crichton is writing about one of his Harvard med school classes or an afternoon tracking gorillas or a week meditating with a cactus, it’s his talented storytelling that makes this worth reading—that, and the fact that he has SO many stories to tell. 
To me, the best writers are those who live great stories. Doing this requires an insatiable curiosity. That’s what made this book a new favorite for me—meeting a writer with an almost obsessive need to experience things in order to gain perspective and ultimately be more self aware.
So, I’m like 26 years late to the game on this one, but if you haven’t read this, add it to your list.

A few weeks ago I decided I wanted some light summer reading. So I bought the latest Jennifer Weiner, David Baldacci, and Gillian Flynn novels. And disliked each one more than the last.

So, when M (I can randomly introduce new characters into my blog, right?) suggested that I read Michael Crichton’s 1988 non-fiction memoir-ish book, Travels, I agreed. Actually, M didn’t suggest it so much as take my iPad, download the book, and read me the preface before turning it over. So it seemed like a good idea to read it.

As it turns out, I loved this book. There’s some strange stuff—psychics and exorcisms, auras and mysticism. There are also some amazing descriptions of place and subsequent experience—Mt. Kilimanjaro, New Guinea, Jamaica, Shangri-La, London. But ultimately it doesn’t matter if Crichton is writing about one of his Harvard med school classes or an afternoon tracking gorillas or a week meditating with a cactus, it’s his talented storytelling that makes this worth reading—that, and the fact that he has SO many stories to tell. 

To me, the best writers are those who live great stories. Doing this requires an insatiable curiosity. That’s what made this book a new favorite for me—meeting a writer with an almost obsessive need to experience things in order to gain perspective and ultimately be more self aware.

So, I’m like 26 years late to the game on this one, but if you haven’t read this, add it to your list.

My weekend consisted of a lot more than just a soccer game and brunch, but that’s all I remembered to take photos of so that’s what you’re getting—and really, those were the two best parts anyway.

On Saturday night my dad and I went to see Liverpool vs. AC Milan and had ridiculously awesome seats. Not necessarily awesome for the soccer watching, but pretty amazing for the part after the game when Steven Gerrard took his shirt off like 15 feet away from us. My dad was like “Ok, ready to go?” and I was like “Um no. I’m pretty sure the best part of this entire experience is happening right now.” Our opinions differed on that point.

On Sunday I went to a new brunch spot where they had blueberry lavender housemade pop tarts. They had some other stuff and it was a cool vibe and interior and blahblahblah because really all that matters in this blog entry/life is blueberry lavender pop tarts.

So yeah, if weekends can be judged by shirtless soccer superstars and fruity-meets-floral pastries, then I’d say this one was a massive success.

But everyone has been to the country, everyone knows what that’s about. Trees, screaming cicadas, sweet-smelling air, routine doses of astonishing ordinary loveliness that exhilarate and revive you like a drug.
© 2010 My Opinion / Powered by Tumblr
Theme by Michiko. This theme was created inspired by Rubber Cement, Sunrise and BlueDots.