I’m reading Chocolat. I was sort of trying to cut back on sweets before I started that book. But now I feel that any day that goes by without a petit four is a complete waste of existence. I haven’t finished the book, so I can’t decide if I will love it until the end. But for now, it’s a pretty little literary treat I get to open in all my free time. I love the way it feels like a fairy tale even though she uses words like television. And I love the different points of view. And the imaginary rabbit. I don’t remember the movie, so I can’t possibly have seen it.
One of my favorite Anne books talks about a Dickens novel. A character in the Anne book says when she reads the Dickens one she always gets ravenously hungry because the people in it always seem to be eating good things. Kind of like the fact that every time I think of Heidi I get a craving for cheese and milk.
Do you know what I mean by Anne book? That’s what I call the eight-part series by L.M. Montgomery that begins with the children’s classic Anne of Green Gables. It could really be bad for my literary future that I love those books so much. I’ll never think I’ve written a lovable character unless she has red hair. And a book will never be good enough unless I think my reader will want seven more in the series.
But I’ll push past those feelings. Just like I pushed past the feeling that life wasn’t worth living unless it was the late 1800s again. Just like I pushed past the craving for the petit four. I’ll just write about regular old dishwater blonds and dull brunettes. And then I’ll go eat those chocolate donuts in the refrigerator. Pre-processed, factory-packaged donuts. It won’t look or smell like it came from a chocolaterie, but my taste buds aren’t nearly as picky as my soul.