Yesterday, my best friend locally stopped by to give my daughter her (late, but who cares?) birthday gift. We cleared a spot off the piano bench so that she could sit. She didn't want to move the cat off his spot (my spot, really) on the sofa. She is a cat lover. Her own cats are like her children. Or maybe her siblings.
We talked about a project she's been working on for a couple of years, the draft of a novel she started during one National Novel Writing Month. She'd asked some of her friends, including me, to read drafts of parts of this novel, which has an absolutely hilarious premise, brilliant, really. She's a great writer, full of humor and pathos. She's an original. But the first of her two main characters was so unpleasant, so unlikable, that none of us cared what happened to him.
(I know that some writers, writing teachers would disagree with the need for a protagonist to be likable, at least a little bit likable, that if they are interesting, it should be enough to capture a reader. I am not one of those people. I need to like something about the main character, find a "way in," or I ....)
Oh. I will be back. I'm apparently going to quiz my kid on French vocabulary now. Epiphany to come later if I can remember what it is. Oh. Wait. I DO remember. (related to the really difficult "body-integration" concept and ... something else.)
a little later.
It's also difficult to focus on epiphanies when the Girl has turned on the television and the bad film that popped up is House Bunny. I could hide in my study, but that's not living.