I watched Vicky Cristina Barcelona last night and enjoyed it. Somehow Woody Allen films sometimes make me feel dumb. I don't know where it comes from but often an odd dissatisfaction will swell up in me while watching.
I sometimes wonder if I play things too safe and think back to when I was more adventurous. I had a lot of fun when I wasn't worried about what would happen to me. My Pavlovian reaction now is to shy away from anything that could hurt me. I'm much braver in my writing than I am in real life. I think sometimes people confuse the voice I write in with my own voice and experiences.
Saturday I reread a chapter of my novel I had forgotten about and was really impressed. I've placed the characters in Chula Vista, my hometown. I feel I can know them a little better if I know where they're from and where they go. I've read one other novel from a person from Chula Vista, Along the Border Lies by Paul S. Flores. We went to the same high school, years apart. His version of Chula Vista is much grittier than mine but I recognize it anyway. My poor main character has such a jealous little heart. I hope I can lead her out of it.
Jarabe de Palo