It ain’t paradise when you’ve got a head cold from hell. The sun is shining, the trades are blowing, and I’m miserable. This is my second cold since I moved to Hawaii. Silly me, I thought cold germs would be a lot harder to catch here. I can’t think where I caught this cold, unless it was at Borders on Wednesday. No one around me seemed to be suffering, but then I had the telltale sore throat Thursday night and the sniffles on Friday. Saturday and Sunday were progressively worse. Today is full-blown cold. Maybe I should have stayed home over the weekend, but I didn’t. Went to the beach by myself on Friday, went to the windward side with hubby on Saturday (ate at a great place called Fatboy’s Local Drive In — kalua cabbage, yum!), went to a party Sat night, went to the beach on Sunday. I am paying today. This sucks.

Aside from surfing and bloghopping, I think I’ll do nothing but read today. Since I finished Carpe Demon, my options are open. I am still stuck in another romance, so I could finish that one, or I could start a new one. Not sure I can deal with Virginia Woolf or Simone today. Reading Woolf’s Three Guineas. Is it terrible of me to say I wish she’d get to the point and stop all the roundabout logic? Who am I to bitch, though? Virginia Woolf is Virginia-freaking-Woolf. I am nobody. And, I am quite sure the argument style was appropriate for the day. My 21st century sensibilities (i.e. give me the soundbite) are having trouble staying focused.

Gawd, what is happening to our literary traditions? Woolf, Lawrence, Joyce, Faulkner — they would look down their noses at me. I have been seduced by the dark side, aka popular fiction–and I’m not complaining! I love many of the stories by the aforementioned writers, but nothing tires me out more than someone trying to copy what they think is a literary style. I know someone who is writing a literary novel. The damn thing is lifeless and I can’t put my finger on the why of it. The writing is good, but the story is blah. It’s just blah. And, I suspect, an overdone theme within the literary novel tradition.

Who is good at the literary novel today? Hmm, my brain is clogged, so I’m sure I won’t think of the more obvious ones I should. I like Pat Conroy, not The Great Santini but Beach Music and The Prince of Tides. John Irving, The World According to Garp (the only Irving I’ve read, though there are many more I’d like to). Sue Monk Kidd, of course. Margaret Atwood. I loved both The Handmaid’s Tale and The Blind Assassin. I think The Handmaid’s Tale should be required reading for all women. Just my opinion.

Anyway, that’s my list for the moment, and it’s entirely too short and missing all sorts of good writers, but I’m tired and clogged and grumpy.