Peonies and Pamela

I have to say I'm intrigued by this format. Like putting a note in an empty wine bottle and hucking it from the beach. Probably will sink as soon as my back is turned. And yet...

Ever read a book that just made it seem so easy? I'm in the middle of one at the moment. A memoir. So not only is the writing breezy and effortless, but the author's life is fascinating too (required for a memoir, no?). And who doesn't look good in an inch squared professional black and white photograph? So I feel as though I'm reading propelled by envy. For the life and the talent. I hate envy.

My most vivid recollection of reading a book that made writing seem just so obvious and natural (like taking a picture with a camera - I mean it's all there in front of you all you have to do is press that button and click I mean duh) was the Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence. There's one section in particular where she's describing peonies and all I could think was shoot, I've seen those peonies, I could write that.

The prairies are a hard place to grow things for something as firivolous as colour. I don't think it dislikes colour, but it's just too busy being practical with wheat and canola. But its peonies are amazing. So large and ripe with petals that they droop with the embarrasment that accompanies the bounty. I imagine that it's like a girl first realizing she does have the breasts she always wanted. Probably more like Pamela Anderson after having bought the breasts she always wanted. Except a Pamela Anderson who loved her breasts but didn't really want to show them off all that much. Oh, I normally wouldn't but if you insist. Just this once.