Copyright: George Holmes 5/10/09
FLOWERY

When I read her prose, lavish with lists, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions bristling everywhere, subordinate clauses running amok, I think it overdone. After all, less is more. But she thinks more is more. Flowery I say to someone rather sententiously; ornate, overdone. And yet somehow I am seduced by it. She loves rich colors, has done her research; she likes fashion, fanciful clothes, beautiful people. She loves dreams. She makes others dream, forget their slogging jobs, their drab lives, their shoes down at heel, their shabby coats. She likes luxury hotels, fluffy white towels, massages. Her haute couture sparkles with pearls and diamonds; her feet comfortable and very stylish in handmade Manolo Blahniks.
I want those things too. If only I could have her discipline. Ah, the life or non-life residing in those two little words: if only. She is at her desk by 7 every morning writing till noon. After a brief lunch a secretary types up the neatly written pages. She re-reads the pages again, changing little and then emails the agreed amount to her publisher. She is a clock. She produces. Her neat writing becomes neat typing. Her editor scarcely ever amends her product. Like Mozart, the words tumble perfectly formed out from her pen. But unlike Mozart, she is sent a large check for her efforts. She earns her living by writing, by giving people what they yearn for. She is a writer. She is flowery. I am envious.