I have never had a passion for writing. Like, when I dream of becoming an author and running around Paris drinking absynth in dirty backstreet cafes, it is the *Paris* part of the fantasy that gets my motor running. Ok, that, and I think I look good in a beret.
But every now and then, I read a story that makes me jealous of the author's ability to create something wonderful. Something so good that reading it almost feels like opening presents on Christmas morning...where each paragraph is there all wrapped up and shiny and all one has to do to get to it is to pluck the ribbon from the top.
And it is with Annie Proulx's "Brokeback Mountain." A friend emailed me the link to the old archive version in The New Yorker and I have had to spend a good long time keeping myself from crying here at work on my lunch hour because this story is just THAT beautiful and sad. And now Ang Lee has done the film version? I cant wait to see it!