Read Girls in Trucks by Katie Crouch Free Online
Book Title: Girls in Trucks|
The author of the book: Katie Crouch
Format files: PDF
The size of the: 880 KB
ISBN 13: 9780316002110
Edition: Little, Brown and Company
Date of issue: April 7th 2008
Read full description of the books:Sarah Walters is a less-than-perfect debutante. She tries hard to follow the time-honored customs of the Charleston Camellia Society, as her mother and grandmother did, standing up straight in cotillion class and attending lectures about all the things that Camellias don't do. (Like ride with boys in pickup trucks.)
But Sarah can't quite ignore the barbarism just beneath all that propriety, and as soon as she can she decamps South Carolina for a life in New York City. There, she and her fellow displaced Southern friends try to make sense of city sophistication, to understand how much of their training applies to real life, and how much to the strange and rarefied world they've left behind.
When life's complications become overwhelming, Sarah returns home to confront with matured eyes the motto "Once a Camellia, always a Camellia"- and to see how much fuller life can be, for good and for ill, among those who know you best.
Girls in Trucks introduces an irresistable, sweet, and wise voice that heralds the arrival of an exciting new talent.
Read information about the authorI write every single day, first by hand and and then typing on my battered Mac. I've been writing all my life, though I didn't really get going on books until I was 29. I had to get fired from a few jobs first.
I received my MFA from Columbia University, and have won fellowships to the MacDowell Colony and the Sewanee Writers Conference. My three year old also recently awarded me the Macaroni Prize for Books With No Pictures.
My books have been translated into Spanish, German, and Turkish. (Turkish??) I read all of the time...about two to three books a week. I'll also read anything that looks interesting. Mark Twain, Hunger Games, Proust, 50 Shades of Whatever. I'm curious. Don't always make it past page 20. But I always get to 20.
When I was younger, I could write anywhere. I didn’t have the luxury of “creating” my space; I would just squat in coffee shops, libraries, the laundromat, wherever. For a while, I worked as an editor at a financial company; I had a lot of downtime, so I would write on the trading floor with men in blue shouting over my head. I don’t like to be precious about where I work, because that opens the door to excuses. Oh, the light’s not right! Better blow it off and have a sandwich.
My apartment during the time I started my first book, Girls in Trucks, was a tiny, cramped hole in New York. That was the place I really committed to being a writer. I’d get up at five, write for eight hours, take a run, eat some noodles, write four hours more, then have a drink. I’d often smoke at the desk. It was a miserable, lonely period of life, but I remember being so in tune there. So very hungry to write.
For that reason, now that I have choices of where to write, I’m always trying to emulate that apartment. I live in the country with my family, in a rambling house with lots of good rooms with views of horses. People always come in and say, Wow! How inspiring! But my favourite place to write in the house is a weird little cell the size of a closet. I don’t know what it was originally used for, but it’s dark and tiny, with one little window that looks out at a pine tree. I don’t neaten it ever. There are books and papers all over the place. I make certain to turn off the Internet before I go in, or else I’ll just hide from my family and watch movies.
I have a Thesaurus and a Dictionary in here somewhere. On the wall I’ve tacked up pictures of: Eudora Welty, typing in Jackson, Ernest Hemingway, scrawling in Key West, my daughter, my daughter again, a map of Perugia, Italy, ripped from a 1947 Baedekers’, a contract for a vacation rental I need to follow up on, and a news photo of Sophia Loren checking out Jane Mansfield’s cleavage. It works for me. I fight for time and stay in here until my family pounds on the door for me to make eggs or find a wallet or drive someone to school or the doctor. At which point I print out what I’m working on so I can edit it during life’s blank spaces. That way when I go back into the room, I’ve fooled myself into thinking I’ve done new work, which I really think is the whole trick.
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