Seen Reading has made it to the final round of the Canadian Blog Awards!
If you’re so inclined, VOTE HERE.
(And, of course, I have no opposition to your inclination.)
Seen Reading is nominated in two categories:
“Best Blogosphere Citizen”
“Best Entertainment/Cultural Blog”
You can vote once in each category. Voting closes January 30th.
Thanks, hey? I really appreciate it.
And many thanks to the folks at CDNBA for doing this each year!
Julie Wilson
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Caucasian woman, 60s, with short red hair, bright red lipstick and purple eye shadow, wearing gold rimmed glasses, checkered wool coat, and wool fisherman’s cap, biting her pinkie fingernail.
Postmortem, Patricia Cornwell (Pocket)
Page 6:
An open doorway led into a corridor running the length of the house. To my right appeared a series of rooms, to the left was the kitchen, where Marino and a young officer were talking to the man I assumed was the husband.
The man beside her has been drinking. He sits with his hands carefully placed in his lap, elbows in. He stares straight ahead, his expression soft, an attempt to look unthreatening. She’s detected the smell, her hand in front of her face a cautious attempt to block his booze. But while she enters the pages of her crime novel, she misses a clue, the tear at his collar, the smear on his neck in the shape of a hand.
Caucasian woman, late 40s, tall, with glasses, wearing a full-length tan leather jacket and matching Jaxon Cossack.
Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert (Penguin)
Page 37:
It’s called “Il Gelato di San Crispino.” I’m not sure, but I think this might translate as “the ice cream of the crispy saint.” I tried a combination of the honey and the hazelnut. I came back later that same day for the grapefruit and the melon. Then, after dinner that same night, I walked all the way back over there one last time, just to sample a cup of the cinnamon-ginger.
Each trip to the frozen yoghurt shop is an exercise in patience. Her three daughters stare at the selections, lanky arms crossed over their thin waists, twisting their ankles over the edge of their flip flops, their bare backs a perfect shade of sunkissed against the bright stripes of bikini tops. One more summer and the eldest can drive them to town. For now, all she wants is her freshly pressed waffle cone, a mix of apple and Oreo, and a few solid minutes of quiet while they eat by the shoreline.
Boy, 7 or 8, with sunny blonde hair and pale, tired face, bundled in his winter wear, boots floating over the salt-encrusted floor. His head rests gently on his mother shoulder as she leans in whispering, reading aloud and cuing him with occasional bursts of gesture, places where he might laugh. At these moments, he shifts his weight, looking up into her eyes and nodding — Yes, he confirms, that was a funny part. — then slumps back into position.
The Secret Life of Owen Skye, Alan Cumyn (Groundwood Books)
Page 69:
The laughter spread faster than the fire in the ditch, ugly and unstoppable. Why had he ever thought of giving her Uncle Lorne’s ashtray?Owen ran over to Sylvia, grabbed the ashtray, then held it high in the air.
“I am Doom Monkey the Unpredictable!” he announced. “And this is my Atrocious Hat!”
His mother has focus, her role to distract her young son from the fact that he can’t breathe, his upper lip chafed by dehydration, no amount of fluids seeming to relieve the stale mucous which coats the back of his throat. His mouth hangs open, each shallow breath passing over his lips a nuisance, like lost air in a pipe squealing throughout a household. It won’t stop until you do, discomfort this round’s winner.
Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with brown layered hair, solid features, wearing a curiously girlish expression, eyes wide–pupilless.
The Zahir: A Novel of Obsession, Paulo Coelho (HarperCollins)
Page 2:
I ask him what I should do next. He gives me his card and asks me to get in touch if I hear anything. I’ve watched this scene in dozens of films, and I’m not convinced; inspectors always know more than they say they do.
She peeks from her book to his, following along, elbow inching, a slight nod finally catching his attention. He looks at her. She’s familiar, pretty, only in a way he’d notice if they were sitting this close, that curl at her lip. That’s the way it is with these people, he thinks. His mother told him. They look at you, give you permission to pretend you’re friends (because she really does seem so happy) even though you can’t know what it is she sees. She goes to say something and he’s had enough. He surprises himself, standing, gathering his briefcase and interrupts, “What do you want from me?”
***
Vote for Seen Reading in these categories of the Canadian Blog Awards!
“Best Local Blog”/”Best Entertainment/Cultural Blog”/”Best Blogosphere Citizen”
