This one's for you, Colleeny. From Nora Ephron's hysterical Stieg Larsson send up in the New Yorker:
There was a tap at the door at five in the morning. She woke up. Shit. Now what? She’d fallen asleep with her Palm Tungsten T3 in her hand. It would take only a moment to smash it against the wall and shove the battery up the nose of whoever was out there annoying her. She went to the door.Click here to read the rest before you dive into your day. I promise your writing week will be better for it.
“I know you’re home,” he said.
Kalle fucking Blomkvist.
She tried to remember whether she was speaking to him or not. Probably not. She tried to remember why. No one knew why. It was undoubtedly because she’d been in a bad mood at some point. Lisbeth Salander was entitled to her bad moods on account of her miserable childhood and her tiny breasts, but it was starting to become confusing just how much irritability could be blamed on your slight figure and an abusive father...
Comments
Although I did have to look up umlaut, it was totally worth it for the laugh. I loved the Millenium trilogy, but at times it felt like an act of sheer will to slog through the names, places, and Ikea shopping trips!
Thanks for the laugh, Joni!
I read the second book on the airplane last week and will reward myself with the third when I hand off my miniWIP. Stieg Larsson makes me proud to be Swedish. Ungainly, pale, dishwater blonde nerd people rock!