When I was 12 my babysitter use to bring around highbrow fashion magazines for me to read, not thinking about all the see through blouses, and in turn nipples, that were on display. The subtly sexuality dressed up in high concept positioning and gravity defying orange hair.
The fashion pages of those advert thick glossies fascinated me. When I grew up would I be wearing sheer clothes and stroking tigers? Would I have adventures in soft pink lighting in Japan with delicate looking male models? Or would I grow up podgy because I ate too much microwaveable bacon between the years of 1995 to 2000?
I also loved the celebrity interviews. In the opening paragraph they would ramble on about how beautiful and charming their interviewee seemed as they wafted into the foyer of the London Hotel with a piece of designer cloth draped around the nape of a swan like neck. How kind they were to waiters! How they drank that red wine and ate that potato which willingly drowned itself in the thickest double cream just for the privilege of being in the presence of their tongue! How that throaty laugh lit up the room with its undertones of sexuality and freedom, and when that fan bravely approached the table, how they smiled appreciatively and thanked them for their custom!
Or the interviewee would turn up hungover from the night before, charming and determined but having slept no more then four hours in the past two years.
I was thinking about interviews, or character descriptions, someone else’s perspective of you written down for the world to take as red. If I ever became a fictional character in a landscape of first chapter introductions what would my memorable tick be?
At this point, I suspect it may be, “she chewed Nicorettes a lot.”