Holly Bush's Blog
September 28, 2013
Critique Group? Do I Have To?
I joined my first critique group about ten or so years ago when a woman I knew from my work asked me to join with her because she didn’t want to go alone. The group was held at a small independent book store and had three members. We were invited to sit and introduce ourselves and tell them about what we wrote. We got a glassy stare when my friend said she wrote Christian fantasy and I said I wrote historical romance. Someone said, “Oh. We don’t write genre books.” She said ‘genre books’ like a French chef would say Spam.
One of them, you see, wrote poetry, another memoir, and the third wrote what she called literary fiction. I was mortally depressed after ninety minutes of their slow, quiet reading. All their works were dark and woeful, and when it was time to comment, the conversation revolved around specific words. No one said that was funny or sad or made me feel good or anything else I could remotely relate to, but in one case I remember, focused on whether the writer should use the word “conversant” or “convalescent.” I finally asked how the two words could be interchangeable since they had such different meanings.
My friend and I returned a few more times, mostly because my friend is charitable and believes everyone deserves a second chance. One of the evenings a young man showed up who had been out of town but had been with the group before. He was a terrific writer, and he invited us to join him at a writer’s meeting held at the local Barnes and Noble. And that’s where we found a critique group home for over six years and one I credit with making me a better writer. We had writers from every genre, as well as literary fiction and poetry. I learned while listening to other writers read their works and listening to my words read aloud. I’m glad my friend made me stick it out at that first group and I’m sure I learned something even if it was just to understand what I didn’t want my work to sound like. I encourage every writer I know to join a critique group. It’s good for a lonely writer’s soul and a real learning experience too.
One of them, you see, wrote poetry, another memoir, and the third wrote what she called literary fiction. I was mortally depressed after ninety minutes of their slow, quiet reading. All their works were dark and woeful, and when it was time to comment, the conversation revolved around specific words. No one said that was funny or sad or made me feel good or anything else I could remotely relate to, but in one case I remember, focused on whether the writer should use the word “conversant” or “convalescent.” I finally asked how the two words could be interchangeable since they had such different meanings.
My friend and I returned a few more times, mostly because my friend is charitable and believes everyone deserves a second chance. One of the evenings a young man showed up who had been out of town but had been with the group before. He was a terrific writer, and he invited us to join him at a writer’s meeting held at the local Barnes and Noble. And that’s where we found a critique group home for over six years and one I credit with making me a better writer. We had writers from every genre, as well as literary fiction and poetry. I learned while listening to other writers read their works and listening to my words read aloud. I’m glad my friend made me stick it out at that first group and I’m sure I learned something even if it was just to understand what I didn’t want my work to sound like. I encourage every writer I know to join a critique group. It’s good for a lonely writer’s soul and a real learning experience too.
August 29, 2012
Inspiration or Imagination?
I am often asked how I come up with my stories. Did you read something that made you think of a plot? Visit a historical site? Watch a movie? Were you inspired while doing research? Don’t I wish I knew what my inspiration was or is and could conjure it up any old time! But I don’t and can’t. I’ve belonged to a writer’s group for years and we have often talked about when and where the beginnings of our novels come from. Some writers do find their inspiration in another book or movie, most often mentioning that there is a peripheral character that they connect with or are curious about and a story is born. That is not true for me.
I was driving home from work one day and had what I call one of my ‘mental movies’ playing in my head. There was a petite young woman, fashionably dressed in a pale yellow dress with a high neckline, lace collar and a matching short jacket. The back of the skirt was tiered, ruffled and each row was held in place by bows. She wore a small, yellow felt hat atop her blond, nearly white, hair. She had pale, smooth, cream colored skin, and fine delicate bone structure. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes gray blue. She placed a glove covered hand on the offered arm of the conductor and took one step down onto a busy train platform. He pointed to her leather trunks being stacked beside her. She looked around and saw cowboys in chaps and women in calico dresses holding children’s hands.
I got home that evening and through dinner and laundry and spelling lessons with one of my daughters, I kept seeing this young woman. I pictured her in a navy blue velvet formal dress with a high bustle and a lace bodice. She was at a dressing table attaching earrings and speaking to another woman. When the other woman left, the young woman took a key and opened a small drawer on the table. She pulled out a letter, unfolded it and read.
The following day or days I tried to name her and see her story. Who was she? What was in the letter? Why would a fashionably dressed, wealthy young woman travel alone to a mid-west town? I sat down at my computer to begin on the novel journey of this woman. Those first few minutes are both exciting and terrifying but as I described what I saw happening in my head, Julia Crawford began to take shape as the central character and eventually the heroine of Train Station Bride. As I wrote, Julia’s motivations became clear and her story followed. I don’t know what inspired her but I do know my characters feel very real to me. I hope they feel real to my readers.
I was driving home from work one day and had what I call one of my ‘mental movies’ playing in my head. There was a petite young woman, fashionably dressed in a pale yellow dress with a high neckline, lace collar and a matching short jacket. The back of the skirt was tiered, ruffled and each row was held in place by bows. She wore a small, yellow felt hat atop her blond, nearly white, hair. She had pale, smooth, cream colored skin, and fine delicate bone structure. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes gray blue. She placed a glove covered hand on the offered arm of the conductor and took one step down onto a busy train platform. He pointed to her leather trunks being stacked beside her. She looked around and saw cowboys in chaps and women in calico dresses holding children’s hands.
I got home that evening and through dinner and laundry and spelling lessons with one of my daughters, I kept seeing this young woman. I pictured her in a navy blue velvet formal dress with a high bustle and a lace bodice. She was at a dressing table attaching earrings and speaking to another woman. When the other woman left, the young woman took a key and opened a small drawer on the table. She pulled out a letter, unfolded it and read.
The following day or days I tried to name her and see her story. Who was she? What was in the letter? Why would a fashionably dressed, wealthy young woman travel alone to a mid-west town? I sat down at my computer to begin on the novel journey of this woman. Those first few minutes are both exciting and terrifying but as I described what I saw happening in my head, Julia Crawford began to take shape as the central character and eventually the heroine of Train Station Bride. As I wrote, Julia’s motivations became clear and her story followed. I don’t know what inspired her but I do know my characters feel very real to me. I hope they feel real to my readers.
April 26, 2012
. . . And the Walls Came a Tumbling Down
I’m headed into a new phase of my life. I’m transitioning from unpublished author begging agents to read a few chapters to hot, middle aged mama (hot is an overstatement of my general aura), boldly self publishing my novels for all the world to see.
I have spent the last ten years working the agent/publisher gig; writing, querying, attending conferences, reworking my synopsis, posting & reading at publisher and industry sites and generally immersing myself in an industry that equally prizes innovation, cherishes imitation (read sequels), is entirely subjective and seems unable to understand that their world is on the cusp of a change so large that they’d best soon schedule a meeting to address that change or someone may escort them out of their office when the rent goes unpaid.
Truthfully, I’m a little pissed off. It’s like a spent a boatload of time cataloging 8 tracks to find out the players are no longer made. I’ve been following this business for a quite some time, I knew change was coming. I remember when I found out about the first ereader and thought to myself, change is coming. But who knew when? And who could have predicted the depth and breadth and speed with which a centuries old industry was turned on its head.
Well the answer is obvious – the answer is now. Between 2009 and today the publishing industry has gone through drastic changes and with it some of their gate keeper power has been eclipsed. Brought on mostly when a convergence of events including inexpensive ereaders, Amazon’s drive to grasp the ebook market and the public catching up to technology, felled the walls between author and reader. What has emerged is a whole new array of choices for readers and the brand new industries that will help independent authors find their followers. Would a traditional agent and/or publishing house have been a better choice for me? Probably. But then I would have waited much longer or maybe never would have been fortunate enough to read a comment like, ‘I loved this book’ posted for all the world to see.
I have spent the last ten years working the agent/publisher gig; writing, querying, attending conferences, reworking my synopsis, posting & reading at publisher and industry sites and generally immersing myself in an industry that equally prizes innovation, cherishes imitation (read sequels), is entirely subjective and seems unable to understand that their world is on the cusp of a change so large that they’d best soon schedule a meeting to address that change or someone may escort them out of their office when the rent goes unpaid.
Truthfully, I’m a little pissed off. It’s like a spent a boatload of time cataloging 8 tracks to find out the players are no longer made. I’ve been following this business for a quite some time, I knew change was coming. I remember when I found out about the first ereader and thought to myself, change is coming. But who knew when? And who could have predicted the depth and breadth and speed with which a centuries old industry was turned on its head.
Well the answer is obvious – the answer is now. Between 2009 and today the publishing industry has gone through drastic changes and with it some of their gate keeper power has been eclipsed. Brought on mostly when a convergence of events including inexpensive ereaders, Amazon’s drive to grasp the ebook market and the public catching up to technology, felled the walls between author and reader. What has emerged is a whole new array of choices for readers and the brand new industries that will help independent authors find their followers. Would a traditional agent and/or publishing house have been a better choice for me? Probably. But then I would have waited much longer or maybe never would have been fortunate enough to read a comment like, ‘I loved this book’ posted for all the world to see.
February 20, 2012
Downton Abbey vs Jersey Shore
I’m a new and complete convert, possibly relating to obsessive tendencies, to Downton Abbey, the fabulously produced Masterpiece Theatre hit. I watched Season 1 in its entirety in one sitting, fascinated from the first scene and amazed at how quickly the Abbey’s family, Grantham, the Dowager, Mary, Mr. Bates and Mrs. O’Brien, to name a few, became part of my vocabulary. Twenty or so, fleshed out characters, with skeletons and futures and hopes and faults. I’m equally fascinated with the setting and time period. What Cora and her daughters wear to entertain and for everyday and how the British aristocracy lived and what was important to them.
In contrast, let’s turn our attentions to Jersey Shore. There’s JWOWW aptly named for what men holler out when she walks into a bar. Described as ‘impulsive and spontaneous , a party girl with zero self control.’ Could this be Mary of Downton Abbey? Is Ronnie the stateside version of Thomas the scheming, footman? And certainly a fashion maven like Snooki would not be outdone by Edith or Sybil. But the tragedy here is not that ‘The Situation’ doesn’t find a girlfriend or whether or not Vinny will attend law school.
The tragedy is that DA began as a screenplay from Julian Fellowes and that Jersey Shore began as . . . well . . . it didn’t begin as anything other than 6 or 7 young adults vying to catch the attention of a generation whose attention is fleeting to say the least. As with any reality based TV show, the aim is to shock and therefore create some interest which may turn into viewers. How vapid and uninteresting are the lives of everyday people and how far will they go to create some buzz? One merely needs to turn to the repulsive ‘Housewives of’ to see how low is too low.
But the question at hand is how does Downton Abbey stack up to Jersey Shore? Is it necessary to have characters and a script and a director? Or is today’s entertainment defined by whatever flops out of Snooki’s mouth at any given moment? I’m not sure we can call it a harmless amusement when unscripted poor behavior results in a TV contract. But a countess dragging a dead body down a hallway? Oh yes! Now that’s entertainment.
In contrast, let’s turn our attentions to Jersey Shore. There’s JWOWW aptly named for what men holler out when she walks into a bar. Described as ‘impulsive and spontaneous , a party girl with zero self control.’ Could this be Mary of Downton Abbey? Is Ronnie the stateside version of Thomas the scheming, footman? And certainly a fashion maven like Snooki would not be outdone by Edith or Sybil. But the tragedy here is not that ‘The Situation’ doesn’t find a girlfriend or whether or not Vinny will attend law school.
The tragedy is that DA began as a screenplay from Julian Fellowes and that Jersey Shore began as . . . well . . . it didn’t begin as anything other than 6 or 7 young adults vying to catch the attention of a generation whose attention is fleeting to say the least. As with any reality based TV show, the aim is to shock and therefore create some interest which may turn into viewers. How vapid and uninteresting are the lives of everyday people and how far will they go to create some buzz? One merely needs to turn to the repulsive ‘Housewives of’ to see how low is too low.
But the question at hand is how does Downton Abbey stack up to Jersey Shore? Is it necessary to have characters and a script and a director? Or is today’s entertainment defined by whatever flops out of Snooki’s mouth at any given moment? I’m not sure we can call it a harmless amusement when unscripted poor behavior results in a TV contract. But a countess dragging a dead body down a hallway? Oh yes! Now that’s entertainment.
January 7, 2012
I'm Genre Challenged! Oh No!
Let me preface this by saying I don’t care what anyone else reads or does in the privacy of their own bedroom or spaceship.
But the new sub-genres of books are downright confusing and sometimes I have to think really hard to imagine, envision or even process the categories of cross-genres. As I was trolling the other day on a book selling site, I found an author that billed herself as LGBT Dystopian Paranormal author. Doesn’t it get crowded with this many people or vampires in the same bed/coffin? Will the government be watching and take away one of the participants leaving . . . uh . . . . I’m not sure who we started with or who they had an affinity for.
The first time I wrote a sex scene I realized I’d added an extra hand somewhere doing whatever. I caught it in the edit and had a good chuckle thinking about a three handed Duke and what I figured was probably a pretty happy wench. Fairly mild and long before we had shape shifters into bondage that were time travelers.
But the new sub-genres of books are downright confusing and sometimes I have to think really hard to imagine, envision or even process the categories of cross-genres. As I was trolling the other day on a book selling site, I found an author that billed herself as LGBT Dystopian Paranormal author. Doesn’t it get crowded with this many people or vampires in the same bed/coffin? Will the government be watching and take away one of the participants leaving . . . uh . . . . I’m not sure who we started with or who they had an affinity for.
The first time I wrote a sex scene I realized I’d added an extra hand somewhere doing whatever. I caught it in the edit and had a good chuckle thinking about a three handed Duke and what I figured was probably a pretty happy wench. Fairly mild and long before we had shape shifters into bondage that were time travelers.
December 23, 2011
The Best Rum Cake Ever.
My sister-in-law shared this recipe with me about 20 years ago and I still make it every year. It is delicious and stays fresh for days and days, probably because of the rum. And it's easy too. Happy, healthy and joyful holiday to you!
http://hollybushbooks.com/blog/the_be...
http://hollybushbooks.com/blog/the_be...
December 18, 2011
When Women Argue
Originally published May 15, 2006
There was a recent hullaballoo at some of the message boards that got me to thinking. A poster at AAR really dissected some sentences from a new book by Adele Ashworth. Miss Ashworth responded with some measured replies. Some posters agreed, some didn't. And then . . . . . an 'anonymous author' weighed in with the sort of comment that made me and many others cringe. His/her main thread related to bothersome, nit-picky readers who demand books with few or no grammatical errors. The proverbial gloves came off. Long, technical rants about verb usage and dangling modifiers followed by many angry replies on both sides of the fence.
I couldn't help but wonder how this whole thing would have played out had the participants been men. Perhaps the argument would go as written below.
Poster # 1 "Didn't like your book."
Miss Ashworth "Oh yeah?"
Poster #1 - "Yeah."
Anonymous Author sucker punches a bystander. Riot erupts.
A single voice from the crowd - "Ya want ta get a beer?"
Poster #1 and Miss Ashworth reply in unison. -"Yeah."
There was a recent hullaballoo at some of the message boards that got me to thinking. A poster at AAR really dissected some sentences from a new book by Adele Ashworth. Miss Ashworth responded with some measured replies. Some posters agreed, some didn't. And then . . . . . an 'anonymous author' weighed in with the sort of comment that made me and many others cringe. His/her main thread related to bothersome, nit-picky readers who demand books with few or no grammatical errors. The proverbial gloves came off. Long, technical rants about verb usage and dangling modifiers followed by many angry replies on both sides of the fence.
I couldn't help but wonder how this whole thing would have played out had the participants been men. Perhaps the argument would go as written below.
Poster # 1 "Didn't like your book."
Miss Ashworth "Oh yeah?"
Poster #1 - "Yeah."
Anonymous Author sucker punches a bystander. Riot erupts.
A single voice from the crowd - "Ya want ta get a beer?"
Poster #1 and Miss Ashworth reply in unison. -"Yeah."
December 5, 2011
Jimmy Can't Count & I Don't Care!
I was at the local ice cream shop last night intending to wipe out any recent weight loss victories that I had managed to accomplish during the previous week. I stood in line and debated the sundaes - the Big One or a regular, hot fudge or a nod to the fruit category with strawberries and whipped or no whip.
"May I help you?" the fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl asked me with a smile.
"I'll have a large strawberry sundae, whip, no cherry."
The young lady picked up a pencil and a notebook. "Did you want the Big One?"
"Yes. The large," I said.
"Not the regular?"
"No. The large."
"The Big One?" she asked with a smile.
She was going to make me say it. "The Big One," I said."Strawberries, whip, no cherry."
"Whipped cream?"
"Yes, please. No cherry."
She punched in a few keys on the cash register and said, "That will be $4.45."
I looked at her and wondered what percentage sales tax she was charging on the $4.39 Big One but I held my tongue and handed her a five dollar bill.
She stared at it and then looked at the cash register. I guessed she had hit the total key before ringing in my five as the amount tendered. I watched her mouth some numbers, look at her hands and tick off her fingers. I silently wondered how much simpler a math problem could be. She turned to me and smiled.
"Can you tell me how much your change is?"
I glanced at the line behind me and said, "Count up, not down." Blank stare. "Count up from the price till you come to the amount I have given you."
"I don't know what you mean," she said.
"What coin will take $4.45 to $4.50?" She thought for a while and I said, "A nickel. A nickel will take you from $4.45 to $4.50."
She picked up a nickel and stared at me.
It was bad enough that she couldn't calculate her way to 55 cents, it was worse that she could not follow the pattern. "Two quarters. That's what you need to add to the nickel. My change is 55 cents."
She looked at the coins in the drawer, put back the nickel, got it back out and added two other coins. I didn't look to see what she handed me. I just smiled and dumped it in my change purse.
She made me the Big One with strawberries and whip, bagged it and said, "Thank you. Please come again."
It was all I could do to not tell her when she got to school Monday morning to go directly to the Principal's Office and demand to be taught some basic math. I wonder if anyone has noticed. I wonder if her parents or math teacher or boss has noticed that this child is three years away from being able to vote or go to war and can't count. I wonder if anyone noticed.
"May I help you?" the fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl asked me with a smile.
"I'll have a large strawberry sundae, whip, no cherry."
The young lady picked up a pencil and a notebook. "Did you want the Big One?"
"Yes. The large," I said.
"Not the regular?"
"No. The large."
"The Big One?" she asked with a smile.
She was going to make me say it. "The Big One," I said."Strawberries, whip, no cherry."
"Whipped cream?"
"Yes, please. No cherry."
She punched in a few keys on the cash register and said, "That will be $4.45."
I looked at her and wondered what percentage sales tax she was charging on the $4.39 Big One but I held my tongue and handed her a five dollar bill.
She stared at it and then looked at the cash register. I guessed she had hit the total key before ringing in my five as the amount tendered. I watched her mouth some numbers, look at her hands and tick off her fingers. I silently wondered how much simpler a math problem could be. She turned to me and smiled.
"Can you tell me how much your change is?"
I glanced at the line behind me and said, "Count up, not down." Blank stare. "Count up from the price till you come to the amount I have given you."
"I don't know what you mean," she said.
"What coin will take $4.45 to $4.50?" She thought for a while and I said, "A nickel. A nickel will take you from $4.45 to $4.50."
She picked up a nickel and stared at me.
It was bad enough that she couldn't calculate her way to 55 cents, it was worse that she could not follow the pattern. "Two quarters. That's what you need to add to the nickel. My change is 55 cents."
She looked at the coins in the drawer, put back the nickel, got it back out and added two other coins. I didn't look to see what she handed me. I just smiled and dumped it in my change purse.
She made me the Big One with strawberries and whip, bagged it and said, "Thank you. Please come again."
It was all I could do to not tell her when she got to school Monday morning to go directly to the Principal's Office and demand to be taught some basic math. I wonder if anyone has noticed. I wonder if her parents or math teacher or boss has noticed that this child is three years away from being able to vote or go to war and can't count. I wonder if anyone noticed.
December 1, 2011
What do you mean I can't diddle the maid?
Bill Clinton. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Anthony Weiner. Elliot Spitzer. Tiger Woods. Chris Brown. Jesse James. John Edwards. Mark Sanford. Whatever the guy’s name is that ‘pees in a wide stance’ and the list goes on.
While private matters between husband and wife and/or lovers are their business, the public has unfortunately been deluged with the considerable dirty laundry of the aforementioned list. We debate about whether the woman should stay or leave, what the effect the negative publicity will have on the children and how this man (almost always a man – so far) will repair himself in the eyes of his family and the world.
In as plain a language as I can possibly state, I don’t give a rat’s ass. While my sympathies may continue to the children and wife, I honestly don’t care if the guy falls off the planet. Take Tiger Woods. The debate in the sporting world is when Tiger will have his game back. Commentators and golf junkies can easily separate the person from the talent. I can’t. If Tiger Woods never hits another golf ball again, it would be fine with me. He’s a putz of the first order who adroitly humiliated his wife as if he were negotiating the thirteenth fairway of Augusta. Why in the world would I care what he does?
Political philanderers are worse. Who are the people that think John Edwards should run for something again? How could you possibly trust that man to do anything that was not in his immediate best interest. Do we want Arnold or Mark deciding our state budgets? Or Elliot telling us the news?
I’ve always felt it was best for my mental health and for my general well-being to remove myself from the company of the miserable, the self-absorbed and those folks I could not find even a modicum of respect for. When did we decide that men with some popular talent, or electability, or even just the odd reality show appeal, are exempt from basic decency?
While private matters between husband and wife and/or lovers are their business, the public has unfortunately been deluged with the considerable dirty laundry of the aforementioned list. We debate about whether the woman should stay or leave, what the effect the negative publicity will have on the children and how this man (almost always a man – so far) will repair himself in the eyes of his family and the world.
In as plain a language as I can possibly state, I don’t give a rat’s ass. While my sympathies may continue to the children and wife, I honestly don’t care if the guy falls off the planet. Take Tiger Woods. The debate in the sporting world is when Tiger will have his game back. Commentators and golf junkies can easily separate the person from the talent. I can’t. If Tiger Woods never hits another golf ball again, it would be fine with me. He’s a putz of the first order who adroitly humiliated his wife as if he were negotiating the thirteenth fairway of Augusta. Why in the world would I care what he does?
Political philanderers are worse. Who are the people that think John Edwards should run for something again? How could you possibly trust that man to do anything that was not in his immediate best interest. Do we want Arnold or Mark deciding our state budgets? Or Elliot telling us the news?
I’ve always felt it was best for my mental health and for my general well-being to remove myself from the company of the miserable, the self-absorbed and those folks I could not find even a modicum of respect for. When did we decide that men with some popular talent, or electability, or even just the odd reality show appeal, are exempt from basic decency?
November 29, 2011
I'm too wide a Target!
I've never been a big fan of Target but we have a new one in our area and I thought I'd give it another try. I found that the purses were the same price as the ones at the mall and not as nice and the shoes had crazy high heels. But I liked the look of the store and those big, red concrete balls outside in the parking lot. I poked through the curtains and the groceries but didn't see myself buying fruit in a store that sold TVs.
Discouraged, but not defeated I thought about how many times I'd heard women say about their cute, trendy clothing, "Oh, I got this at Target." So off I went in search of something that made me look young and hip. What I found, I couldn't get a hip in. Everything was 'little.' Even the XXL's were tight around my arms. (You ladies that shop in WOMEN'S sizes know what I'm talking about.) And then I spotted it from afar. The Target WOMEN'S section. I ran down the aisle, skirting strollers holding trendy kids pushed by pencil thin mothers in crazy high heels, skinny jeans and more scarfs and jewelry than a gypsy convention. I skidded to a halt and took a look at the 6 racks of clothes, all sparsely populated.
One rack held nothing but black puffy vests, another had a few sad, looking pairs of jeans with big wide bands of gum around the waist, flopped over the rack, not even on a hanger. Then there was the odd assortment of items including a black lace vest that was so large, I wondered if it was a tablecloth. The section was wrapped up with a few mock turtlenecks in cream and red and some raincoats. It was a pitiful assortment of after thoughts and I wondered if they shouldn't put a scale outside beside the big red balls that read - SKINNY PEOPLE ONLY! Target really didn't hit the bull's eyes for me. Full Disclosure: I bought a great argyle v-neck sweater in the men's department. Fits perfect.
Discouraged, but not defeated I thought about how many times I'd heard women say about their cute, trendy clothing, "Oh, I got this at Target." So off I went in search of something that made me look young and hip. What I found, I couldn't get a hip in. Everything was 'little.' Even the XXL's were tight around my arms. (You ladies that shop in WOMEN'S sizes know what I'm talking about.) And then I spotted it from afar. The Target WOMEN'S section. I ran down the aisle, skirting strollers holding trendy kids pushed by pencil thin mothers in crazy high heels, skinny jeans and more scarfs and jewelry than a gypsy convention. I skidded to a halt and took a look at the 6 racks of clothes, all sparsely populated.
One rack held nothing but black puffy vests, another had a few sad, looking pairs of jeans with big wide bands of gum around the waist, flopped over the rack, not even on a hanger. Then there was the odd assortment of items including a black lace vest that was so large, I wondered if it was a tablecloth. The section was wrapped up with a few mock turtlenecks in cream and red and some raincoats. It was a pitiful assortment of after thoughts and I wondered if they shouldn't put a scale outside beside the big red balls that read - SKINNY PEOPLE ONLY! Target really didn't hit the bull's eyes for me. Full Disclosure: I bought a great argyle v-neck sweater in the men's department. Fits perfect.
