I am currently reading Cleaving by Julie Powell. As movies usually do, Julia and Julie ruined me slightly for her writing.
Powell has an amazing voice—it is authentic, enveloping and sincerely funny. I fly through the pages with ease and excitement and am overall very satisfied.
Last night I had some friends over for dinner and we somehow landed on the subject of Powell, so I grabbed her book and happened to land on the back flap where I found her picture.
She stared back at me, her fist under her chin, her glasses out of style and her hair just… there. I felt so betrayed. I was looking at a stranger.
This wasn’t the bouncy red-head from the movie (Amy Adams).
Before you freak out on me I will say that I am not Amy Adams either. None of us are, after all, because we are real. We lead real lives, eat real food and don’t get enough sleep. I couldn’t really hope to open the cover and find a movie star because Powell’s talent comes from some place less material.
But I guess I still really wanted her to be…. Pretty? Appealing? Nice on the eyes?
I am thinking now of Jennifer Weiner. How freaking gorgeous and jubilant is she? She writes too. And she writes well. And she is overweight but she shines.
I just needed Julie Powell to shine a little more.
Now when I read of her sexcapades (yes, there is butchery and sex), I will picture this dopey picture of a dull woman when her writing tells me she is so much more than that.
I wish Julie Powell had a better picture. For her sake and my own.
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