Writin'

The worst writing I've seen in a while comes courtesy of the Washington Post, in an article called (appropriately) Blood on the Mountain:

High on the mountain, the sun has to fight its way down through the thick forest. The light takes on a spectral elegance, as if yellow diamonds are falling to the ground. ... But a murderer was in these woods, too. And he brought darkness to the light.

On the cheerier side of things, this interview with Meryl Streep in the Guardian almost made me want to see Mamma Mia!, despite my hatred of all things Abba. (I couldn't even sit through Muriel's Wedding, and I have abiding respect for Toni Collette.) The paper, for what it's worth, seems to agree with me:

Streep plays an older woman called Donna who runs a B&B on a Greek island which has been infected by a terrible plague: nobody can stop singing Abba songs, until some god, in the form of the end credits, intervenes.

For some reason, the reporter seems to think Streep has never done comedy, which ignores how hilarious she was in Adapation and Postcards from the Edge. Maybe the laughs didn't make it across the Atlantic.

Also, the website Cityfile, for which I had a Secret Internet Part-Time Job last year, has finally launched. I wrote about thirty profiles for them, including ones for such yellow diamonds as Ann Coulter, Lucianne Goldberg, Ken Auletta, the little Foer boy, and lots of others, including agents/editors whose names I've forgotten. Browse! It's fun.