It makes me uncomfortable. It reminds me of I Am Charlotte Simmons. What business did Tom Wolfe who was in his late 50s when he wrote the book have trying to embody the psyche of a collegiate woman?
At the same time, I enjoyed that book enough that I recently repurchased it no clue what happened to my initial copy, probably lost or donated in some move or the other.
So maybe there is something to be said for trying to inhabit the mind space of that which you are not. The Goddess Effect. Act III, part one. Act III, part two. Act III, part three. Act III, part four. Act III, part five. Act III, part six. Act III, part seven. Act III, part eight. Draymond tipped backwards in his chair and nearly fell over, exultant. Damn, man! That is why you the illest.
Cake said nothing, leaned back into the plush cushions of the couch, lifted the blunt balanced between his pointer and middle fingers, and inhaled. It was hard to tell what he was thinking given the extra dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing these days, part of the new image he had assumed for his upcoming album, The Streets. Cake had wanted to get out in the field, find out about the problems plaguing the people.
His last two albums had gone platinum; he had sold out stadiums from New York to Nairobi. Cake had actually grown up in Bloomfield Hills, an affluent suburb of Detroit, and went to a private school that made its students wear uniforms with sewn-in tags bearing their full names. His mother was an enthusiastic home baker who liked to test out her culinary creations on her son, which is how he got his nickname and a belly that strained the buttons of his school-issued emerald green blazer by the age of By 14, he had lost his baby fat and scored a role as the token person of color on an after school sitcom.
