I find it funny that people have a tendency to think its inconsistent with the story and how dedicated my peers are in discussing the worthiness of even the smallest detail. They are a great group of gals dedicated to helping me write the best stories. But that Van is staying and is speckled through the book. It helps me tap into what I was feeling about life and the world then:
“That stupid van!” Rene hisses, merging onto Bancroft Way. “Practically every time I come home he’s in our space and I don’t know why you won’t let me call to get him towed! I’d be doing a public service. That van is hideous.”
I make a face since it is pretty awful: a twelve year old blue extended cargo heap with yellow, green and orange arrows painted on the sides, and those lovely hanging monkey’s on the rear doors holding up their monkey fingers in the hang loose sign.
I put on my sunglasses. “Anyone with a van like that can’t afford to pay for parking in Berkeley and certainly can’t afford to get it out of impound.”
One of my critique partners said I should change it: No one in California would drive that van. And what spoiled princess from Santa Barbara would date anyone who drove a van like that?
It only took typing two letters to answer her: Me!
The Girl on the Half Shell