A friend is coming to live with us for the summer. It sounds like the plot to something. I can't wait. Summer is the best time.
Everything I've been writing lately wants to be a novel. It's because I've been reading novels. Hemingway, of course, but I think Isherwood is next.
I go back to the museum on Wednesday where I will stand on my feet for hours and write stories in a little notebook and develop crushes on attractive male visitors. I have more crushes in this weather because I can see more body parts.
There were some animals in our walls last week. I don't know if they're still there. I haven't heard them. They seemed to be nocturnal. Maybe it's more ghosts. Maybe they read my blog. Maybe they know I'm not opposed to ghosts. Maybe they have claws, because it sounds like they have claws. Ghosts with claws. I don't know about that.
My birthday is this month. Josh and I might go to Kentucky. I'm turning 26. Should that matter to me? I guess it's closer to 30, but I'm not afraid of turning 30. I'll be a better writer when I'm 30. And then I'll be a better writer when I'm 40. And on and on. I don't want to be a better person, I want to be a better writer. I wonder what it means that I don't want children. I want books.
I had a submission get lost. I submitted a story to a lit mag in January and I was supposed to hear back after six weeks. Well, it's April. I reread the submission. If the lit mag eventually reads it, they will reject it. I want to forget I wrote that story. It's not very good. I mean, there's a good story there, but I haven't written it yet.
I submitted a new story this weekend to one of my favorite literary magazines. I'm close to this story. The character has epilepsy. He has a seizure. I've never written the scene of a seizure just right, even though I have epilepsy. I think I wrote it right this time. It's subtle, but right. Maybe someone will agree with me.
A friend sent me a letter, an honest to God letter. She's sending me a fountain pen so I can write letters too. Here's one of my favorite lines from her letter: "I hope we strike up a very rigorous correspondence."
Which brings me here. If you want to strike up a very rigorous correspondence, send me your address and I will write you a letter as long as you promise to write one back. Yes, you, I mean you, all of you, any of you. I don't care if I know you or not. I'll put your letters in a shoebox and when I'm really old and near death I'll read your letters to the people keeping me alive. I'll make up stories about how close we were back then. We were so close, weren't we? We knew everything there was to know about each other. We did.
Everything I've been writing lately wants to be a novel. It's because I've been reading novels. Hemingway, of course, but I think Isherwood is next.
I go back to the museum on Wednesday where I will stand on my feet for hours and write stories in a little notebook and develop crushes on attractive male visitors. I have more crushes in this weather because I can see more body parts.
There were some animals in our walls last week. I don't know if they're still there. I haven't heard them. They seemed to be nocturnal. Maybe it's more ghosts. Maybe they read my blog. Maybe they know I'm not opposed to ghosts. Maybe they have claws, because it sounds like they have claws. Ghosts with claws. I don't know about that.
My birthday is this month. Josh and I might go to Kentucky. I'm turning 26. Should that matter to me? I guess it's closer to 30, but I'm not afraid of turning 30. I'll be a better writer when I'm 30. And then I'll be a better writer when I'm 40. And on and on. I don't want to be a better person, I want to be a better writer. I wonder what it means that I don't want children. I want books.
I had a submission get lost. I submitted a story to a lit mag in January and I was supposed to hear back after six weeks. Well, it's April. I reread the submission. If the lit mag eventually reads it, they will reject it. I want to forget I wrote that story. It's not very good. I mean, there's a good story there, but I haven't written it yet.
I submitted a new story this weekend to one of my favorite literary magazines. I'm close to this story. The character has epilepsy. He has a seizure. I've never written the scene of a seizure just right, even though I have epilepsy. I think I wrote it right this time. It's subtle, but right. Maybe someone will agree with me.
A friend sent me a letter, an honest to God letter. She's sending me a fountain pen so I can write letters too. Here's one of my favorite lines from her letter: "I hope we strike up a very rigorous correspondence."
Which brings me here. If you want to strike up a very rigorous correspondence, send me your address and I will write you a letter as long as you promise to write one back. Yes, you, I mean you, all of you, any of you. I don't care if I know you or not. I'll put your letters in a shoebox and when I'm really old and near death I'll read your letters to the people keeping me alive. I'll make up stories about how close we were back then. We were so close, weren't we? We knew everything there was to know about each other. We did.