Originally published by 49 Writers. Photo by Clark Fair.
Margaret Atwood’s themes of survival, images of the body, and the implicit questions about what it means to be female reached inside me and shook me. Slowly, on the cusp of twenty years old, I began to wake from a dark, oblivious sleep.
I did a big dumb thing today. Bigger than regular, I mean.
Today was busy. I’m still adjusting to my new job–this is week four–and every day my brain is rapidly recording new names and faces, the organization’s processes and systems, and all the little things: how to make the printer staple, where the bathrooms
I try not to make a habit of wanting things, especially the desire-in-my-loins-can’t-sleep-until-I-have-it kind of want. Because wanting something THAT bad creates the possibility of profound disappointment, and like most humans, I’m averse to
I’ve come to greatly admire my daughter’s cello teacher. The woman is unrelentingly positive. And good at playing cello. During the teacher’s lesson my daughter’s fingers move deftly over the cello’s four strings, as if under a spell, and I’m shocked at how the sounds often don’t match those made at our house.
I don’t know squat about playing
Things are happening in my country. Bad and probably good things, but mostly big and heavy and hard to carry things. Everyone’s “taking a stand,” posting rants and heartfelt messages and quoting dead people. A few are actually doing something—walking in marches and holding candles.
But not me. I’m just sitting here grinding
I’m in a real temper. Little things have piled up–solicitors and criminals and things that need fixing–such that I’m completely hair-pulling-unable-to-cope-with-life mega angry AAAAAAAAAH!
But I don’t need to punch or overpower or behead anybody, right? I can just slump over, make my ugly face, and tell you.
Today’s List of Foul Stuff
My broken-in-half pear
Thanks for this morning’s eye-burning sunrise because when we got into the car, Only was like, “I’m so cold I feel like I’m naked in a snowbank,” even though it’s fifty degrees outside and she’s wearing a flannel, but because middle school is the Land of Extremes, she clacks her teeth, blasts
Not that I need an excuse to blow shit off, but blogging (re: my lack of) has taken a back seat to this whole novel-writing thingy. I go to sleep thinking about my Other World and my People. I wake up all itchy to know what’s happening with them.
Forever ago I interviewed Carrie Mesrobian about her fabulous debut (released October 2013), and I’m thrilled to report that both readers and critics are gaga over Sex and Violence. Now go buy it.
Thanks to Carrie, I had the chance to gab with another fantastic debut author this week. Christa Desir’s novel
Today I wanna celebrate. Partly because I’m sick of my own Sad Sackery, but mostly because there are so many amazing writer girls in my world and I WANNA SCREAM ABOUT THEM! So I’m gonna.
Course I’m psyched that Alice Munro won