Spring’s a girl in the street at night

Lately I can’t stop mentally singing “Dirty Old Town” even though until I looked it up, I knew only one verse. But anyway, that’s where the title of this post is from… Fitting for the moment as I continue to further– I don’t want to say explore, more like interact with— Denver as the weather jilts toward springlike. Although Denver isn’t dirty in the same way. It would be “slightly littered old town” or something.

I’m also interested in the song because it makes me think of how I am always trying to describe things, but I always try to describe them in this super deep way and I want to get it exactly right. It ends up sounding like Ray Bradbury on a nostalgia tangent. (We all know I love him but some of his stuff can get to be a bit much for me– Dandelion Wine? Like, cool it, man.) But when it comes to “Dirty Old Town”, I realize that you can actually write something very simple and people will overlay their own experiences onto it, and it will come out all right. Of course this is a simple concept that I knew on a conscious level, but have yet to grasp in my writing.

When I was younger, it was easier. I didn’t try as hard to convey exactly because I didn’t really understand how different others’ experiences were from mine. I thought, you can just write about the woods, describe the smell and maybe the tree bark and leave it at that. And you can! But now that I’ve been more places and met more people I feel this weird need to be like, “THIS IS THE EXACT WAY IT IS OKAY”. Basically, I need to relax.

I can write something as simple as, “I smelled the spring on the smoky air” and it doesn’t have to  be complicated.

Writers are all only one person with one set of senses. Which is why it’s important to be as observant, open, and deep-digging as we can; and in writing, to leave enough space around our narrow experience for a reader to stand in and see not only what we see but what they’ve seen and what we can both imagine.

Well, that ended up kind of philosophical… All from some Irish folk song that Patrick and I started to sing in a jokey way when we walked to Chipotle one night, striding past lampposts and construction signs and a fancy restaurant where a guy smoking outside looked up in surprise.

Then it got stuck in my head and I was left alone with my thoughts… and a blog. Oh dear.



This is my jam!

Lately I’ve been thinking about the radio. I don’t usually listen to the radio, but my (*coughs out the word*) boyfriend (I cough this not because I dislike the current state of affairs, but because it just sounds weird to say. Like I should at the same time be flipping my hair and chewing bubblegum with vigor.) listens to a particular radio station in his car, and it’s starting to grow on me.

Because what happens is, you hear the same songs all the time, and it’s like the soundtrack to your life, but it’s one you don’t choose and have ultimately no control over. Which I guess sounds kind of depressing, but that’s not how I mean it. It’s like inspiration that you don’t and actually can’t look for. Plus, you’re listening to the same thing everyone else is listening to. So not only is it the soundtrack to your current life, but also everyone else’s current life. Somehow that’s a comforting thought, although I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just tired of being the only one in the whole city who sees fog and starts singing, “See how the fog from the port in the bay / lays like snow at the foot of the roanoke / hear the frog going courting / til the day he croaks”. (Sorry, but once the weather gets cold, it’s like my brain is a CD player in which a Joanna Newsom mix is permanently stuck.)

Which reminds me of what the radio reminds me of: Weather. Or maybe the constellations. You can’t control it or when it changes, though it does. And even though it’s kind of in the background, it still somehow affects you and everybody who is currently experiencing it.

I used to listen to the radio. Not in the car– I had a little yellow portable radio thing, and I used to sit on the swings in our backyard listening to… I don’t even remember what station or type of music. (It could have been NPR, who knows.) (Actually, it was probably the classic rock station. My childhood musical taste pretty much consisted of whatever Dad was listening to.) And then some years later I had a teacher who would put the radio on whenever the class was doing mindless homework, and everyone loved this one pop station so much that even I listened to it at home. Now whenever I think of it, I remember cold, sunny days and open windows and late afternoons.

Deeeeeeeep, man. I know. I am having all these deep thoughts while I avoid eye contact with my manuscript that I should be editing right now, so that I can instead sit here blogging and eating leftover mei fun.

Last night on the way home from the Chinese place I ate all the fortune cookies. One of the fortunes was, “There is absolutely no substitute for a complete lack of preparation.” I read it aloud to Mom, and we tried to decipher its meaning. I jokingly (sort of…) said that it must be a bad omen for my trip to Kansas. Yep, I’m leaving for Kansas in a couple of days, to visit Eliza at her college Out West. It’ll be my first-ever all-alone plane trip (or trip of any sort). And even with her and Poor Bill’s helpful tips and advice, do I feel totally unprepared? Pretty much.
Mom: “I think it’s backwards. Wait. Read it again.”
Me: “It just sounds like a spam robot message. They have computers making this stuff up. You know they do. Nobody actually sits around writing these.”
But people actually do sit around reading them, apparently. What, I like to have something to read at meals! Why do you think they have stuff written all over cereal boxes, huh?

Although once, I did get a pretty interesting fortune that I still remember, and relate to. It said, “Life is like learning to play the violin in public.” I’m pretty sure some variation of that was already a saying before I found it in a fortune cookie, but whatever. I relate to it both on the intended simile level and through the fact that I actually do learn to play instruments in semi-public, since I always used to play the flute on our front stoop and I still prefer to practice my whistle outside. Amidst the ceaseless smacking of basketballs and the weird disembodied voice that calls from the school up the street, and the churchbells sounding and the trains in the distance, why shouldn’t I join in? I add to the character of the neighborhood. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I chirp out yet another imperfect rendition of “Blackthorn Stick”.

So that’s kind of what’s currently going on… Kind of. An overview. Not really. Actually a side note. Actually I don’t know what’s going on.

But you get the gist. Soon to Kansas. Travel. Musical obsessions. An overactive brain. Also fall.
Also, I should probably go get ready for work.


And that one word pretty much sums up my past couple of weeks. But first (well, second? I have no idea what I’m saying), it reminds me of riding in the car with Eliza…

We are at a stop light, Eliza in the driver’s seat and me riding “gunshot” (as Bug called it). I stare out the window (as I tend to do), and just as we pull away I say, “Woah.”
Eliza: “What, the car behind us?”
Me: “…Nope.”
Eliza: “The dark sky?”
Me: “Nuh-uh.”
Eliza: “What, then?”
Me: “There was just… a super attractive guy at the red light.”
Eliza: *side-gawks at me*
Me: “What?! I didn’t mean to say ‘woah’, it just came out. And I mean… It was true though.”
Eliza: “Well, what did he look like?” (still gawking at me the way you would gawk at, say, a goat wearing spectacles and reading the paper)
Me: “He just had, you know, the face. And the hair.”
Eliza: “Wow, Pen, very descriptive.” And we both laughed.

On another car ride down a two-lane road, a truck passed us by too close and Eliza grumbled, “Road hog!”
As I shook my fist, laughing and imitating her, she said, “I’ve never said that before! It just came out!”

Speaking of driving, I have renewed my efforts in trying to drive officially. I used to have this fear that once I had my license, I would be forced to drive to this distant suburb at night, which would be really creepy. But then, for some reason, I kind of had a driving epiphany the other night that night driving is actually fun and the creep factor is all in my head and also, I am capable.

And also also, I want a car. (“I could be the walrus. And I’d still have to bum rides off of people.” –Yes, I have that whole little monologue memorized. Because I basically want to be Ferris Bueller… whenever I’m not wanting to be Jane Eyre, Sherlock Holmes, Captain America, or some other  awesome character.) (Also, why are all my favorite characters guys? Are there just not that many cool girl characters, or have I not seen the right movies?) (I mean, even the Black Widow… She’s awesome, but I never can imagine myself as her, you know? It’s almost like she’s too cool. Agent Carter is a little closer, but even then, she’s so… shooty.) (I am not shooty. I am shield-y. If that makes any sense.)

Anyway, yeah. Cars. Driving. Vroom. I kinda lost my train of thought.

Now I completely can’t remember what I was going to tell you about? The Dublin Irish Festival, aka a sunny haze of green and food and music and hanging out with Bug? Maybe. Or was I going to talk about how I am finally filming a video thing and maybe sometime eventually when I have got enough shots of bedraggled, sun-spangled flowers it will be done? Or how a tree was cut down in my neighborhood and now there is a big blank spot on my horizon and it weirds me out and makes me panic that one day the distant oak tree that I look at through my eastern window will be cut down too and then I will lose my mind because all the other trees around here have those round, suburban palmate leaves of blandness?

I don’t remember. Clearly, I am in one of those moods where I just want to go on and on about everything in the whole entire world ever.

But I shall not. Because I shall go to work on finishing my book. (“To finish my book,” the DHFs always say in a Bilbo voice.) And also just plain go to work.


to watch his woods fill up with snow

I have a big book of Literature (ie Alleged Classics! Let’s just call it what it is, people) that used to belong to Mom. So I was digging through it for poems that I like, and I discovered that I do not hate Robert Frost. Due to (cliche as it sounds) “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”. Although I kind of wanted to yell to Frost, “You took the stupid road less traveled*, remember? You’re supposed to do your own thing!”

And that’s kind of how I feel about life in general now, I mean– taking the road less traveled is so far making all the eye-poking-out difference, believe me. But Frost, you had two choices, two “roads”, if you like (because we are all aware that you love metaphors for life). One was to go into the woods, and watch snow fall, and do what you wanted despite the fact that later you might have been sleep deprived and reputed as flaky (ha-ha, puns) for being late. Instead you chose to make it to your appointment on time and do everything right and get healthy amouts of sleep but I think you never did see those woods again. Take that road less traveled, you smart aleck.

OK, so I lied. Maybe I’m still not on great terms with this guy.

Still, I do like “Stopping by Woods”, and this is just one interpretation I got from it. The first interpretation was just that he wrote a very nice poem about something that happened to him. Really, all other interpretations are more about WHY he wrote about it. Lots of things happen to poets, but there are reasons they put some to paper. There must be something about the experience that he couldn’t get out of his head. 
Also do you find it a little strange that I have hypothetical conversations with dead writers?
Because I find it strange.

I wish I could have a real conversation about writing (and books and life and stuff) with the Quill Fellowship, but they are both away… Alas, it’s just me and all the little voices in my head.

Yours till the pork chops, (Dad’s obsession has shifted from Making Lawn Furniture to Daily Grilling of Dinner)

*You think I had a lot to say about “Stopping by Woods”? Don’t even get me started on “The Road Not Taken”…

good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.

I told you I would have more to say on the morrow! And here I am.

Well, Mom and I finished watching the last of our movies from the library. (Dodge during Castaway: “No! Wilson!”) Oh, and there was another library movie that I probably shouldn’t have been as wowed by as I was: The Truman Show.  (PS: Disney totally ripped off the premise of The Truman Show for Bolt, if that gives you an idea of what the whole movie’s about.) And if you haven’t watched the movie, then I think you should, even if you are like me and you are sort of put off by the main actor’s teeth; they are somewhat terrifying.

Anyway, The Truman Show is so Fakeworld! The perfect little happy town, with all the happy people… And the trees! If you watch this movie, pay attention to the forest scene, I actually yelped out loud. In fact, a lot of the movie was pretty creepy. One of the best scenes in the movie is when he is walking across the docks and he just can’t walk any more, and he looks down and sees a little half-sunken boat. I think my stomach actually twisted. (I may have been hungry, though.) I was pretty disturbed! And more disturbed when I found out why he couldn’t cross! And even more disturbed when I found out WHY why he couldn’t cross! Other creepy things included the moon, and his wife–would not want to meet her in a dark alley! The choco-whatever scene was also one of the best.

The ending was really well done I thought. His ending line was like, that Truman hadn’t been as ‘pure’ as the producer had thought; Truman had acted, he had recited lines. (Which, don’t we all?) I don’t know what that is supposed to mean or if that was even the point, because maybe I was reading too much into it (Mom said she’d never gotten that from the ending), but I liked it.

Well, I am off to attend to the care and feeding of my younger brothers…

PPS: Has anyone reading this watched The Truman Show? And if so, what were YOUR thoughts? I am terribly curious.


Tonight, as we rode home from a New Year’s Eve party, I asked my family why the new year was a big deal. Personally I don’t like cut-offs; in real life, one thing flows into another smoothly, slowly, constantly. But anyway. Dad replied, in his usual manner
“It’s just another excuse to get drunk and have a party. Of course it’s really supposed to be a celebration, you know, new beginnings and a new start, new year, whatever. People make resolutions they never keep…”
Me: “I never make resolutions. First of all because I will change my habits whenever I feel like it. Second of all… I never make plans for the new year because it never turns out quite like I expect it to.”

And that is my philosophy. I mean, I never could have predicted or planned for what happened in my life in 2010.

I think I did a lot of growing up this year, a lot of changing and becoming my own person. I learned a lot and tried a lot of new things. Maybe I even took a few risks. I can’t even remember what happened in 2010, or exactly when certain changes began, because my brain doesn’t work in sudden cut-offs like January First, but I know that there was so much that happened to me and around me this year that I wouldn’t have time or space to mention it all. There is no resolution that could prepare for or be better than everything that happened to me over the course of 2010… and now, 2011.

The new year… shapeless in my mind right now. It does not feel different, or particularly promising, even. But I like it that way. Changes don’t come suddenly at the stroke of midnight. They come slowly, one by one, maybe starting so small that you don’t even notice them at first, can’t trace their origins after they are realized.

I am so happy, as I turn over 2010 in my mind… And now 2011 has come… 

The earth has turned all the way round, and it isn’t stopping yet. 

Good night, and happy New Year!

the weatherman is sure there will be more

It’s been snowing here for about three days straight, I think. It’s perfectly wonderful, of course, since we won’t be sick of it until a month or two from now. Actually I don’t get sick of the snow, or the cold even, but the salt grime. And most of all the not-being-able-to-wear-skirts-that-drag-the-ground.

I took a walk yesterday as it was snowing. Just a few blocks. It was really nice, and quiet, and I love the whole atmosphere of mystery during winter. The long nights, the grey, silent days… maybe that’s why my novel is set in a kind of perpetually-wintry city. Unlike rain, when snow falls it makes no sound. Somehow it’s just cool to stand anywhere you’re alone, maybe with some bare trees nearby, and just watch the snow fall. Silence. It’s beautiful and kind of creepy at the same time, like you’re in this magical world but you’re also the only person inhabiting it.

Yep, you heard right, I have now declared my love for the season of winter. “Oh that I were a glove upon that hand”…. etc, etc. More like, “oh that I had a glove upon my hand”, but whatever.

So. The snow. Winter. Life is good, as those incredibly irritating t-shirts (and now bumper stickers, apparently) say. Man, I hate those. It’s like, yeah, life is good, but it’s not all cartoon inner tubes and smiley stick people. Geez.

Uh, what was I going to say before I went off on a tangent? Oh yeah. Life. Pshh. Never mind, I don’t feel like being all talkative anymore. I kind of feel like just sitting here listening to music and pretending to be a teenager. Is it possible to feel too young to be a teenager and too old at the same time but still simultaneously feel like a teenager is exactly what you are? 
If it’s not… I have achieved the impossible.

Argh! or, my thoughts on series books.

I am so sick of series that if I never saw or read one again, it wouldn’t bother me in the least. Now, that’s a sad thing. I’ve read many a good series in my day. But the trouble is with all these new ones, these new series coming out. You pick up book One. You start to read it. It is a really good book; engaging, exciting, well-written, etc. So you stay up all night reading it under your covers, which is the only proper way to read anything suspenseful really, and then.
The End.
Except not.
It’s not the end. It’s The “End of Book One”. With some horrid, cruel, cliffhanger ending.
In short, the whole book was a huge ripoff.

And then to make things worse, book Two isn’t even out yet. So that means by the time it’s finally released in about a year, you’ve already forgotten half the characters and all the cute little details and everything from Book One. But even if Book Two is out, you start to wonder: how many books is this going to turn out to be? A reader can lose hope. Unless it’s called “trilogy” or something, then I start to get wary. How many cliffhanger endings can I deal with? How many 300 page books can I read?

What is wrong with books today????
So many things, my friends. So many, many things.

I mean, the book world, or at least my corner of it (the teen section, ugh), already has enough problems. Now this? This garishly obvious marketing ploy? “Oh, let’s make a cliffhanger ending. Then they’ll have to buy Book Two. And Book Three. And on and on.” Yeah, well, I’ll also have to throw your book at the wall when it’s over because it has a crap ending. So take that!

Seriously, though? No one thinks people deserve a whole book in one piece? No one thinks I deserve a halfway satisfying ending? A reward for all my trouble? It’s fine to write a series. Perfectly acceptable. It’s even OK to have a somewhat uncertain ending, one where the reader understands that they’ll need Book Two and Three and so on to complete the story. You know, where these’s a sense of hope and satisfaction but also uncertaintiy about the future. NOT like someone threw a knife while blindfolded at the manuscript to see where the ending would cut off. 

It takes skill to wrap a book up, to make an ending. I know. And that’s why it bothers me. The author is cheating when they just drop you off a cliff and then type, “the end” like it doesn’t mean anything after all that you were awake all night, waiting, expecting, hoping… only to be ripped off and reminded that everything in the world is just a stupid ploy to get your money. 

Of course, that’s just how the world works. Best we all get used to it. However, there are other ways to make me buy Book Two. Like, oh, I don’t know, writing a good story? Creating memorable characters that I care about? Just a suggestion. It sounds dumb, I know.

Maybe they’re approaching it too much from the “Information Age” perspective. As in, “they will buy Book Two because they will want to know what happens next.” vs “They will buy Book Two because they loved Book One.” I’d sure like to know whether the good team wins or if the guy gets the girl, or whatever. But that comes after the main reason, which is that I’d want to enter that world again. I’d want to revisit these people I’ve come to care about. I’d want to go through it all again.
But when I hit a cliffhanger ending that mean me throw the book across the room and sulk and feel betrayed and pace around and scour the internet for the next installment and pull my hair out and growl and rant and feel ripped off… Well, who wants to do that over and over?

And how can I re-read and re-read and re-read a book that basically has no ending? It can never be my favorite book. It can never be the book that I read when I’m sad or ill or bored or just wanting that good story again… Because it’s simply not worth it. There’s no satisfaction, no comfort. There’s not that feeling of when you finish a book and you just sort of sit there staring into space just turning it over and over in your mind for a while. Once you have the information, there is no reason to read it again.

That is a sad thing.
So don’t write crap endings.
Or else.

And hey– while we’re on the subject of what not to write in books… Don’t kill the dog.
Just don’t.
Why even put a dog in there, and go through the trouble of giving it a name and a personality and making me love it, only to kill it off quickly once the part you needed it for is over?
Don’t do that. Ever again.
Or else.
Two threats in one day… Bad endings put me in a sour mood.


So, people are busy. I will be busy soon enough, but today I’ve spent the day knitting, after staying up until 1:30 am last night teaching myself how to do a stockinette stitch and use more than one color, and also add stitches and follow a pattern. It is not that hard really. Except about halfway through today’s knitting session I realized that I am definitely going to have major arthritis when I’m older. Probably from cracking my knuckes (says Pen as she cracks her knuckles). Whatever. Oh well. I had a good run. I finished half the thing I am making, which I am keeping a secret for now because it might become someone’s [word omitted due to the fact that it’s not after Thanksgiving yet] present. Mwaha. Well, as much as I hate it when people get all into [word omitted for the same reason as before] in November, if you make handmade gifts you kind of need to think ahead a little bit…

I like November. I just thought I should say that. In the past i’ve sort of overlooked it… November should be the 12th month, and December should be the 5th… don’t ask. My weird brain. Oh the pain. How it rains. Etcetera.

Alas indeed, though! Mom and Dad and Poncho are…sniff…GONE! All weekend!! I would put in a little crying emoticon, but I reserve those for emails between Mom and myself because I think they look cheesy on a blog. But Poncho is happy because he’s turning 10 tomorrow, and that is why he is now off on a trip because that is what you get when you turn 10 in my family: a trip to somewhere cool that is not too far away. But when you turn 11 you get a handful of dryer lint. In your cake. Just kidding.

Um. So. Well. Despite how proud I am of my knitting, I have to say that it’s been one of those weird days that just pass in a flash and then you feel really unproductive, like you slept until 2 in the afternoon or something. I should write something, work on my novel, bleh bleh bleh (as Bug would say). Some people do Nanowrimo. I tried that once. I learned that I’m not really a word-count person. It’s distracting. I prefer to commit to a certain amount of time, like my daily 3 hours, or a little ten minutes here or there while waiting for something. I just sit down and write as much as I can, knowing in the back of my head that the clock is ticking and this chunk or snippet of time is MINE for now and now only, so I had better do something with it. And that, for me, is more motivating than word counts. After all, some days I do spend much of my 3 hours spinning in the chair, gazing blankly into space, threatening various technological devices, that sort of thing. But often even that ends up being productive. I sit down thinking, “I’m so stuck. I will never get past this part.” That train of thought invariably progresses into “DOOM! DOOM! DOOM UPON ME!” which, after becoming a shriek in my brain, suddenly explodes into an idea that finally gets me writing. And, when things get frustrating, I just tell myself to stick it out for the last half hour, hour, whatever, and then I get to be done. My brain can go think about something else until tomorrow.

Ah, there is the phone. I must be going now.


Requiem for ApricotPie

Yesterday we all got word that ApricotPie will be closing. This elicited responses of shock, disbelief, thanks, and efforts to carry on in a different way. All of that went through my mind, which sort of pushed all my other AP thoughts out of my head for a while, but now they’re coming back and I want to write them down.

Remember how I used to talk about AP’s Magic Box? The simplicity of the box where one writes in their post… Just a blank, white box with B I U over it, surrounded by apricot-colored background and the homey blue-and-white sides. The blue and white made it feel almost like you were looking into a cozy little room. Anyway, that magic box earned the ‘magic’ part because evey time I was stuck, or uninspired, or had only a vague idea of what I was going to write, I would start typing in the box and voila! something good would come out of seemingly nothing. In truth I think the simplicty– no messing with fonts and sizes and all that other stuff– helped clear my mind and focus my thinking, so that I could use my full energy toward putting word after word and creating.

I just counted: 122 posts of something like that. 200-some favorite words. Would I even have started collecting favorite words if not for the (too small) favorite words box on AP? I know I wouldn’t have written a speck of poetry… Well, maybe I would have written it, but I definitely wouldn’t have written as much of it, or found how much I really enjoyed it, or been encouraged to keep at it. I would definitely not be this far along in improving on it… Looking back at some of my first poems, I can’t believe how far I’ve come, and how much farther I can still go. Oh, possibilities!
The same goes for short stories, which are a more recent development. In my past years I wouldn’t even touch short stories. How was it even possible to make fiction short? I believed it wasn’t. Short fiction was like, um, I can’t really think of a clever metaphor, but anyway it was a nice idea but pretty daunting and impossible. Then along came AP, where I read more short stories and finally decided to try my hand at it. I’m still rather proud of Norwich, my first short story.

Through AP, I was exposed to a lot of different types and forms of writing. I was able to experiment, learn, and be creative. Plus, I was able to read the words of so many other creative homeschoolers, which was really fun. And there’s something to be said for a website dedicated to literature, which is a slow thing, and too long for other websites of today, like facebook and twitter. You could never put up a poem on Facebook, first of all because no one’s in the frame of mind to read and think about it, and secondly because it’s too long. It’s not a little blip. It took a while to think about, and then to write, and then to read and understand. No one seems to be interested in trying to decipher things, they just want to comprehend instantly. Personally, the deciphering is what I love about poems and songs. I think it’s why Jars of Clay is my favorite band; so many of their song require you to think. Lost was my favorite show because it required me to think. I could go on and on with a list of things I loved because they made me think (Lilith!! Except my thinkng totally failed me at the end, sigh), but I’ve made my point. There are not many places out there where someone can write, read, and discuss all in the pace and space required.

Sure, I’ve had my tiffs with AP over the years. The comment and post limits nearly killed me. (I managed to adjust; clearly I’m still alive, unless I write this to you from the Beyond, woooooeeeeeeeeooooo.) There was once an unpleasant episode concerning something of Eliza’s that will still, quite some time later, make blood rush to my ears and make me snap and claw like a Jabberwock. But hey. I turn into a Jabberwock when someone messes with my friends. (When someone messes with me, however, I turn into a mome rath– not helpful.)

But despite the problems or the drawbacks, AP continued to be a really cool place that brought together people and their wide range of opinions, backgrounds, ages, and writing styles. It’s like we all came to the blue and white room to hang out. I’ll miss the place. Still, there are ways to go on… Like this blog. Once AP closes for good, I’ll be putting the things I would have put there here. One less link for my blog-readers to click. (Optimism. I can’t help myself.)

Hopefully I’ll be able to continue writing poetry, and finish White Funeral [let me diverge from the topic for a minute to say: every single time I try to write the ending, it refues to be the actual ending!! I thought it was going to be three parts originally, then I thought, okay, maybe five, and then it became ten, and now I think I’ll have to write an eleventh or a twelfth! Why? Why? I do hope it doesn’t turn into a novel, I can’t handle a second novel right now. A novellette, a novella, fine. Fine. Oh, the pains of writing sometimes.]. Hopefully I’ll be able to create more short stories, and keep expanding and experimenting, and most of all improving.

Thanks ApricotPie, and I’ll enjoy the last several weeks of you.


PS… Now I’m thinking of all the goodbye-ish poems… Like the “still she haunts me, phantomwise”, though it’s not really fitting, and of course the “though time be fleet, and I and thou/are half a life asunder… Even that now thou wilt not fail/ to listen to my fairy-tale”. That fits a bit better, yes?
PPS off to pack for camp!! YAY!