I’m lucky enough to share a birthday with one of my favourite actors (John Gilbert), one of my favourite writers (Marcel Proust) and the possessor of one of the most brilliant (recorded) minds in history (Nikola Tesla). What else do they have in common? Hmmm, let’s see.
I’ve found that frivolous observations are best made on serious days. I’m off to celebrate with the husband at the newest contemporary Indian restaurant/bar in town. Toodles.
“A house is not a home unless it contains food and fire for the mind as well as the body.”-Margaret Fuller
“Give me silence, water, hope
Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.”-Pablo Neruda
“I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
downward, in the soaked guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, eating each day.”-Pablo Neruda
This one’s a bit different. It features Cornelia Otis Skinner, co-writer (along with Emily Kimbrough) of Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, as the mystery celebrity on What’s My Line? in 1959.
If you have never read the book Our Hearts Were Young and Gay (or watched the charming film adaptation), you should go rectify that now.
This. This is the reason for my fewer than normal posts. Once I have sorted through the mess, and am properly organized, things will not only be back to normal around here…they will be better. Guaranteed. Once the clutter has been vanquished, my mental processes will be freed up to focus on what I like (and do) best: write. No need to worry: until then, you can expect at least a post a day. I promise to miss you more than you miss me.
Tornado Maedez?
Seriously, this is so out of control (at least by my standards) that all of my writing projects are threatening to come to a full-on, nasty stop. Since I do this for a living, that is a pretty scary concept.
Royal Decree VI
“I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”-Fyodor Dostoyevsky
I’m thinking about cleaning out my idea bank. It is a knee-quaking concept. Ten years of scraps, plots, extracts, phrases, titles, names, research and character studies are lovingly tucked away or carelessly crammed into various crannies and boxes and drawers. They contain a lot of good ideas and solid or beautiful writing. There are threads of greatness, however frayed and dirty and dusty; there’s a lot of crap, too, or things that I have outgrown or moved past. Legal pads, notebooks, torn napkins, loose leaf paper. Written in pen, pencil, marker, lipstick. It’s all there, waiting to be addressed. Faced. Embraced or conquered. Trashed or saved. Crumpled mounds of surprise or disgust. “I’m this good?” or “What shitty shit of a writer came up with this?” It’s all conjecture, of course, as I haven’t read any of it; but I know the odds, and they are even. The summer is young, and the days are long. I can do this.
“An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.”-Henry David Thoreau
I’m not an early riser, but I like the idea of taking a morning constitutional. Not a plain old walk, mind you: a constitutional. Yes, yes…I know it means the same thing. The latter, however, sounds vigorous and lovely and a bit old-fashioned. As if it takes work, thought, planning. A clear head. For the last few weeks, I’ve been threatening to get up early (for me) and drag my husband to the cemetery down the street. A four-minute drive for an hour’s hike. After sunrise, but before the work day has dawned. It is such a tempting idea, in my head. On paper. The reality will likely find me achy and whiny and yawning for the first half an hour. Yet, yet… the destination is the above scene: vibrant, bright, wild. Serene. All in the shadow of the city. How long can I resist?
“The reason that fiction is more interesting than any other form of literature, to those who really like to study people, is that in fiction the author can really tell the truth without humiliating himself.”-Eleanor Roosevelt
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 