Three Bad Things
So many things to fix, so little knowledge base.
It was brought to my attention recently, that I had neither running lights, nor brake lights. I’d noticed the console lights not coming on, but was blissfully unaware I was driving around at night without being seen from behind. Great.
Car is now at dealership. I should hear by five PM that it will cost as much as Imelda Marcos’ winter shoe wardrobe to replace (they don’t ‘fix’ anymore) some mythical sensor that will only be available during monsoon season if purchased by a lactating sheep farmer, who must also be a veteran in order to qualify to receive one of the three remaining sensors in existence.
Laptop is having issues seeing files, can’t remember that it had shortcuts to printers and is otherwise as useful as, well, the car, for lack of better example; just as useful as an abacus for Posomotor. This began (I believe) when the electricity failed two days in a row. Progress Energy apparently thought I could use the practice of resetting every digital clock in a three-mile radius. Some of those items require a degree in some field, like, say, chemical analyst, that I do not possess. Suffice it to say that he who is near and dear to me mostly wears a bemused expression when I try to insert a DVD in the HDTV with 16 remote controls, each of which may as well be a tuba, for all the good they do me.
I need a web page, or so I’ve been told. I have not obtained clue number one about what content would be worthy of taking up bandwidth, but presumably my fans will want to read previously published stuff and I should provide links for just such a purpose. Again, this is quite a challenge for me, who cannot seem to keep two computers chatting each other up, nor finding a solution to my poor Colin’s itching, never mind finding new and improved ways to procrastinate.
Third bad thing….. new resident of phylus chordata, class mamalia, Mus musculus has set up mousekeeping, under the stove. Apparently, it (I’ve not determined gender) views the dry dog food bin as a mega-mart, a Wal-Mart Superstore if you will.
I’m running around from one thing to the next, not effectively fixing anything, fretting, whinging, and otherwise pissing and moaning about my lot in life.
Any suggestions will be gratefully received.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Squirrel
It was a good day to practice some ecology, to hang laundry out to dry in the spring sunshine, and save some fossil fuel. I pulled sheets from the washer and loaded them into a plastic laundry basket, then made my way to the clothesline in my back yard. Zephyr breezes brought hints of Confederate Jasmine and fabric softener to me as I hung the freshly washed linens. I remembered, so long ago, a similar clothesline draped in diapers, and the baby in the basket at my feet.
Staccato screams, high and wide, emanating from the canopy of the Laurel oak broke my reverie. I raced to the tree, and craned my neck. There, up in the highest branches, a battle between the frantic mother and the would-be killer raged the nest, swaying it nearly vertical. My hands flew to my mouth, to my breast in a cliché’ of helplessness. I couldn’t breathe, could only watch, horrified. My throat constricted and it felt as if my bowels had turned to ice water. A broken corpse, nurtured and tortured, murdered, tiny flopping fractured bleeding baby squirrel tumbled down from the canopy to the leaf littered ground at my feet, followed by three siblings, vulnerable to the very real threat of stray cats, dogs, and young girls with the best of motives, the least ability to carry out any plan.
The overhead war ceased, as quickly as it had begun. The attacker retreated, high-wiring to the adjacent trees, his mission of decimating the litter aborted by the ferocity of a dedicated mother.
I gingerly picked up the surviving blood-spattered babies. Their eyes were barely open, and they were nearly hairless. One made a plaintive cry when I placed them in my plastic laundry basket. I set the basket down where the mother could see it; where I could watch them, protect them, if necessary. I waited.
My neighbor came out her back door to leave for work at the Free Clinic. She walked up beside me. “She’ll abandon them. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s nature’s birth control.”
I cringed, reminded of my own abandonment by my mother; my struggle to rectify any damage I might have caused by not giving my daughter up for adoption to someone in a better position to raise her. Would she have had a better life? Would I be doing it for her, or so no one would have evidence of my sin. It was an internal debate that had raged on in me for nearly thirty- three years.
That this neighbor woman could be so cavalier enraged me. It brought me back to that gymnasium in tenth grade, four months pregnant, the cool girls who lived on the Pink Streets clique drilling me for information. Was I pregnant? Did I know who the father was? When I’d declined to satisfy their curiosity, they’d bounced a basketball on my softly pouching belly until I’d, in a rage, flown at them to protect my unborn baby.
“Slut.” They’d said when the gym teacher blessedly, finally, came to my defense.
I snapped back to the present. My lip curled in an involuntary sneer. It’s so easy, I thought, for you, with your perfect upbringing, your idyllic childhood. You have no idea. You probably knew who your father was.
“So, you find a job yet?”
“I’m writing.”
“Oh. I thought that was just a hobby.” She smirked. I wanted to slap that smirk around to the back of her head. I could visualize her wearing one of those stupid gym-suits they made us wear, dribbling a basketball, cracking her gum, smirking at her girlfriends circled around me, calling me tramp, and slut and whore.
“Look, here she comes.” I said, and pointed to the Mother squirrel as she abseiled to the ground to her surviving family. She grabbed the closest by the nape of its neck and dragged it out through the holes in the side of the basket.
“This is why I don’t watch the Nature Channel,” I said. “I know animals kill each other, that it’s a necessary part of survival. Nonetheless, I can never get inured to the cruelties and inequities of life.”
With arms akimbo, a self-satisfied smile crossed her face. “You should get used to it. For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”
The mother squirrel returned to the basket, and dragged another of the babies to the new drey. I waited, held my silence until Mama retrieved the last one, before picking up the basket. “Yeah, well, apparently, she doesn’t think this is her babies’ time to die.” I pivoted, and left her with her platitudes to call my daughter, to wish her a happy birthday, even though it was three months away.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
The Bereavement Group
“I didn’t say ‘I love you’, anymore. I hung on to it, like an old miser,” She said. “He said actions speak louder than words.” She shook her ash blonde curls, like a dog coming out of a lake. “He was right about that.”
I just listened, staring at her long slender fingers. She twirled her wrist, causing a silver charm bracelet to spin, glimmer, and tinkle like a hundred tiny bells.
“That was your mother’s bracelet, right?”
“Annoying, isn’t it?” She fingered a tiny bicycle. “It snags on everything.”
I glanced at the man seated at the table next to us. It was so close, he might as well join us.
“Most of the charms didn’t have any bearing on the person she was.” She laughed. “We bought her charms for birthdays, Christmas. They were anything we could afford. Look, like this one. My mother didn’t even know which was the business end of a golf club.”
“Why do you wear it, then?”
“To remind me to mourn her. It’s hard to remember. She died so soon after Gary.”
I glanced over, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know what you mean. Actions do speak louder than words. Kevin’s Internet actions certainly did.”
Stephanie stopped, put her braceletted, manicured hand upon mine. The contrast of her soft hand against my clay roughened one was sharp. My cuticles were ragged, with remnants of pottery clay buried deep beneath the surface.
“Gary used to say, about saying ‘I love you’, ‘too often said, it loses impact. Not said enough, it causes pain. Said to the wrong person, it's meaningless. Said to the right person at the wrong time, it damages.’”
She sipped her chai tea. I felt compelled to fill the silence between us, to sidetrack her before it was too late, before we were both blubbering in public, again. Our grief fed off the grief of the other.
“Come on, we’ll be late for the bereavement support group.”
She stared at a spot over my head. “And death wipes it all out to a zero balance sheet.”
I looked around at the other bookstore coffee shop occupants. No one seemed to be paying attention to us, but the guy at the next table could be, and we’d never know. It had been some time since he’d turned the page in the book he held like a barricade, a shield concealing all but the furrows of his brow beneath a shock of black, onyx black hair.
“Let’s not go.”
“You say that every week. Every week you admit it helps, but only after.”
“It’s just.” Her voice trailed off.
“What, Stephanie, it’s just what?”
“It’s just, it’s like one-upsmanship on misery. They all act like, since theirs were all police or firemen, heroes, that somehow their pain has more value.”
“I know. Like because they were heroes, somehow their loss...like, none of them were ever unfaithful or had gambling debts, or liked porn. The divorce rate among police is astronomical. If you could look into the future, I wonder how many of them would have been divorced, had it not been for nine-eleven?” I looked into my empty cup. When had I started drinking chai tea? Oh, when Kevin died. One more way to not be reminded, to stop drinking Mocha Java. “I suppose they don’t consider a gunshot from a husband of a client to be the same as ‘in the line of duty.’”
“Let’s not go. I can’t stand looking at those tall girls who worship Buddha another night.”
“What do you want to do, instead?”
“Let’s pack. Go south. Get on I-95, head down the New Jersey Turnpike and find some sun.”
The man at the next table looked up, grey eyes, eyes like Galapagos Tortoises, “They’ve all gone to look for America?”
“I didn’t say ‘I love you’, anymore. I hung on to it, like an old miser,” She said. “He said actions speak louder than words.” She shook her ash blonde curls, like a dog coming out of a lake. “He was right about that.”
I just listened, staring at her long slender fingers. She twirled her wrist, causing a silver charm bracelet to spin, glimmer, and tinkle like a hundred tiny bells.
“That was your mother’s bracelet, right?”
“Annoying, isn’t it?” She fingered a tiny bicycle. “It snags on everything.”
I glanced at the man seated at the table next to us. It was so close, he might as well join us.
“Most of the charms didn’t have any bearing on the person she was.” She laughed. “We bought her charms for birthdays, Christmas. They were anything we could afford. Look, like this one. My mother didn’t even know which was the business end of a golf club.”
“Why do you wear it, then?”
“To remind me to mourn her. It’s hard to remember. She died so soon after Gary.”
I glanced over, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know what you mean. Actions do speak louder than words. Kevin’s Internet actions certainly did.”
Stephanie stopped, put her braceletted, manicured hand upon mine. The contrast of her soft hand against my clay roughened one was sharp. My cuticles were ragged, with remnants of pottery clay buried deep beneath the surface.
“Gary used to say, about saying ‘I love you’, ‘too often said, it loses impact. Not said enough, it causes pain. Said to the wrong person, it's meaningless. Said to the right person at the wrong time, it damages.’”
She sipped her chai tea. I felt compelled to fill the silence between us, to sidetrack her before it was too late, before we were both blubbering in public, again. Our grief fed off the grief of the other.
“Come on, we’ll be late for the bereavement support group.”
She stared at a spot over my head. “And death wipes it all out to a zero balance sheet.”
I looked around at the other bookstore coffee shop occupants. No one seemed to be paying attention to us, but the guy at the next table could be, and we’d never know. It had been some time since he’d turned the page in the book he held like a barricade, a shield concealing all but the furrows of his brow beneath a shock of black, onyx black hair.
“Let’s not go.”
“You say that every week. Every week you admit it helps, but only after.”
“It’s just.” Her voice trailed off.
“What, Stephanie, it’s just what?”
“It’s just, it’s like one-upsmanship on misery. They all act like, since theirs were all police or firemen, heroes, that somehow their pain has more value.”
“I know. Like because they were heroes, somehow their loss...like, none of them were ever unfaithful or had gambling debts, or liked porn. The divorce rate among police is astronomical. If you could look into the future, I wonder how many of them would have been divorced, had it not been for nine-eleven?” I looked into my empty cup. When had I started drinking chai tea? Oh, when Kevin died. One more way to not be reminded, to stop drinking Mocha Java. “I suppose they don’t consider a gunshot from a husband of a client to be the same as ‘in the line of duty.’”
“Let’s not go. I can’t stand looking at those tall girls who worship Buddha another night.”
“What do you want to do, instead?”
“Let’s pack. Go south. Get on I-95, head down the New Jersey Turnpike and find some sun.”
The man at the next table looked up, grey eyes, eyes like Galapagos Tortoises, “They’ve all gone to look for America?”
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
I won the Short Story Reader’s Choice ALL TIME contest category with That Dress.
I won the Spring is in the Air, and then the Bow Wow contest. I later sold that story to a print magazine. Then the Summer Love contest was announced. The asshat who claimed he had won both contests (even though he didn't enter) I won was determined his online girlfriend should win.
There were 37 reviews of That Dress. Of that number, 36 were individuals. One person reviewed it twice.
There were 41 reviews of the other entry. Of that number, 32 were individuals, 7 (top reviewers) "reviewed" it twice, and Asshat "reviewed" it three times.
If the weight were even, the playing field level, and the players fair, I would have won. They've repeatedly accused me of ratcheting up my stories by reposting them so the same group of MY friends can rereview them. I view this as projection.
I won the Spring is in the Air, and then the Bow Wow contest. I later sold that story to a print magazine. Then the Summer Love contest was announced. The asshat who claimed he had won both contests (even though he didn't enter) I won was determined his online girlfriend should win.
There were 37 reviews of That Dress. Of that number, 36 were individuals. One person reviewed it twice.
There were 41 reviews of the other entry. Of that number, 32 were individuals, 7 (top reviewers) "reviewed" it twice, and Asshat "reviewed" it three times.
If the weight were even, the playing field level, and the players fair, I would have won. They've repeatedly accused me of ratcheting up my stories by reposting them so the same group of MY friends can rereview them. I view this as projection.
Bread and Circuses
In a perfect world, an entry-level exam would be given to each member who wanted to join the writing community, if that community were to not decay to the point of the lowest common denominator.
That is what has transpired in the site where I currently post my work. Rank amateurs banded together into rogue lynch mobs intent upon dragging down all that they envy.
The puppetmaster continues to toss out bread and circuses, while he attends to the important work of the counting house.
The puppets dance around the stage, in a freefall, unchoreographed, disjointed, group mental masturbation.
In a perfect world, an entry-level exam would be given to each member who wanted to join the writing community, if that community were to not decay to the point of the lowest common denominator.
That is what has transpired in the site where I currently post my work. Rank amateurs banded together into rogue lynch mobs intent upon dragging down all that they envy.
The puppetmaster continues to toss out bread and circuses, while he attends to the important work of the counting house.
The puppets dance around the stage, in a freefall, unchoreographed, disjointed, group mental masturbation.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Bound and Gagged
Recently one of the Sycophants, in response to a statement I made about not being ashamed to be viewed in a competitive light, launched into a tirade about how he had 'really' been the winner of the last two contests in which I had been named the official winner. By his own admission, he had not entered the contests, nor abided by the rules.
I suppose he had that little faith in his own work that he wanted an insurance policy. If he ranked higher, because he got the popular vote, then he could claim (albiet falsely) victory. If he didn't get the popular vote, he could claim it didn't matter anyway, he was just doing it for 'fun'.
I was extremely hurt and pissed off about his allegations. His statements fell short of slander by the width of an eyelash. He alluded to me cheating, due to not abiding by rules of his making, unofficial rules that only he knows.
I learned my lesson about some of the people who witnessed this bully's performance. They don't mind him abusing others. In fact, they enjoyed it. I could tell when some of them popped in with some side remark just so I would be aware they were there.
So my lesson is that there is a real and present danger to my spirit if I should think for a minute that my payment entitles me to participate just like anyone else.
Recently one of the Sycophants, in response to a statement I made about not being ashamed to be viewed in a competitive light, launched into a tirade about how he had 'really' been the winner of the last two contests in which I had been named the official winner. By his own admission, he had not entered the contests, nor abided by the rules.
I suppose he had that little faith in his own work that he wanted an insurance policy. If he ranked higher, because he got the popular vote, then he could claim (albiet falsely) victory. If he didn't get the popular vote, he could claim it didn't matter anyway, he was just doing it for 'fun'.
I was extremely hurt and pissed off about his allegations. His statements fell short of slander by the width of an eyelash. He alluded to me cheating, due to not abiding by rules of his making, unofficial rules that only he knows.
I learned my lesson about some of the people who witnessed this bully's performance. They don't mind him abusing others. In fact, they enjoyed it. I could tell when some of them popped in with some side remark just so I would be aware they were there.
So my lesson is that there is a real and present danger to my spirit if I should think for a minute that my payment entitles me to participate just like anyone else.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
My Newest Asshat
Quote - Gee, Soontobepublished writer, did someone write a caricature about you? ENDQUOTE
No, arsehat. They did a pathetic change of names to protect the self indulgent and then had the temerity to call it a short story.
By the way, anyone ever tell you ARSEHAT, that you come off sounding like a pompous, self aggrandizing bitch? I thought so. That is why I have emailed you, you art sucker, and requested that you never review my work.
Quote - Gee, Soontobepublished writer, did someone write a caricature about you? ENDQUOTE
No, arsehat. They did a pathetic change of names to protect the self indulgent and then had the temerity to call it a short story.
By the way, anyone ever tell you ARSEHAT, that you come off sounding like a pompous, self aggrandizing bitch? I thought so. That is why I have emailed you, you art sucker, and requested that you never review my work.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Leaving the EFF OFF but that he would.
A recent newcomer to the scene is one David H. Fears (as in go Eff yourself) Ears (or fears as is depicted in his POD melodrama Dark Blonde.) I prefer to leave the EFF OFF in hopes that he does too.
A most self-aggrandizing, sexist, gaping flaming rectum as I have had the displeasure of encountering since that unfortunate encounter with the IRS in 1986. One might only hope that the 'So You Think You Can Write' website to which I belong will be another in a long list of his endless litanies of Writesites that did not meet his standards.
In the meantime, 'Professor', and I use the term loosely, I am reminded of an old quote. If one person tells you that you are a horse....no big thing...shrug it off if you have a pretty good feeling that you're not a horse.
If two people tell you that you are a horse, then maybe you'd better check.
If three people tell you that you are a horse then you'd better go buy a saddle!
David H. Ears.... stop in at the saddlemakers.
A recent newcomer to the scene is one David H. Fears (as in go Eff yourself) Ears (or fears as is depicted in his POD melodrama Dark Blonde.) I prefer to leave the EFF OFF in hopes that he does too.
A most self-aggrandizing, sexist, gaping flaming rectum as I have had the displeasure of encountering since that unfortunate encounter with the IRS in 1986. One might only hope that the 'So You Think You Can Write' website to which I belong will be another in a long list of his endless litanies of Writesites that did not meet his standards.
In the meantime, 'Professor', and I use the term loosely, I am reminded of an old quote. If one person tells you that you are a horse....no big thing...shrug it off if you have a pretty good feeling that you're not a horse.
If two people tell you that you are a horse, then maybe you'd better check.
If three people tell you that you are a horse then you'd better go buy a saddle!
David H. Ears.... stop in at the saddlemakers.
Sucking Art Dry
This blog is dedicated to a woman called Marie, who has turned the fine art of encouragement into an exercise in defeating creativity.
After reading one of her ‘reviews’ of a really good short story, I am strongly motivated to write a science fiction short story of my own about a woman who enters an art gallery, or museum, and systematically perambulated through the halls viewing and critiquing the art. Except as she passes each piece, she inhales sharply and all the color, detail, and individuality drain out the bottom and are sucked into the black abyss of her lifeless, thin lips.
Left behind are frames with paint-by-numbers America's Most Wanted images, all alike, all in a row. Stay within the lines.
This blog is dedicated to a woman called Marie, who has turned the fine art of encouragement into an exercise in defeating creativity.
After reading one of her ‘reviews’ of a really good short story, I am strongly motivated to write a science fiction short story of my own about a woman who enters an art gallery, or museum, and systematically perambulated through the halls viewing and critiquing the art. Except as she passes each piece, she inhales sharply and all the color, detail, and individuality drain out the bottom and are sucked into the black abyss of her lifeless, thin lips.
Left behind are frames with paint-by-numbers America's Most Wanted images, all alike, all in a row. Stay within the lines.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Have a GRATE Summer! See You NEXT YEAR! 8th GRADE!
So today's saga chronicles a portion of a chapter I wrote yesterday in my new project Tallulah and Posomotor. I got the impression what another person wrote about exposing too much skin of another 'writer' might refer to my references to Sumac, an evil witch bitch who lies, betrays, and otherwise causes trouble for my protagonist and her little dog too.
It was, not all about me. Go figure.
So today's saga chronicles a portion of a chapter I wrote yesterday in my new project Tallulah and Posomotor. I got the impression what another person wrote about exposing too much skin of another 'writer' might refer to my references to Sumac, an evil witch bitch who lies, betrays, and otherwise causes trouble for my protagonist and her little dog too.
It was, not all about me. Go figure.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
SUBMISSION ACCEPTED!
Recently I wrote a story for a contest (and won) and then started looking around for possible places to submit the story to. I printed out the MS and sent it off with a hope and a prayer to Field Trial magazine. Today I received notice that my story, Honoring Other's Points has been accepted for publication in the fall issue.
Thank you Cubby, Mr. Hall, and most of all Booker, for providing inspiration for this story. Thank you Lesley C. Weston for telling me it was worthy. Thank you Moe, Lt. McCann, and Kai for believing in me.
Recently I wrote a story for a contest (and won) and then started looking around for possible places to submit the story to. I printed out the MS and sent it off with a hope and a prayer to Field Trial magazine. Today I received notice that my story, Honoring Other's Points has been accepted for publication in the fall issue.
Thank you Cubby, Mr. Hall, and most of all Booker, for providing inspiration for this story. Thank you Lesley C. Weston for telling me it was worthy. Thank you Moe, Lt. McCann, and Kai for believing in me.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Tallulah and Posomotor, The Familiar
My current project is called Tallulah and Posomotor, The Familiar. It began as a writing prompt given to me by my dear friend, Lesley C. Weston. She conjured up a list of words and challenged me to use them in a short story. I took on the challenge. Unlike The Fictioneer, I don't lie, make statements that competitions make me 'uncomfortable' and then enter them. I make no bones about it. I am competitive.
So The Familiar, as it was first dubbed, was a fun write. It has subsequently taken off, gathering itself up and launching into full flight heading toward novella.
The character Posomotor is a black standard poodle, a witch's familiar. Here is a photo of Posomotor.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Bookseller Chick
I discovered this extraordinary blog by its connection to Pub Rants, another equally splendid blog while attempting to identify the proper word count for the genre of my latest novel - as if it isn't all too complicated already what with it being a romance yet involving witches and their familiars, spells, potions, cooking and a road trip.
Stay tuned as I discover just where it fits in on the Bookseller Chick's shelf.
I discovered this extraordinary blog by its connection to Pub Rants, another equally splendid blog while attempting to identify the proper word count for the genre of my latest novel - as if it isn't all too complicated already what with it being a romance yet involving witches and their familiars, spells, potions, cooking and a road trip.
Stay tuned as I discover just where it fits in on the Bookseller Chick's shelf.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
The Fictioneer – The Saga Continues on and on and on and on and on….. ad nauseum
So the latest is that the Fictioneer has written THIRTY SIX novels. Assuming she started when she was fifteen or so, that means more than a novel a year. Pumping out that many words in that short a time span provides conclusive evidence that quantity is more important to her than quality.
She’s stated that she’s never attempted to find an agent nor get anything published. So what exactly IS the point? Beyond bragging about the staggering amount of paper wasted by this formulaic, irresponsible drivel to make others feel inadequate, what exactly is the motivation? Oh, wait, I think I answered my own question.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
HEM - Liberty Mutual Insurance Company Commercial
As usual, I have been watching the Food Channel and have been 'haunted' (pun intended) by a song played during the Liberty Mutual Insurance commercial. The song, I discovered, is called Half Acre and is on an album called Rabbit Songs by a group (new to me) called Hem. http://home.earthlink.net/~allabouthem/mean.htm
Now, I have to have that CD. Have to.
As usual, I have been watching the Food Channel and have been 'haunted' (pun intended) by a song played during the Liberty Mutual Insurance commercial. The song, I discovered, is called Half Acre and is on an album called Rabbit Songs by a group (new to me) called Hem. http://home.earthlink.net/~allabouthem/mean.htm
Now, I have to have that CD. Have to.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Summer Love Unrequited Love
I wrote a short story for a contest about Summer Love. It's a semi-true story (I am worried about calling anything a memoir after the Frey Fracas.)
It's about my mother and the boy she loved all of her life. It is a whole lot easier to love from afar, when you don't have to deal with all of their bad habits, though, isn't it.
If she had married him instead of my father, maybe my father would be the one she pined after. Was it the boy? Or was it the unrequited love she was after?
I wrote a short story for a contest about Summer Love. It's a semi-true story (I am worried about calling anything a memoir after the Frey Fracas.)
It's about my mother and the boy she loved all of her life. It is a whole lot easier to love from afar, when you don't have to deal with all of their bad habits, though, isn't it.
If she had married him instead of my father, maybe my father would be the one she pined after. Was it the boy? Or was it the unrequited love she was after?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
You’ve got another THINK coming
Recently I wrote in chapter one of Tallulah and Posomotor, the Familiar, ‘you’ve got another thing coming. One of my astute reviewers pointed out that the original phrase was, you think this or that, you’ve got another THINK coming.
I decided to check it out, since I am one of those individuals who is only too happy to learn something new.
I found this blog - John and Belle have a blog where John and Belle address the very issue at hand.
http://examinedlife.typepad.com/johnbelle/2005/03/youve_got_anoth.html
Seems to me- I’ve got another think coming.
© SelahWrites
Writer Shore
This interesting bit of blogdom showed up in the write site I utilize as the website of a new member.
I wonder what it all means.... 'Writers come here and we aggressively promote the best talent to the reading, writing, and publishing communities.'
Is Writer Shore an agent? This inquiring mind would love to know.
This interesting bit of blogdom showed up in the write site I utilize as the website of a new member.
I wonder what it all means.... 'Writers come here and we aggressively promote the best talent to the reading, writing, and publishing communities.'
Is Writer Shore an agent? This inquiring mind would love to know.
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