Luckily I'm no longer a 'purist' so I can ingest the horrible ingredients of the syrup that taste so darn good.Voice: You'll pay for this, Ruthie, when you grow a little sugar beard on your chin.
Got a survey from NaNo - November is Novel-Writing Group.
I filled out the survey and then filled out my personal story.
Anyone know where those emoticons are? Oh, well.
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Four years ago I wrote a terrific novel on MediaBistro, paid over a thou for an editor to read it, but couldn't find an agent.
This is my second novel, my first with NaNo. I debated over a week about the subject. Finally decided what it would be about and am really psyched about the plot.
Word count is NOT important to me, but I like the cheerleading aspect of NaNo. I never went on the site as it's a waste of time for me.
I keep up my writing pace, knowing my "reader" - a dear friend of mine - was awaiting the latest chapter. Her suggestions are very valuable. Best of all, she loves it and said she learns a lot from reading it.
I force myself to write whether I'm in the mood or not. I never know from one chapter to the next what's going to happen. This is definitely scary but I work through it.
The last chapter - Chapter Fifteen - took place at Goddard College in Plainfield, VT, which I attended. Tommy, my main character arrives there, and then I was stumped. Usually my 'thinking time' is about two minutes, but here, I had to stuff myself with Trail Mix and contemplate nearly 15 minutes.
Finally, an idea arrived and I knew it was a terrific idea. Tommy, a former monk, has an unexpected sexual encounter and falls in love.
As always, I emailed the chapter to myself and read it in the morning. Then I sent it to my reader.
Adam, librarian at the Upper Moreland Library outside Philly, hosted a few of us in a 'silent room' at the library. He was good enough to provide us with Starbucks coffee, which made its way into my novel.
Each chapter is about 10 double-spaced pages. I won't stop until the chapter is finished. I usually write late at night, sipping on hot coffee or hot tea.
I always wear my comfy PJs. At 2 in the morning, I might go outside in the dark night and look up at the stars. I'll also hop on my stationery bike since I eat too much while I write.
I do plan to publish it. I'm 70 yo and can't wait forever. I have the names of a couple of small presses. I am not optimistic about their publishing it. When/if that doesn't happen, I'll self-publish.
Meantime, I keep reading the greats - currently Wallace Stegner, Larry McMurtry, and Tony Hillerman.
Thanks for reading this. I'll be back next year.
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I was charged with a couple of important things today. Finding a criminal lawyer. And speaking to my friend "Stella" who in three short days has been to the Abington ER, where she thought she was gonna die, and now has been transferred to The Rose Garden, the rehab of Ann's Choice.
They give her medicine that makes her shit uncontrollably and she can't do a thing about it. All I do is listen to her. It's important to her but there's not a thing I can do to help.
I wanted to write a new poem and mail it to Judy D in Niwot CO. Why not write another Nail Polish poem, I thought.
I also sent it to my friend Carolyn C. In her letter to me, she said she refuses to watch any more TV about the terrorist attacks. The latest was San Bernardino, CA.
So I had two letters to write and then find the Mailman, always a challenge.
Still in my PJs, I hopped on my shiny gray steed and galloped up Cowbell, then cruised around, and there was his truck.
But where was HE?
I slowly cruised the road - listening to an audio book I finally decided was boring - as I watched, like a frog for movement. Finally I saw him across the street, limping. So I knew it was Mailman Ken.
Question is, Will I be able to fortitude myself upstairs to write tonite?
Watched the first episode of Atelier, a co-production of Netflix and a Japanese production company. If it was so good, how come I was waiting for it to end?Yes, that's what I'll do tonight. I watch perhaps Blue Bloods and A Person of Interest and then I'll chain myself to my upstairs computer.
One more cuppa hot chocolate will be okay, don't you think? she said, fingering the start of her sugar beard.
Lemme tell you something. I just drained my second cup of hot chocolate. The chocolate stuck to the bottom and I tasted it.
Absolutely disgusting. It did not taste like food. Lesson duly learned.
PERFECT SHADE OF
PASSION
Oh,
Ozzie, there you are again
with
diamonds in your ears
and
a rat-a-tat patter of your
sneaks
as you depart from
your
loving ladies in
the
back.
Hello,
Dear, you call, and
I
pretend you have been
awaiting
my return, o sexy
celebrity
of nail salons
Help
me, I say, pretending
naiveté,
help me choose the
right
shade. He picks up my
limp
hand and walks me to
the
Woolworth counter where
once
I bought Westmore
lipsticks.
The
colors dazzle like
balloons
ascending when
the
Mets finally won.
Pink,
I whisper. But which
one,
Ozzie, which one?
One
of his ringed fingers
plucks
like an apple off a
tree
the perfect color. I
clutch
it to my bosom
and
Tina applies it with
a
steady hand.
Life’s
often a bore. You
must
remember I say
to
myself as I view the
deep
pink while digging
into
my eggs this morning
that
nail polish
a
simple coat
brings
unremitting joy
to
my mind.
I returned the Hershey's Lite Syrup to the Giant this morning and got my money back. I simply told Lynda.... it tastes terrible. They're working on the beer garden at the coffee shop. The room is dark n dreary.
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