“Words are loaded pistols.”

— Jean-Paul Sartre, writer and philosopher (1905-1980)

dear internets,

This is the worst news I’ve gotten all week, cuz I love my girl Rockstar Mommy. (more…)

“One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper patterns at the right moment.” — Hart Crane, poet (1899-1932)

“A word after a word after a word is power.”
— Margaret Atwood, poet and novelist (b. 1939)

Ten more good reads:

I am doing the best I can (because she writes about sex toys and makes me laugh)

Sweetney (because she’s anti-V.D., in her own special way

Three Kid Circus (because I’m trying to get better at all this, too)

My Own Circle of Confusion (I can always relate)

The Life of Riley (cuz I love hearing about Olive. I heart Olive. All of you out there planning to name your babies “Olivia” should please consider “Olive”)

Sundry Mourning (baby!!!)

Phoood!!! (especially for Planet Nomad, that one)

Sean Slinsky (Holly’s Sean! That link is one of my favorite posts she’s ever written, by the by.) (When you start reading Nothing But Bonfires all the sudden you start throwing around phrases like “by the by.”)

Butterflies! (just wanted to see if you were paying attention)

Crazy Bob’s House of Random Thoughts (just because I said so)

All for today!

ta-ta,

WM

From Zip:

“I found this beautiful winter poem and thought it might be a comfort to you. It was to me, and it’s very well written.”

“WINTER”
a poem by Abigail Elizabeth McIntyre…

“CRAP, It’s Cold !”

The End

“It is difficult/
to get the news from poems/
yet men die miserably every day/
for lack/
of what is found there”

— William Carlos Williams

Don’t Get It Right, Get It Written

Don’t Get It Right, Get It Written

Don’t Get It Right, Get It Written

Writing fiction this weekend. Wish me luck. Have a good Saturday and Sunday, y’all.

love,

wm

I’m writing out the rest of the Xmas cards. Does that count as fiction writing? I sure hope so. I’d like to think of something clever to say here, but I am just beat to hell tired. Damn holidays. Damn pressure. On a bright note, I cooked dinner tonight for the first time in… weeks. Months? Hard to say.

Hockey God: “Cooking a pot of beans and a pot of rice does not count as ‘cooking,’ per se.”
me: “Yes, it does.”
Hockey God: “But you didn’t do anything with them.”
me: “So?”

We had Tomato/Sweet Potato Soup that I made in the world-famous Rival Crockpot. (Thanks to my sis for the best Christmas present ever — still going strong, a year later.) I’ll list the ingredients, you put ’em together:

onions
garlic
celery
carrots
sweet potato cubes
tomatoes
vegetable broth
fresh rosemary
sage
salt n pepper

Yes, I made up this recipe myself, Suzy Homemaker that I am. It cooked on high for three hours and was just delicious. Would have been nice with white beans, too, or some smoked turkey.

Also, biscuits… and… vanilla cream pie with a graham cracker crust for dessert. Homemade, for both.

(Told you — brain donor.)

‘night,

WM

* sleep in. can I ever get enough sleep on these gray, drizzly days in the fall, in Portland? apparently not. I think I slept 11 hours last night. It was like magic.

* husband takes kids to school and goes to work. House is quiet. I can write now. Since I’m wide-awake and all. Instead…

* go for acupuncture. talk with doc re: cupping technique. My lungs (after 2 rounds of antibiotics, steroids, herbal teas, meditation, cardio, yoga, hot showers, sleep, stress reduction, drinking enough water) still were not anywhere near clear. Wheezing, coughing, etc. After cupping? Clear. Not totally, completely clear, but as close to “clear” as they have been in some time.

* I curse mold; damp; mildewy leaves; my old house; various allergies; asthma diagnosis.

* talk with doc re: large circular bruises on my upper back cuz of cupping and my husband’s “freak-out episode” when he saw them. “What the hell? I mean, what the hell?” etc. (glass cups are heated with fire and stuck on your back. It sounds crazy but feels great.) (also the doc pounded on my back and massaged it, and threw a bunch of needles into me.)

* I love acupuncture. I do not love herbal concoctions they taste nasty, even if you combine them with raspberry tea.

* Writing? Writing. Leave doc’s, ignore coffee houses, come home.

* dishes, laundry, coffee, talk with painter re: our kitchen floor. It’s tragic, the floor. Ugly vinyl, banged up, doesn’t meet at edges, doesn’t look clean no matter how much it’s mopped. Do we replace the floor? Painter knows someone, gives me their number.

* I curse the kitchen floor.

* Wacky Cats 2 & 3 in a fight. I curse the cat (the kitten, he’s a thumper) and put him outside. He tears out the door and is now stalking birds.

* More coffee. Time for lunch. No time for lunch, will write.

* It’s noon. Write.

…am still writing fiction. Who knew I could finish chapter after chapter? How many chapters should it have? Twenty-four? Twenty-seven? How long do you like your novels to be? I like mine around 275 pages. What is the word count on 275 pages? One hundred thousand? I think that’s around what I have. This is better than knitting. It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life, Internets.

Truly though, what I’m doing is cleaning up and revising chapters I wrote ages ago. Some I have no idea when or where. I’ve come across a few new characters — characters I made up and do not remember at all, mind you — and it’s kinda fun — like meeting someone for the first time. Maybe those were some 4 a.m. creations? No idea.

I got through three drafts of this novel, tore it to shreds to start a fourth draft, then flung it across the room. (Not really — but I did click “save” on the file and didn’t re-open it.)

Leave me a note, would ya? I want to know what everyone’s up to out there. It’s storming like mad here. We’ve had an unusual amount of rain and wind here in the Pacific Northwest. And wish my mother-in-law luck — she’s flying back to Denver tomorrow.

WM