A few moments ago, I started thinking seriously about going to bed. Several persuasive conditions were leading me to the sleepytime arena:
- It’s past midnight. Normal people are asleep now.
- I’m at a boring part in the book I’m reading. (Actually, all of Lisey’s Story is boring so far. It’s Stephen King’s attempt at writing proper lit’rature. I like him a lot better when he’s siccing nasty ghoulies on affable everyday people.)
- I’ve resigned myself to the bitter truth: we won’t be getting any snow tonight. May as well go to bed.
- Someone (AND I’D BLOODY WELL LIKE TO KNOW WHO) drank all my Diet Coke. There’s more in the fridge but I can’t get to it without disturbing the kitty on my feet. (This is one of those times when I miss having a roommate/live-in/house slave. How can I be expected to tend to my own beverage needs when I have cats snuggling on me?)
- I don’t feel like writing my Great American Masterpiece just now. Bookish Jet isn’t the only one with low writer self esteem. (Though really, BJ—may I call you BJ? On second thought, maybe not… Though really, Bookish Jet: C’mon, it wasn’t that bad. I liked your character and tone.)
- And I definitely don’t feel like writing my NoveList slag about Omar Tyree.
He’s a bad writer—and hey, lots of people are bad writers. That’s cool. If it gets people to read, bully for them.
But most bad writers don’t have this ego thang going on. Tyree feels like he’s being overlooked for the big awards because he writes about sex and drugs.
Got news for ya, honey. You’re not getting any awards because your writing sucks. You may think you’re being sophisticated by substituting “she mused” or “she contemplated” for plain ol’ “she thought,” but it takes more than a few synonyms to achieve good writing.
Where was I? … Right, right. I’d just concluded that my life is frightfully dull and that I may as well go to sleep because consciousness is boring beyond words, and also because I want some more Diet Coke, when I got a text message.
Only two people ever text me. One of them is Won’t, who never has anything interesting to say. This isn’t really his fault. There’s only so much you can write before you get frustrated with typing a message on a cellphone. “How R U?” is about the most I ever care to type, m’self. Besides, Won’t is lucky enough to live in the same town as I do. He can ask me variations of “How R U?” in person. He is very fortunate like that.
The other person who texts me is Marian the Librarian, who is not lucky enough to live in the same town as me. She lives in Kansas or Missouri or one them, I never can remember. Right at this moment she is even further distant from me, which must be causing her unbearable suffering. Only those of you who don’t live near me will be able to sympathize.
Marian is in Seattle at a liberry conference. This is the message she just sent me:
“Just got U reviewing gig @ Booklist 4 graphic novels. OK?”
I’d say that trumps “How R U?,” whaddaya think?
Teehee! Booklist is a big review journal thingy. Awesome.
I love graphic novels. I love writing about books. And more than anything, I love having people read what I wrote.
That makes for a fabulous end to a day that started out pretty sucky. It started as usual: I was on my couch reading the morning news, and I was not a pretty sight. (Jessica Kennedy-Rockefeller does not want you to know this, but I have the whole Medusa thing going on in the morning. You’d think my hair was sentient, the way it moves on its own. It’s only with a combination of water, gel, wax, and heavy cursing that I get it to look reasonable.)
So there I was on the couch, groggy and morning-breathy and hideous to behold, when someone knocked on the door. Scared Gobin right off my feet.
In my truly ugly purple bathrobe, I stood up and answered the door. It was my neighbor from downstairs letting me know my car had been egged last night.
I’m no stranger to vandalism. When I lived in Greensboro I had my tires slashed, my window broken, and my kitchen flooded. (Upstairs neighbors left the water running, deliberately, causing the entire kitchen ceiling to collapse.)
Eggs are really nothing compared to what I’ve put up with before, and for a lovely change, I don’t think this was aimed directly at me. Two other cars were egged, as well.
Doesn’t mean I understand it, though. Really, what are vandals thinking? I can understand spraypainting graffiti. Graffiti can be art, or it can be political, or it can tell Brandi Lee that you Luv her 4-EvR.
But what’s the logic of throwing an egg at somebody’s car? “Oh goody, I will cause suffering, inconvenience, and possible paint damage to someone I don’t know! This makes me feel better about myself!”
Eh. It was pretty easy to clean up, actually, what with all the sleetey rain. And that makes for the second time in two days that I’ve attended to the maintenance of my car.
Yesterday, all by myself (WITH NO HELP FROM YOU LOT, THANKS FOR YOUR CONCERN) I went to a 7-11. Turns out you have to push the little lever thingy down when you have the nozzle hooked up to your tire.
(Okay, I wasn’t entirely by myself. Had to call Dad, aka A Man, to help me out. He’s the one who clued me in to the lever trick.)
And now I really must go to bed. I have a lot of things to do tomorrow (pleasure reading, pleasure writing, and work writing, in that order) before I embark on my New Scary Enterprise.
I will be attending a yoga class. I am absolutely petrified. I’m not scared of much, really. (This is a lie. To be truthful, I am afraid of everything, except maybe for reading and bunny rabbits.) But I am especially scared of physical things with groups of people.
Yoga seems neat to me though, and near as I can tell, it doesn’t involve jogging or running around a field or trying to convince a ball to go into a goal. Plus, it has come to my attention that leading a completely inert lifestyle is, possibly, less than perfectly healthy.
Bookish Jet nudged me into it, so I figure I can at least try one class. If it’s really terrible I will change my name and move to a different state. If I like it, I’ll try to find the money to pay for the classes.
“Your problem,” Bookish Jet told me, when I whined about the price as an excuse to not try it, “is that you need a second income. You need a man.”
Ha, ha. See if she gets good edits from me ever again.