your package arrived this week, and i just picked it up yesterday. the cookies were not microscopic; they are very good indeed. thank you so much.
i’ll probably send thoughts on the music back through the mail with some other goodies for you, but your comment about springsteen is so timely. my mom has something of a problem with him, so i never grew up his music, and only just recently started listening to him. and just this week, in creative writing, i had to defend liking him. the kids in my class aren’t that much younger than me, but i got the impression that springsteen is music dads listen to.
Here’s something for all you Americans tired of Canadians acting superior:
I always forget that New England isn’t an actual state.
Today is Canada’s federal election.
Today’s song from my song-of-the-day calendar is “I was in the house when the house burned down” by Warren Zevon.
OK, so, my ‘something good every day’ plan has hit a snag, as I’m currently living on the last known dial-up connection in the modern world. Computer access is sketchy at best, and due dates are starting to come in. If I’m ever going to check off a few more of those stories on my list, I’ve got to put in some time working on endings to go with beginnings.
Turtle takes all gossip as a personal affront, though it’s never about him.
The stories John tells their son are called fairy tales. Children are cooked up in stews, and old ladies eaten by creatures called wolves, yet John continues to insist humans are the superior race.
– You drink now, Powell?
– That’s what New York does to men.
– New York? You’re not giving Georgia her due.
– Shall we drink to my ex-wife?
– And mine, too.
– To Georgia.
– To Georgia.
The telegram followed him from the studio, to the hotel, and into the bar, like it knew he was looking for a job. Fred was looking for a job, not Porter, but that’s who he finds waiting for him in Vancouver.
“Gunning for that marquee, Powell?”
Porter looks up from his martini, and points to a low glass of Scotch at the end of the bar. They have some things to talk about – not the least of which is Georgia – but, for now, Fred puts a stool between them.
a pretty good line buried in ten minutes against the clock:
They have dinner, not sex, which means this isn’t the life he woke up with.
tomorrow’s goal is a pretty good paragraph.
I think maybe I love pen and paper too much to keep an online journal. So I’m setting myself some goals. When I don’t have a story to post, or a song I need to blather about, I’m going to try to post a bit of writing everyday for a month. Not always within fandom, and often without context. My goal as a writer, for a very long time now, has been to write something every day, no matter how short, just something that’s good. If this works, maybe I’ll try the next thirty days.
This semester, I’m working on a half hour short film for school, but I’m thinking about it more like a pilot. This is the telegram that sets everything in motion:
LA SPIT HAWKS OUT STOP NY ATE POWELL ALIVE STOP FIRST ONE IN VANCOUVER GETS TOP BILLING STOP