I do not remember creating this blog or writing any of the entries.
Hope there’s nothing too embarrassing.
But, check it out:
I’m hosting the next HCL Open House, this Saturday at 6:30pm.
Hope to see you there.
Proudly barfing, hardly sleeping
of the air in the brain and the strain in the eyes and the notes in the piles and the strings in the cups and the jobs on the lines and the pink in the cheeks and the checks in the mail and the glare on the screen and the forks on the floor and the pain in the back and the folders in the stack.
I love my deadlines so much I could pop them. I could pop them off and crush them between my floor boards and my bundles of socks. I could hang them on nails and speak to them in Scottish accents until they have seizures and die.
70 degrees and over cast. I’ll wear my jean jacket and I’ll look forward to eating oysters on the half shell. And he will wear denim shorts and tall black socks. And we’ll talk about fires and books and mineral water. And we’ll quote Byron and try to remember our plans, and then we’ll go to an event. And the thing about these events is that it is the drinks after that really bring the people together.
When writer’s talk to each other, they maintain eye contact. Sometimes for several hours. It’s alarming.
of the writer who wrote a book. And then submitted that book. And that book was accepted. And now that book has a home. A place of it’s own. The writer is so happy. Happy for her book. And also just plain happy. She keeps laughing deliriously and trying new food. Chicken feet and satan. And baked oysters. And yellow beets covered in sea salt and burnt sugar and dark coffee grounds.
This is the story where you say out loud to yourself
someday I will be published
and today is that day.
Oh my fucking god.
of the paper on the calendar and the network on the phone and the hair in the sink and the cookies in the fridge and the grounds on the counter and the beer on the porch and the bacon in the oven and the crumbs in the butter and the hole in the floor and the water on the stove and the dirt in the sheets and the books on the bed and the porn in the kitchen and the radio on the island and the scotch tape on the ceiling.
The writer works from home.
1) Any news?
2) It sucks doesn’t it?
3) Have you eaten?
4) Come to the reading at The Hide Out with me.
5) You’re the best writer.
6) You are.
7) Remember that one essay in The Rumpus about Jesus and Don DeLillo?
8) Didn’t I write that essay?
9) You did! I loved that essay!
10) Thank you!
the writer quit her job. Her day job. Her restaurant. Not her restaurant. The restaurant that pays her five dollars an hour plus tips. Three days a week. She’s been there four years and now this Saturday is her last day. She turned in her kazoo. She emptied her flare onto the pavement. She fell on her knees.
For some reason they don’t put the mats down during dinner shifts. And she slipped and fell. To her knees. Bruised her knees. Cut her finger. Quit her job.
The writer got an ongoing freelance gig that’s fun and fast and pays about as much as a Saturday on a busy brunch patio. And then the writer remembered her old career as a figure model and put her name on some bulletin boards. And the hourly rate is considerably higher than it was nine years ago while the writer is still paying under a thousand a month for her two bedroom. And the writer has a small part in a small movie that will pay some real money, small. But, real.
There’s a million ways to not die.
It’s just me. No kids. No mortgage. No car.
There’s my husband. He drives a Honda. He has some jobs.
Two cats. Take pretty good care of themselves.
Student loans don’t scare the writer anymore.
Nothing really scares the writer. She’s been to the bonfires and seen all the lights. She’s got salt on the rim of her tin can and she’s eating her lunch out of a brown paper bag.
Caution. Wet floor.