So that's the title of my memoir, above. I haven't started it yet. That's the fear part. Perhaps telling you about it before it's been begun is the self-loathing part. Whatever the case it will be self-reflexive. An investigated life, as told by an unreliable narrator. Bingo.
The title for my future novel? "Love in the Time of Suburbia." I've already bought the domain. This is the thing, to not compare this writing experience to the Star Craving experience, which was mapped out, outlined and workshopped on a regular basis. I gotta work with what I got. I ain't getting any younger and my bio is collecting dust. Anyway it would be like comparing childbirth experiences. Hamish was a battle to the bloody death. I wanted to die. Stella? A dream. I ate an entire chopped liver sandwich while eight centimeters dilated. Does it get better than that? It does! My midwife was sure I'd throw it up, and Reader I tell you, I kept it down.
A teen novel. No vampires. But lots of terrible sex and bored yearning young ones with cellulite and braces and pimples who cheat during field hockey practice and walk, gossiping the whole time instead of jogging around the field. I had a title for that one in my journal, the pastel pink notebook with the skulls and hearts on the cover. There's something about teenage girls that makes me want to become a high school guidance counselor and relive the agony, guide them blindly into the fires of adolescent hell, or not. Maybe teach them yoga one day. Do they have yoga in the curriculum in high schools yet? I could be the new-agey specialty teacher who sneaks the kids special "vitamins." Or maybe give them a deranged homicidal history teacher to contend with. Fictionally speaking. Hm. So much to think about. So busy in the old brain.
Shalom,
The title for my future novel? "Love in the Time of Suburbia." I've already bought the domain. This is the thing, to not compare this writing experience to the Star Craving experience, which was mapped out, outlined and workshopped on a regular basis. I gotta work with what I got. I ain't getting any younger and my bio is collecting dust. Anyway it would be like comparing childbirth experiences. Hamish was a battle to the bloody death. I wanted to die. Stella? A dream. I ate an entire chopped liver sandwich while eight centimeters dilated. Does it get better than that? It does! My midwife was sure I'd throw it up, and Reader I tell you, I kept it down.
A teen novel. No vampires. But lots of terrible sex and bored yearning young ones with cellulite and braces and pimples who cheat during field hockey practice and walk, gossiping the whole time instead of jogging around the field. I had a title for that one in my journal, the pastel pink notebook with the skulls and hearts on the cover. There's something about teenage girls that makes me want to become a high school guidance counselor and relive the agony, guide them blindly into the fires of adolescent hell, or not. Maybe teach them yoga one day. Do they have yoga in the curriculum in high schools yet? I could be the new-agey specialty teacher who sneaks the kids special "vitamins." Or maybe give them a deranged homicidal history teacher to contend with. Fictionally speaking. Hm. So much to think about. So busy in the old brain.
Shalom,
2 comments:
did you see my tweet?
also, is it "too long didn't read"?
even if that person is nice, that is not a nice thing to say. i don't like that at all. don't read if you don't want, but you don't have to SAY you didn't read. after all, it's your space to do whatever you want here: ramble, think out loud, make sense, confuse, gear up for the 2nd novel. whatev. doesn't matter. your name is on it, after all.
anyway, in case you didn't see my tweet, i'm filling up your love vat, one comment and tweet at a time.
xoxox
Thanks for the heads up re: tweet. I got it! Thank you, you are, as always, a love.
And thanks for reminding me that this is my party, I'll party how I want to. I forget this over and over, in cyberspace and in life.
Vats overflowing!
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