I just finished writing Year of the Dog ! It had a massive plot hole that I had to fix which turned out to be more work than I expected. Here’s a snippet: “Hey, Auntie Nell.” He wrapped his arms around her, bussing her on the cheek and breathing in pikake flowers and shortbread cookies. And suddenly he was nine years old again, and her solid presence had made his chaotic world stable once more. “What are you doing here?” He usually took her to dinner on Wednesday nights, but today was Tuesday. The edges of her smile faltered a little before brightening right back up again. “What, I can’t visit my nephew?” She angled around him to enter his home. “Is this your new house? Looks lovely.” Which was a blatant lie, because the fixer-upper was barely livable, much less acceptable to a neat-freak like his aunt. She also left four matching pink and purple floral suitcases on the stoop behind her. Only then did Ashwin notice the cab driver standing slightly to the side of the walkway. “Can ...
Captain's Log, Stardate 10.09.2007
Today I went to lunch with my friend Dineen, and afterwards, we headed into Borders just to browse.
Borders has this section full of cute little notebooks. Small ones, big ones, colored paper ones, you name it. They also have pens and wallets and zippered bags and iPod cases.
I must have spent at least thirty minutes just going ga-ga over the stupid little notebooks!
What is it with notebooks and me? I can count the number of them that I’ve actually filled on the fingers of one hand. I have them all over the house, most with only a page or two written on, and an entire BOX of new ones in my closet.
And I keep coveting more!
This thing with notebooks is completely irrational. I cannot understand it, and I cannot stop it.
I also cannot seem to fill them with any speed. And considering how much I like to talk, that’s pathetic. I should at least be able to spout nothings enough to fill a few.
But when I open it to write inside, a part of my brain suddenly insists that I must only write meaningful things on the sacred pages. With a good pen, no cheap ballpoints. And then, of course, I have very little to say.
Isn’t that completely stupid?
What about you? Any irrational loves?
Today I went to lunch with my friend Dineen, and afterwards, we headed into Borders just to browse.
Borders has this section full of cute little notebooks. Small ones, big ones, colored paper ones, you name it. They also have pens and wallets and zippered bags and iPod cases.
I must have spent at least thirty minutes just going ga-ga over the stupid little notebooks!
What is it with notebooks and me? I can count the number of them that I’ve actually filled on the fingers of one hand. I have them all over the house, most with only a page or two written on, and an entire BOX of new ones in my closet.
And I keep coveting more!
This thing with notebooks is completely irrational. I cannot understand it, and I cannot stop it.
I also cannot seem to fill them with any speed. And considering how much I like to talk, that’s pathetic. I should at least be able to spout nothings enough to fill a few.
But when I open it to write inside, a part of my brain suddenly insists that I must only write meaningful things on the sacred pages. With a good pen, no cheap ballpoints. And then, of course, I have very little to say.
Isn’t that completely stupid?
What about you? Any irrational loves?
Comments
But I still can't help browsing the journals section of B&N every time I go in.
Although I do fill mine (the $.10 back-to-school sale ones)