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Lazy mood today. Kinda wish I lived in simpler times when I didn’t have to worry about Ebola epidemics, and literary inspiration was as simple as a stroll to the corner drugstore for an egg cream and a Benzedrine inhaler.
Must get cracking on this year’s Stegner stories.
Thinking of reviving Terroir and Jayne Legro, but maybe telling it from the POV of the spurned woman’s 14 year old son and including Justin’s suicide.
Recent excursion to the Russian Tea Room made me think again of writing a Roberta story: Two magical 12-year-old girls wandering through Central Park, spinning stories about passers-by (stories that always ended in hideous matricides although both of us were too innocent at the time to understand what we were chronicling.) And what became of those two little girls. Roberta and her husband in their horrible apartment, playing with toys; Patty in the Hood River Valley, channeling Steinbeck migrants. Of course this story would have to be rooted in a specific time period – no two little girls living in Manhattan today would have an ounce of that freedom that we two neglected little waifs had.
Final story drawn from the phrase I always use to describe my unusual friendship with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bel_ebat: Mitford Sisters in a Previous Life. I don’t have a clue what that story would be about, but I really like the phrase and it would make a great title.
Have struggled this week with Killer App (not a great title): Didn’t write at all when Liza was here and then found it… difficult to get back into the glib voice necessary for fiction that’s only really intended to be read as a diversion while your plane is being highjacked by ISIS terrorists.
While Liza was here and we were talking about The Future – her future, Max’s future, the future of my unborn grandchildren – I asked her, “So, isn’t there one thing that you absolutely knew you were born to do from a very early age?”
And she looked surprised and answered, “No! I think that’s very rare, don’t you? I don’t think most people have any kind of sense of that.”
Huh.
Because I’ve always assumed that most people do.
And my thing was writing. Telling stories. From a very early age. Maybe three. Maybe younger. As increasingly irrelevant as the act of writing is in an age where attention spans are shorter and shorter, and imaginations are ever more conscripted by mass-produced myths fueled by profit motives.
I must be more of a Special Snowflake than even I ever imagined.
Because you could say that the purpose of my entire life has been collecting bizarre experiences that I could then turn into narratives.
Must get cracking on this year’s Stegner stories.
Thinking of reviving Terroir and Jayne Legro, but maybe telling it from the POV of the spurned woman’s 14 year old son and including Justin’s suicide.
Recent excursion to the Russian Tea Room made me think again of writing a Roberta story: Two magical 12-year-old girls wandering through Central Park, spinning stories about passers-by (stories that always ended in hideous matricides although both of us were too innocent at the time to understand what we were chronicling.) And what became of those two little girls. Roberta and her husband in their horrible apartment, playing with toys; Patty in the Hood River Valley, channeling Steinbeck migrants. Of course this story would have to be rooted in a specific time period – no two little girls living in Manhattan today would have an ounce of that freedom that we two neglected little waifs had.
Final story drawn from the phrase I always use to describe my unusual friendship with
bel_ebat: Mitford Sisters in a Previous Life. I don’t have a clue what that story would be about, but I really like the phrase and it would make a great title.Have struggled this week with Killer App (not a great title): Didn’t write at all when Liza was here and then found it… difficult to get back into the glib voice necessary for fiction that’s only really intended to be read as a diversion while your plane is being highjacked by ISIS terrorists.
While Liza was here and we were talking about The Future – her future, Max’s future, the future of my unborn grandchildren – I asked her, “So, isn’t there one thing that you absolutely knew you were born to do from a very early age?”
And she looked surprised and answered, “No! I think that’s very rare, don’t you? I don’t think most people have any kind of sense of that.”
Huh.
Because I’ve always assumed that most people do.
And my thing was writing. Telling stories. From a very early age. Maybe three. Maybe younger. As increasingly irrelevant as the act of writing is in an age where attention spans are shorter and shorter, and imaginations are ever more conscripted by mass-produced myths fueled by profit motives.
I must be more of a Special Snowflake than even I ever imagined.
Because you could say that the purpose of my entire life has been collecting bizarre experiences that I could then turn into narratives.
