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mallorys_cameraHow sad is it that I am never going to get to go to Montenegro, and see the Emperor Justinian's fortress in the ancient town of Kotor, and the cathedral of the apocryphal St. Tryphon?
Pretty fucking sad, if you ask me.
New client is [your Big Internet Travel Site goes here.] I'm churning out short travelogues for them. Short, but actually somewhat challenging to write since the fluff quotient has to be managed so they are extremely dense. Yesterday I wrote about Montenegro, which sounds like the most fascinating place on the planet. Or maybe the second most fascinating place – the Lydian tombs and the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus on Turkey's Turquoise Coast are still the places I dream about the most.
In the interests of productivity, I've been locking myself up, tunneling down and just pounding out the words. At dusk, I leave my computer post and float outside to water the garden. The roses I pruned are doing nicely. Some insect is trying to eat my ghost chilis. My cucumbers and coriander haven't germinated yet. I want to put in lemon balm, lemongrass, lemon thyme, maybe tarragon and marjoram. Nobody will ever use them for cooking — herbes du Provence are not big in this household – but I like the way they smell.
In the interstices of my mind, I kept pondering the question yesterday: What would make me happy? I would be really happy if I got that Stegner Fellowship. Two years ago I came so-o close. I think this year I have to try harder. Maybe put together a support team of pals who can pretend to be lit crits and tear me savagely apart for comma abuse.
Also, in the process of investigating possible mentors for the Future Mother of My Unborn Grandchildren yesterday, I stumbled across the information that ___ ______ – remember him? – actually lives on Lawn Guyland. Suffolk County, but still. He professes English at Long Island University. I'm not at all sure how I would feel about seeing ___ ______ at this remote date, but I would luv to send him a copy of the blistering short story I wrote about him and Ann – careless people, careless people. Though not strictly in the Daisy Buchanan sense.
Pretty fucking sad, if you ask me.
New client is [your Big Internet Travel Site goes here.] I'm churning out short travelogues for them. Short, but actually somewhat challenging to write since the fluff quotient has to be managed so they are extremely dense. Yesterday I wrote about Montenegro, which sounds like the most fascinating place on the planet. Or maybe the second most fascinating place – the Lydian tombs and the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus on Turkey's Turquoise Coast are still the places I dream about the most.
In the interests of productivity, I've been locking myself up, tunneling down and just pounding out the words. At dusk, I leave my computer post and float outside to water the garden. The roses I pruned are doing nicely. Some insect is trying to eat my ghost chilis. My cucumbers and coriander haven't germinated yet. I want to put in lemon balm, lemongrass, lemon thyme, maybe tarragon and marjoram. Nobody will ever use them for cooking — herbes du Provence are not big in this household – but I like the way they smell.
In the interstices of my mind, I kept pondering the question yesterday: What would make me happy? I would be really happy if I got that Stegner Fellowship. Two years ago I came so-o close. I think this year I have to try harder. Maybe put together a support team of pals who can pretend to be lit crits and tear me savagely apart for comma abuse.
Also, in the process of investigating possible mentors for the Future Mother of My Unborn Grandchildren yesterday, I stumbled across the information that ___ ______ – remember him? – actually lives on Lawn Guyland. Suffolk County, but still. He professes English at Long Island University. I'm not at all sure how I would feel about seeing ___ ______ at this remote date, but I would luv to send him a copy of the blistering short story I wrote about him and Ann – careless people, careless people. Though not strictly in the Daisy Buchanan sense.
