Whenever my husband and I pass a vacant storefront in the neighborhood, we jokingly discuss the logistics of renting it to turn into a writing shop. There I'd sit in front of the plate glass window, writing on demand. A While-U-Wait operation, perhaps with a laundromat nearby so customers can pass the time or buy a soda. In this scenario, I'd sell short profiles for fifty cents, and a poem for a quarter.
Turns out I'm selling myself short. Molly Gaudry came up with the idea to charge one dollar American currency for a poem written just for the recipient, but is willing to accept donations beyond that modest fee. And this smart cookie set up shop on the Internet, bypassing that whole "rent" issue.
Of course I felt compelled to support another writer, and promptly placed my PayPal order. But I didn't necessarily want to dictate what she wrote about. (Come to think about it, that is one thing that sullies the idea of my imaginary writing shop: having assignments.) Molly will work with or without guidelines, and here is what she wrote for me: O.K., O.K.?
I love free enterprise. Does this make me a patron of the arts? I suddenly want to commission a painting.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Cigarettes & Sporks: An Earth Day Report
Yesterday, as I was driving to the mall wearing my eco-friendly brown polymer suit, windows down, Foo Fighters coming from the speakers, the woman in the car in front of me flicked her cigarette out the window. The forces of wind sent the lipstick-laced butt into my car window, where it landed smack-dab on my arm. I now have the circular initiation burn mark I've always dreamed of. When the swelling goes down, the mark will blend nicely with my forearm's constellation of freckles. (Little Dipper or Big Dipper, depending on your angle.)
OK, this didn't really happen. But the woman in the car ahead of me was smoking, windows down, and as the smoke wafted into my open window, I thought, What if? It would be a little bit hilarious, on Earth Day, to sustain minor injury from someone's ignited litter. Maybe "hilarious" is the wrong word. Painful, ironic, humiliating, furor-inducing?
No, I stand by hilarious.
Every mall worth its salt and fat contains a food court, and part of my Earth Day celebration took place there. (The polymer suit, alas, is also a work of fiction.) No, I did not need a plastic fork to eat my pizza slice. No, I did not need extra napkins. I did need, later, a cherry slushie float from Dairy Queen -- half price, as this DQ holds a regular afternoon Happy Hour.
My Earth Day maybe was not the most nutritious.
Moving on. It is certainly good to consider all the extra napkins, sporks, straws, etc. we use in a given day. The cans and bottles we toss when there's no recycling bin around. I'm a longtime recycler, but I'm nowhere near the level of Renee Sweany, the founder of Green Piece Indy, who I wrote about for this week's NUVO as part of their Green Guide.
Talking to her inspired me: besides a basement full of recyclable/reusable items that I'm eager to purge, I've been seriously thinking of getting some worms to make compost for the garden this year. They do a nice little turnaround with your kitchen scraps. I'm somewhat concerned about where to keep a big ole container of worms. But it looks like some space will be opening up in the basement soon.
OK, this didn't really happen. But the woman in the car ahead of me was smoking, windows down, and as the smoke wafted into my open window, I thought, What if? It would be a little bit hilarious, on Earth Day, to sustain minor injury from someone's ignited litter. Maybe "hilarious" is the wrong word. Painful, ironic, humiliating, furor-inducing?
No, I stand by hilarious.
Every mall worth its salt and fat contains a food court, and part of my Earth Day celebration took place there. (The polymer suit, alas, is also a work of fiction.) No, I did not need a plastic fork to eat my pizza slice. No, I did not need extra napkins. I did need, later, a cherry slushie float from Dairy Queen -- half price, as this DQ holds a regular afternoon Happy Hour.
My Earth Day maybe was not the most nutritious.
Moving on. It is certainly good to consider all the extra napkins, sporks, straws, etc. we use in a given day. The cans and bottles we toss when there's no recycling bin around. I'm a longtime recycler, but I'm nowhere near the level of Renee Sweany, the founder of Green Piece Indy, who I wrote about for this week's NUVO as part of their Green Guide.
Talking to her inspired me: besides a basement full of recyclable/reusable items that I'm eager to purge, I've been seriously thinking of getting some worms to make compost for the garden this year. They do a nice little turnaround with your kitchen scraps. I'm somewhat concerned about where to keep a big ole container of worms. But it looks like some space will be opening up in the basement soon.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Whole Lotta Links
Hello, beautiful nobody and everybody. Spring is all up in your business, no? Yes.
Please take a moment from your frolicking to read my interview with writer Steve Almond, here at Knee-Jerk Magazine. Congrats to Knee-Jerk for getting honorable mention (along with Cerise Press and Slush Pile) as best new online journal/magazine from storySouth's Million Writers Award competition. Top honors went to kill author, which published my short fiction, Sex in Secret, in Issue Two. They're already working on Issue Six, those busy anonymous editors.
And now back to spring: trail-walking (and there's Christopher on his bike. Hi, Christopher!), eating Indiana honey crisp apples at Locally Grown Gardens (Chef Ron rules: he quotes Ice Cube, plays reggae nonstop, and refers to "the culture-transgressive gift of fruits and vegetables"), picking up the pot of tulips knocked over by squirrel or wind for the second time today. Squirrel, I know it's you. But I shake your tiny, grimy paw today, pally-o. Frolic away.
Please take a moment from your frolicking to read my interview with writer Steve Almond, here at Knee-Jerk Magazine. Congrats to Knee-Jerk for getting honorable mention (along with Cerise Press and Slush Pile) as best new online journal/magazine from storySouth's Million Writers Award competition. Top honors went to kill author, which published my short fiction, Sex in Secret, in Issue Two. They're already working on Issue Six, those busy anonymous editors.
And now back to spring: trail-walking (and there's Christopher on his bike. Hi, Christopher!), eating Indiana honey crisp apples at Locally Grown Gardens (Chef Ron rules: he quotes Ice Cube, plays reggae nonstop, and refers to "the culture-transgressive gift of fruits and vegetables"), picking up the pot of tulips knocked over by squirrel or wind for the second time today. Squirrel, I know it's you. But I shake your tiny, grimy paw today, pally-o. Frolic away.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
You Wouldn't Understand
An early-April deadline is a-looming, and a crazy couple days are a-coming. My superior math skillz indicate that means I must write 1,000 words between now and tonight's Syracuse game.
But HOW?
Sit down and do it, is the short answer. The long answer is a leetle more complicated.
Because there's a list of other things to do, too. And not on that list, but already accomplished:
1. Take a nap
2. Eat some stuff
3. Muse about ways to cleverly link the two bumper stickers seen Tuesday: "It's a Jeep Thing - You Wouldn't Understand" and "It's a Vince Gill Thing - You Wouldn't Understand." Think indignantly, Hey, I MIGHT understand! Just give me a freakin' chance, boss. Then realize that no, I do not understand Jeeps, nor Vince Gill, and I likely never will.
4. Remember that article about Vince Gill and Amy Grant and their blended family, and their refusal to talk about THE PAST. It was in Good Housekeeping, or Self, or People, read in some waiting room or other. VG: How can we understand you if you won't tell us anything?
5. Consider that Vince Gill might like being misunderstood. That his fans prefer exclusivity, and actively practice the shunning of outsiders. Mystery, excitement, etc.
6. But that doesn't explain the Jeeps. WHO CAN EXPLAIN THE JEEPS?
7. Think about getting ahead by making four dozen basil-cheese triangles for party. Remember that I need to write. Put off making basil-cheese triangles. Why do I always make those things? Phyllo dough is the most labor-intensive food substance on the planet.
8. Need to clean out fridge to make room for party food. Eat some more stuff.
9. Consider where to watch Syracuse game, since neighborhood sports bar is a Butler bar. Wonder if bodily harm will befall those who show up in orange.
10. Understand that a link between Vince Gill and Jeeps will come when I least expect it. Like maybe while writing 1,000 words en route to meeting deadline.
But HOW?
Sit down and do it, is the short answer. The long answer is a leetle more complicated.
Because there's a list of other things to do, too. And not on that list, but already accomplished:
1. Take a nap
2. Eat some stuff
3. Muse about ways to cleverly link the two bumper stickers seen Tuesday: "It's a Jeep Thing - You Wouldn't Understand" and "It's a Vince Gill Thing - You Wouldn't Understand." Think indignantly, Hey, I MIGHT understand! Just give me a freakin' chance, boss. Then realize that no, I do not understand Jeeps, nor Vince Gill, and I likely never will.
4. Remember that article about Vince Gill and Amy Grant and their blended family, and their refusal to talk about THE PAST. It was in Good Housekeeping, or Self, or People, read in some waiting room or other. VG: How can we understand you if you won't tell us anything?
5. Consider that Vince Gill might like being misunderstood. That his fans prefer exclusivity, and actively practice the shunning of outsiders. Mystery, excitement, etc.
6. But that doesn't explain the Jeeps. WHO CAN EXPLAIN THE JEEPS?
7. Think about getting ahead by making four dozen basil-cheese triangles for party. Remember that I need to write. Put off making basil-cheese triangles. Why do I always make those things? Phyllo dough is the most labor-intensive food substance on the planet.
8. Need to clean out fridge to make room for party food. Eat some more stuff.
9. Consider where to watch Syracuse game, since neighborhood sports bar is a Butler bar. Wonder if bodily harm will befall those who show up in orange.
10. Understand that a link between Vince Gill and Jeeps will come when I least expect it. Like maybe while writing 1,000 words en route to meeting deadline.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Be the Bear
I am coming out of hibernation, but slowly, so as not to startle my nervous system.
Today I saw a crocus blooming. My crocus, because I planted it. As if I can stake a claim on such a thing.
The end of hibernation requires sustenance. When I called the cajun eatery to see what was on tonight's menu, the man said my favorite vegetarian dish, the B&B (which stands for I don't know what), was unavailable. "Waitaminute," said the man, and asked around. "OK. It's not on the menu, but we'll have it. Just ask." Bears are not vegetarian, and neither am I. But we want what we want. And we like when the neighborhood takes care of its own.
Bears and birds can be friends. Bears and squirrels have an iffier relationship. As for chipmunks, bears can't be bothered with chipmunks. They are too small, though they have much else to admire. They have grit, are hard-working, affable. So when one paticularly tenacious climber ascends the shepherd's hook to the birdfeeder, finally figuring out how to leap past the squirrel baffle that baffles only the human who put it there, a bear's gotta give a chipmunk credit. Even if the chipmunk appears to be doing unspeakable things to the birdfeeder, defiling it in a most egregious fashion. No longer cute and spunky but perverse and vile. Yet fascinating, in a PBS nature special kind of way. Do bears like to watch chipmunks simulate sex via orgiastic eating? That's an extremely personal question.
On the trail I saw a tough guy walking a big fluffy dog-show dog. And a petite lady with a shaky chihuahua. No bears, though.
Reading is a must both during and after hibernation. After, when the sun's out, a book on the porch cures most of the world's ills. Even while reading about the world's ills, in Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's graphic memoir about growing up during the Islamic revolution in Iran. In class next week, the book & film just may hit the window of attention-span opportunity where spring fever is planted but not yet raging. Post-hibernation breeds optimism.
Bears do not wear t-shirts with slogans. But if they did? Concert tees, yes. Maybe something in support of Ralph Nader. And this: Be the Bear. In XXL, short sleeves, for catching the sun and spring air.
Today I saw a crocus blooming. My crocus, because I planted it. As if I can stake a claim on such a thing.
The end of hibernation requires sustenance. When I called the cajun eatery to see what was on tonight's menu, the man said my favorite vegetarian dish, the B&B (which stands for I don't know what), was unavailable. "Waitaminute," said the man, and asked around. "OK. It's not on the menu, but we'll have it. Just ask." Bears are not vegetarian, and neither am I. But we want what we want. And we like when the neighborhood takes care of its own.
Bears and birds can be friends. Bears and squirrels have an iffier relationship. As for chipmunks, bears can't be bothered with chipmunks. They are too small, though they have much else to admire. They have grit, are hard-working, affable. So when one paticularly tenacious climber ascends the shepherd's hook to the birdfeeder, finally figuring out how to leap past the squirrel baffle that baffles only the human who put it there, a bear's gotta give a chipmunk credit. Even if the chipmunk appears to be doing unspeakable things to the birdfeeder, defiling it in a most egregious fashion. No longer cute and spunky but perverse and vile. Yet fascinating, in a PBS nature special kind of way. Do bears like to watch chipmunks simulate sex via orgiastic eating? That's an extremely personal question.
On the trail I saw a tough guy walking a big fluffy dog-show dog. And a petite lady with a shaky chihuahua. No bears, though.
Reading is a must both during and after hibernation. After, when the sun's out, a book on the porch cures most of the world's ills. Even while reading about the world's ills, in Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's graphic memoir about growing up during the Islamic revolution in Iran. In class next week, the book & film just may hit the window of attention-span opportunity where spring fever is planted but not yet raging. Post-hibernation breeds optimism.
Bears do not wear t-shirts with slogans. But if they did? Concert tees, yes. Maybe something in support of Ralph Nader. And this: Be the Bear. In XXL, short sleeves, for catching the sun and spring air.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
New fiction @ Wigleaf
If you like the short fiction, then please point your world wide inter-browser to Wigleaf, which published my piece Hang Up.
Go to the homepage here to read a wide assortment of fantastic stories, along with a postcard I wrote to the journal. No, not to the editors: to the journal. I love this idea, postcards. I still send postcards, and buy postcard stamps, though I may be the only person I know to do so. My old postcard pen pals now send e-mails, or post things on walls. Bah. Post it to the post, is what I wish. Have you ever stopped to think of the miraculous nature of the United States Postal Service? I mean, really. I have always loved getting and sending mail. When I was a child, I started a stationery business, mainly so I would get more mail. But I also liked providing the means for other people to make mail. I think I earned a grand total of five bucks, two of which my mother made me return when I couldn't fulfill a special order. When you're nine and you run out of a particular type of sticker (Mrs. Grossman's, large mice), and you can't find any more at the store, and there's no Internet or catalog from which to order, then you, as a nine-year-old, have to close the shop.
Today I read an article (in the newspaper! Can you imagine?) that the post office, to save money, is seriously considering five-day delivery rather than six. I say: bring it. Or rather, don't bring it, not on Saturdays. Here's the thing: the mail arrives once each day. You either receive what you'd hoped to receive, or you don't, in which case you have to wait until the next day at approximately that time. There's no constantly refreshing a web page, there's no anxiety related to the fact that some people expect 24/7 work accessibility, and expect instantaneous replies to messages sent on what is traditionally known as a "weekend." It's out of your hands and placed into the capable hands of our mailmen and women. I like to take at least one day off on the weekend. Letter carriers of our nation, you should take two.
It's not that I am e-mail averse; I am merely overwhelmed. And deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl in a newfangled world. The other day, I used the word "highfalutin" in absolute seriousness. Shoulda written it on a postcard instead, and mailed it across the land.
Go to the homepage here to read a wide assortment of fantastic stories, along with a postcard I wrote to the journal. No, not to the editors: to the journal. I love this idea, postcards. I still send postcards, and buy postcard stamps, though I may be the only person I know to do so. My old postcard pen pals now send e-mails, or post things on walls. Bah. Post it to the post, is what I wish. Have you ever stopped to think of the miraculous nature of the United States Postal Service? I mean, really. I have always loved getting and sending mail. When I was a child, I started a stationery business, mainly so I would get more mail. But I also liked providing the means for other people to make mail. I think I earned a grand total of five bucks, two of which my mother made me return when I couldn't fulfill a special order. When you're nine and you run out of a particular type of sticker (Mrs. Grossman's, large mice), and you can't find any more at the store, and there's no Internet or catalog from which to order, then you, as a nine-year-old, have to close the shop.
Today I read an article (in the newspaper! Can you imagine?) that the post office, to save money, is seriously considering five-day delivery rather than six. I say: bring it. Or rather, don't bring it, not on Saturdays. Here's the thing: the mail arrives once each day. You either receive what you'd hoped to receive, or you don't, in which case you have to wait until the next day at approximately that time. There's no constantly refreshing a web page, there's no anxiety related to the fact that some people expect 24/7 work accessibility, and expect instantaneous replies to messages sent on what is traditionally known as a "weekend." It's out of your hands and placed into the capable hands of our mailmen and women. I like to take at least one day off on the weekend. Letter carriers of our nation, you should take two.
It's not that I am e-mail averse; I am merely overwhelmed. And deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl in a newfangled world. The other day, I used the word "highfalutin" in absolute seriousness. Shoulda written it on a postcard instead, and mailed it across the land.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I feel very strongly about Thursday
For years, maybe five or so, Thursday was the signifier of the weekend. My schedule worked out so that I didn't teach on Fridays -- No Class Fridays, I dubbed them, only realizing the double-meaning when my sister made fun of me and my classlessness. Partly it was being a commuter, and being lucky enough to get T/TH teaching assignments instead of MWF. Partly it's that colleges and universities offered fewer Friday classes for a variety of reasons (budget cuts, professional development and conference travel for faculty, etc.), and now are considering bringing them back (to curb Thursday night binge drinking -- among students, I am to assume).* Fridays always have been my much-needed catch-up days.
This year, however, I've had a Friday class both semesters. And it's been fine, a much lighter workday than the rest of the week. I get to sit in on a fascinating lecture that I thoroughly enjoy, one of those, Wait, they're paying me to do this? But I still haven't forgotten that Thursday feeling of doneness. Stick-a-fork-in-me-ness.
So it is nice when Thursday contains an almost-done, kitten-on-a-poster Hang In There! style treat. Today I got two: a wide-ranging conversation about fiction over coffee, and the publication of my essay, Gone in a Blink, in BluePrintReview. (Originally published in REAL.)
The essay covers a topic I also feel very strongly about: theft, and being a repeated victim of theft. Which has been, as you might imagine, totally awesome. I posted the link to the piece on Facebook,** and those who've responded with their own stories of loss reminded me how common this experience is. How violated we feel, yet still we summon up the faith to trust that it won't happen again. Or to hope that will be so.
I'm sure there will come a time when I feel less strongly about losing things, when I'm less paranoid about where my coat or purse are at any given time, where I fail to exercise extreme caution about announcing publicly that I'll be out of town or even out to a movie. Already I've grown less attached to things, even important ones imbued with memories, because I know how quickly they can disappear, and be gone in a blink.
___________________________
*Little-known fact: This was the title of the companion album to Sheryl Crow's multi-platinum debut, "Tuesday Night Music Club." Also, I am lying about that part.
**Thus mildly violating my Lenten ban -- no social networking before I've done any writing for the day. But I made up for it by writing later, and also writing now. Why be a stickler with your own made-up rules?
This year, however, I've had a Friday class both semesters. And it's been fine, a much lighter workday than the rest of the week. I get to sit in on a fascinating lecture that I thoroughly enjoy, one of those, Wait, they're paying me to do this? But I still haven't forgotten that Thursday feeling of doneness. Stick-a-fork-in-me-ness.
So it is nice when Thursday contains an almost-done, kitten-on-a-poster Hang In There! style treat. Today I got two: a wide-ranging conversation about fiction over coffee, and the publication of my essay, Gone in a Blink, in BluePrintReview. (Originally published in REAL.)
The essay covers a topic I also feel very strongly about: theft, and being a repeated victim of theft. Which has been, as you might imagine, totally awesome. I posted the link to the piece on Facebook,** and those who've responded with their own stories of loss reminded me how common this experience is. How violated we feel, yet still we summon up the faith to trust that it won't happen again. Or to hope that will be so.
I'm sure there will come a time when I feel less strongly about losing things, when I'm less paranoid about where my coat or purse are at any given time, where I fail to exercise extreme caution about announcing publicly that I'll be out of town or even out to a movie. Already I've grown less attached to things, even important ones imbued with memories, because I know how quickly they can disappear, and be gone in a blink.
___________________________
*Little-known fact: This was the title of the companion album to Sheryl Crow's multi-platinum debut, "Tuesday Night Music Club." Also, I am lying about that part.
**Thus mildly violating my Lenten ban -- no social networking before I've done any writing for the day. But I made up for it by writing later, and also writing now. Why be a stickler with your own made-up rules?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Little Round Mirrors
My screenwriter/teacher friend John has an interesting project going: Little Round Mirrors, a blog about watching his immense DVD collection in alphabetical order and reporting on the experience.
I'm enjoying getting to re-experience some favorite old films through his eyes. I have a generally good-to-excellent memory, except when I have a terrible memory, and I've been noticing lately that my recall of films and TV shows is...not so great. "Oh, is that the one where the guy goes into a coma and believes he's wearing a rabbit suit?" I might ask when somebody mentions a film title. And the reply, more often than not, is, "Uh, no. It was a girl, and it wasn't a coma but a trip to rehab, and she wore a donkey mascot suit. NOT a rabbit."
Details, details. If I can create a defense, or at least a reasonable theory for my lapses, I think it has to do with structure: while I may not get every detail of the plot right (or, OK, any detail of the plot), I can generally remember or discuss the structure of the film. Three-act, restorative, hero's journey, etc. etc. My brain needs a way to connect it to the way the script's been formed, to the writing itself. Other times, it's an image, a line of dialogue, or the way a character interacts with the world. All elements that would work their way into a script.
John's alphabetical system (there are rules; see the blog for more details) ensures even treatment of the collection. I can try to guess what's coming next ("Better Off Dead" was the latest), even as I have no idea what's next. Taxonomy is immensely appealing: my favorite local radio station, 92.3 WTTS, is in the middle of their annual World-Class Rock A-Z program. Today they're into the "E" section of the music library, and "Eyes Without a Face" by Billy Idol accompanied my drive home. I have a feeling the song appeared in at least one of the '80s movies from John's collection. I couldn't tell you which one, but I bet he could.
I'm enjoying getting to re-experience some favorite old films through his eyes. I have a generally good-to-excellent memory, except when I have a terrible memory, and I've been noticing lately that my recall of films and TV shows is...not so great. "Oh, is that the one where the guy goes into a coma and believes he's wearing a rabbit suit?" I might ask when somebody mentions a film title. And the reply, more often than not, is, "Uh, no. It was a girl, and it wasn't a coma but a trip to rehab, and she wore a donkey mascot suit. NOT a rabbit."
Details, details. If I can create a defense, or at least a reasonable theory for my lapses, I think it has to do with structure: while I may not get every detail of the plot right (or, OK, any detail of the plot), I can generally remember or discuss the structure of the film. Three-act, restorative, hero's journey, etc. etc. My brain needs a way to connect it to the way the script's been formed, to the writing itself. Other times, it's an image, a line of dialogue, or the way a character interacts with the world. All elements that would work their way into a script.
John's alphabetical system (there are rules; see the blog for more details) ensures even treatment of the collection. I can try to guess what's coming next ("Better Off Dead" was the latest), even as I have no idea what's next. Taxonomy is immensely appealing: my favorite local radio station, 92.3 WTTS, is in the middle of their annual World-Class Rock A-Z program. Today they're into the "E" section of the music library, and "Eyes Without a Face" by Billy Idol accompanied my drive home. I have a feeling the song appeared in at least one of the '80s movies from John's collection. I couldn't tell you which one, but I bet he could.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Steve Almond: Presto Book-O
Up now at The Rumpus, candyfreak/Kurt Vonnegutphile Steve Almond makes the argument for self-publishing as one means of disseminating your words, on your terms.
Pros? Cons?
Regahhhdless, I feel strongly that my home office/decor would be vastly improved by the addition of an Espresso Book Machine. I believe I have established here my enthusiastic acceptance of robots, yes?
The evolution of publishing is an important conversation. Even -- or especially -- when the message is sell, or else.
Pros? Cons?
Regahhhdless, I feel strongly that my home office/decor would be vastly improved by the addition of an Espresso Book Machine. I believe I have established here my enthusiastic acceptance of robots, yes?
The evolution of publishing is an important conversation. Even -- or especially -- when the message is sell, or else.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
PANK is fun to say
And it's a literary magazine, collective, website, entity, group of individuals who are doing great things with and for writing. PANK 4 is available now, and contains my short-short story, "Comet's Return," along with new work from one of my favorite poets, Bob Hicok. Also included are Kyle Minor, Matt Bell, Jennifer Pieroni, Meg Pokrass, Coralie Reed, Ethel Rohan, Kathleen Rooney, Emily Rosko, Matthew Simmons, Tim Jones-Yelvington, Steven McDermott, JA Tyler, David Erlewine, Alicia Gifford, Elisa Gabbert, and many more.
PANK also published my short piece, "The Rest of Your Life," online last summer. There's audio to boot. Who doesn't like being read to?
There's a new robot in town checking out my blargh. Hi, robot! I hope you like my stories. I hope you are not rusting out this winter in the northerly suburbs, and if you are, maybe a girl in a gingham dress will come by soon with an oilcan. Tin man, robot -- OK, bit of a stretch. But anyway, robot? If, like other robots I have known, you are looking for lessons in how to feel, I've got two cd recommendations: Feist's "The Reminder" (featuring my theme song/credo, "I Feel it All"), and The Avett Brothers album "Emotionalism," esp. "All My Mistakes," which I found a way to quote in class this week.
Are you the type of robot that can see into the future? If so, I have a question: will I get Avett concert tickets for my birthday?
xo
Sarah
PANK also published my short piece, "The Rest of Your Life," online last summer. There's audio to boot. Who doesn't like being read to?
There's a new robot in town checking out my blargh. Hi, robot! I hope you like my stories. I hope you are not rusting out this winter in the northerly suburbs, and if you are, maybe a girl in a gingham dress will come by soon with an oilcan. Tin man, robot -- OK, bit of a stretch. But anyway, robot? If, like other robots I have known, you are looking for lessons in how to feel, I've got two cd recommendations: Feist's "The Reminder" (featuring my theme song/credo, "I Feel it All"), and The Avett Brothers album "Emotionalism," esp. "All My Mistakes," which I found a way to quote in class this week.
Are you the type of robot that can see into the future? If so, I have a question: will I get Avett concert tickets for my birthday?
xo
Sarah
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