Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Saturday, July 20, 2002
Tuesday, July 16, 2002
It's fucking hot. I can't think when it's this hot. It's so fucking hot. My air conditioner can burn in fucking hell... so can the sun. It's fucking hot.
Sunday, July 07, 2002
Jeremy and I started working on Orbiting Ethan Oort... our new script. It's a small town romance with references to space. It's also good. The nine pages are anyway. Supposed to be writing more tonight. It's midnight... not sure that's going to happen now.
I'm almost halfway through rewriting my novel.... Jeremy has convinced me to keep the title PooN... so I will. I wanted to get the first draft done before the festival... but the festival is 16 days away and I don't see that happening. There's always room in my heart to hope though... so I will hope... and I would pray if I thought praying did anything... and I will try to finish it.
I've got the seed for the next novel kicking around my head.
Good Day
I'm almost halfway through rewriting my novel.... Jeremy has convinced me to keep the title PooN... so I will. I wanted to get the first draft done before the festival... but the festival is 16 days away and I don't see that happening. There's always room in my heart to hope though... so I will hope... and I would pray if I thought praying did anything... and I will try to finish it.
I've got the seed for the next novel kicking around my head.
Good Day
Sunday, June 30, 2002
Maybe I've been in hiding. Or maybe I never felt like writing in this blog. Either way... so?
I'm rewriting my novel. The ending isn't written... but besides that it's done... oh and besides the whole rewriting thing. It will never, ever be done. Sorry.
It will be done. Just not for a while.
The problem is I have much higher hopes for the next novel. And then I say... fuck the next novel... make this novel up to those standards! Work on this fucking novel! Rewrite this mug! Rewrite the balls out of it! No matter what, the next novel will be better... but I still want to put a jug more sweat into this one.
Good day.
I'm rewriting my novel. The ending isn't written... but besides that it's done... oh and besides the whole rewriting thing. It will never, ever be done. Sorry.
It will be done. Just not for a while.
The problem is I have much higher hopes for the next novel. And then I say... fuck the next novel... make this novel up to those standards! Work on this fucking novel! Rewrite this mug! Rewrite the balls out of it! No matter what, the next novel will be better... but I still want to put a jug more sweat into this one.
Good day.
Sunday, June 02, 2002
I can’t stand the noise. I think I might add to it with an elaborate scream. I think I might step on one of these bastard children’s foreheads and push.
BJ says, “When the hell is she coming out?”
I can’t help but wonder why this is so important. Why we’re on the second story of this library anyway. Why children can’t help but pick their nose… a lot.
There are fifty kindergarteners on the floor and fifty adults in the seats around us. Most of the adults seem to be parents of the squirming floor demons. I don’t feel right in here. This seems like some kid’s birthday party that I just accidentally wandered into.
The teacher, she’s black, she says, “Everyone needs to be extra quiet or Marcy might just hop the other way.”
The children don’t give a shit about being quiet. They’re jumping, they’re crying. This room is too small to hold this much noise. I think the walls might protest.
Luke says, “How the heck are they going to get Marcy upstairs anyway?”
I tell him that there is an elevator.
“A kangaroo in an elevator? That’s absurd.”
A man that looks like he deserves respect walks in. His khaki jacket with plenty of pockets to stuff snakes and things tells me that he is definitely Australian. There are crocodile teeth arranged on his hat. The children don’t give a shit, they’re tumbling this way and that, laughing, talking about childish bullshit.
BJ says, “Where’s the kangaroo?”
“Marcy will be out in a minute, but first, let me introduce myself.” The Australian man isn’t answering BJ, just speaking. He puts his hand on his hip. He says, “My name is Mick and I am Marcy’s mother.” Suddenly this man is very, very gay.
Luke is laughing. Would you expect otherwise?
BJ says, “He’s not really Australian… I can tell. His accent is as fake as a wasp’s compassion. And he stole his name from Crocodile Dundee.”
There’s a woman frowning at BJ from a few seats down.
BJ sticks her tongue out at her.
Mick says, “It’s okay to laugh. I know it’s a tad bonkers, but she really does believe that I’m her mommy.”
Luke was the only one laughing. Luke is still laughing. Luke says, “It’s not even what he said… it’s… I’ve never heard an Australian man with a lisp before.”
BJ says, “When the hell is she coming out?”
I can’t help but wonder why this is so important. Why we’re on the second story of this library anyway. Why children can’t help but pick their nose… a lot.
There are fifty kindergarteners on the floor and fifty adults in the seats around us. Most of the adults seem to be parents of the squirming floor demons. I don’t feel right in here. This seems like some kid’s birthday party that I just accidentally wandered into.
The teacher, she’s black, she says, “Everyone needs to be extra quiet or Marcy might just hop the other way.”
The children don’t give a shit about being quiet. They’re jumping, they’re crying. This room is too small to hold this much noise. I think the walls might protest.
Luke says, “How the heck are they going to get Marcy upstairs anyway?”
I tell him that there is an elevator.
“A kangaroo in an elevator? That’s absurd.”
A man that looks like he deserves respect walks in. His khaki jacket with plenty of pockets to stuff snakes and things tells me that he is definitely Australian. There are crocodile teeth arranged on his hat. The children don’t give a shit, they’re tumbling this way and that, laughing, talking about childish bullshit.
BJ says, “Where’s the kangaroo?”
“Marcy will be out in a minute, but first, let me introduce myself.” The Australian man isn’t answering BJ, just speaking. He puts his hand on his hip. He says, “My name is Mick and I am Marcy’s mother.” Suddenly this man is very, very gay.
Luke is laughing. Would you expect otherwise?
BJ says, “He’s not really Australian… I can tell. His accent is as fake as a wasp’s compassion. And he stole his name from Crocodile Dundee.”
There’s a woman frowning at BJ from a few seats down.
BJ sticks her tongue out at her.
Mick says, “It’s okay to laugh. I know it’s a tad bonkers, but she really does believe that I’m her mommy.”
Luke was the only one laughing. Luke is still laughing. Luke says, “It’s not even what he said… it’s… I’ve never heard an Australian man with a lisp before.”
Luke says, “So tell me something interesting. I’ve been on the road with Jon so long that I’ve forgotten what interesting is.” He shoves another potato wedge into his mouth.
This place is mismatched. There are four thousand fishing lures on one wall, framed pictures of classic movie stars on another. There’s a Pac Man machine in the corner and a butter churn beside it.
The unimportant atmosphere of the moment is the wooden owl head on our table. There are napkins crammed into a slice carved through its head.
BJ says, “You want to hear something interesting?” She’s got half of a hot ham and cheese sandwich waving in the air as she speaks.
“Yeah. That’s why I asked.”
This place is mismatched. There are four thousand fishing lures on one wall, framed pictures of classic movie stars on another. There’s a Pac Man machine in the corner and a butter churn beside it.
The unimportant atmosphere of the moment is the wooden owl head on our table. There are napkins crammed into a slice carved through its head.
BJ says, “You want to hear something interesting?” She’s got half of a hot ham and cheese sandwich waving in the air as she speaks.
“Yeah. That’s why I asked.”