|new old more book profile blog rings host|
Can't write because I am writing. Frank and I are going to get together Sunday for our first writers group meeting. He wants me to send him my material by tomorrow night. I've only just started. But is there any other way for me to write? Probably not.
I'm writing about my dog, who died Monday. There's just some personal writing I've been wanting to do for a while now--memories of my father, my dog, my Mom, my kids. Nothing the publishers will be salivating over, I warned Frank.
I hope to get around to telling a funny story about Bambi, Oddy, and Roxanne. Haven't written about those two in a while, but they're still up to their old tricks. There are just going to be fringe people in life who are always there somewhere, just out of sight, mucking things up. Meanwhile, other perfectly suitable, even wonderful, best-friends-forever type people are entirely excluded, either by the vagaries of fate or by the exhaustion brought on by the impossible fringe people. It gives me some small pleasure to know that even the Cindy Crawfords and Pablo Picassos and Charles Darwins of the world also have the idiot cousins and nosy neighbors and relatives' spouses and exes.