typewriter

I must be one of a relatively small number of people in the world who have seen three different film interpretions of Jane Austen's Persuasion.

Maybe I ought to write an entire book this way, by thumb, on my phone. I could call it *The Phone Book.* James Merrill crafted an epic poem from the sputterings of a Ouija board. That French guy blinked out his opus, then died. Theoretically, at least, the prose would be economical; though I have noticed I am willing to lapse into a sustained, trance-like state so as to capture each and every nuance of a mental composition. Until I become tired, and then--now--it suddenly seems tiresome and absurd.

Sent from my iPhone

Sorry about last night. I actually did get up, believe it or not, and worked on that child's speech until 4 a.m. Which is crazy, of course. And wrong. I do realize this. But it was only a draft. She'll have to write the final draft herself. 

Tired

It is tired. I am. You? I promised to proofreader the speech but I am deliriousing, about to fall asleep in my bra, which makes me feel sort of ... institutionalized. Free the boobs! Arm the torpedoes! Spare the rod and spoil the child!

Sent from my iPhone

Tired

It is tired. I am. You? I promised to proofreader the speech but I am deliriousing, about to fall asleep in my bra, which makes me feel sort of ... institutionalized. Free the boobs! Arm the torpedoes! Spare the rod and spoil the child!

Sent from my iPhone

Wanted to post yesterday to keep up with my pledge, but Dingle was on the computer until after I went to bed, trying to do her English class "DEJs," or double-entry journals, on To Kill a Mockingbird. She said she was supposed to turn them in for chapters eleven through twenty-two or -three. I asked her how many she'd gotten done, and she said, "I'm finishing eleven now." I doubt she made it to chapter twelve.

Today--ok, yesterday--was my birthday, and for some reason exhausting, which is why I am lying in bed, typing into my phone with one thumb. Just because I don't want to ruin my streak.

Look at me, I'm three for three!

I signed up for NaNoWriMo and one of my Facebook friends said she is doing NaBloPoMo (I had to giggle at this mouthful, though of course NaNoWriMo must have seemed just as bad the first few times I encountered it) instead. While it's true I have never made it to 50,000 words--hell, I've never even come close, haven't even tried, really--I don't think it would be terribly difficult to post to my blog every day for a month. I mean, gee whiz, how hard could it be? So I thought, what the hell, I can do that. Which is why I scuttled over here and am writing this twelve minutes before midnight on the first day of November. My biggest obstacle won't be fodder, it'll be my own incompetent memory. Maybe I can spend my last eleven minutes brainstorming strategies that will help me remember to come here every day. You know, like the Bounty Hunter on KOL. Maybe I should get a tattoo. I could never think of anything to have tattooed on myself before, but some sort of exhortation to write, not just in a blog for a month but overall, indefinitely, why, that might be just the thing.

I've been to France, but I've never been to Paris. I have to go to Paris before I die.

The truth is, I have everything I need to write. I have time, in the form of two weeks' vacation (almost), I have new headphones, with which to drown out the rest of the universe, and I have the bathroom floor, which will accommodate me should I fail to find a more suitable space. I have notebooks and pens to use when a computer is unavailable. I have ideas. I even have access to an air-conditioned public library, just a few blocks from my home, with a special soundproofed room full of individual study carrels and electrical outlets. When my vacation is over, my work won't really take that much out of me, as long as I don't stay up too late at night (as I am doing right now). I mean, come on! It doesn't get much better than this, so stop dithering and start DOing. This peach is ripe. You are ready to do this. So do it.