So if I haven't mentioned it before -- unlikely -- I'm a bit of a fiction fan. I could build a new bookcase out of the paper backs that are lying around my bedroom waiting to be read. I'm not a big fan of hard covers though. I never have been. Sure, they look nice, but they're cumbersome to carry around and they certainly won't fit in a pocket.
I'm up in Kirkwood this weekend. I've spent the morning skiing and I've landed back at the condo before everyone else for lunch.
I've changed out of my sweaty, confining ski clothes and slipped into a t-shirt and jeans. I'll go skiing again after lunch and have to pull all that stuff back on again, but for now I can feel like a normal human being. The normal state of this being is a good pair of jeans and my favorite t-shirt.
Poetry is puke on paper, I think. I'm not saying that I don't like poetry. I love it. I'm just saying that's what it is. Brain puke. Soul puke. This is what I have swirling around inside of me. Here it is. Take it. Allow me to throw it up all over you. Sometimes, in the detritus you find something that you can identify with, that you can latch on to. And sometimes you can't.
It's raining inside my house. No, it's not the roof. The roof is fine. The roof is functional. The roof does it's job. We love the roof.
No, the rain is coming from the socks.
You see we've got a dryer problem. We have a lovely front-loading washer and dryer system from Sears. They use less water and less electricity. They are environmently friendly, cost effective, and efficient. Right now they are efficiently doing nothing because the dryer decided it didn't feel so much like being a dryer; maybe this week it'd try being the world's largest paper weight instead.
Shawn and I went swing dancing on Friday night and on the second song out there I got a blister. I felt it bubble out in my little saddle shoe. I finished out the song and dug through my dance bag for a bandaid. No luck.
So my dad gave me an awesome compliment yesterday. (I bet he didn't know it was going to show up here, but hey, that's the danger of having a kid for a writer. I keep threatening that I'm going to write a book about the family one day. So far they've escaped okay.)
So I've been exploring routes to get myself published and found that the venue that I really want doesn't exist. If you want to publish stuff for children, there are outlets for you. If you want to publish Tolkien-style fantasy, King-style horror, or LeGuin-style science fiction, there are outlets for you. If you write poetry or my particular brand of fantasy (no wizards in pointy hats), well. . .
Last year my car was broken into. I lost my backpack (ouch), my iPod (bastards), my writing composition book (rotten, dirty, little thieves), and a small leather book into which I had journaled my life for four years (if I ever catch you stupid, greedy, little @#$#s, you will regret the day you ever saw my car).
The good news is I'm not bitter.
You probably know this story already. I've been whining about it for a year to all my friends/family/pets/random people who will listen. And I suppose that you know me in some sense or you probably wouldn't be here reading this.