I’m seeing a pattern in my life that I’m sure has been prevalent since birth, only I’m just now noticing. It is this thing where I intentionally pull things down around my ears when I should be taking great strides forward. For me, it happens in one of three ways. I use these weapons in nearly equal measures, 1 and 2 on a frequent, low-grade level, and 3 as a grand gesture used every once in a while to really drive the point of my worthlessness home.
1. Using another’s creativity to fulfill me instead of my own. (i.e. watching too much TV, spending too much time on the Internet or reading in an unhealthy, life-ignoring way.)
This creativity squasher weasels its way into my life in very subtle ways. At first I’m just stealing a bit of time during my day, here and there. Instead of using time to write - whether it be a half an hour in the morning when the kids are still sleeping or around lunchtime when I’m taking a break from fake work to eat or for hours late at night, like now, when I have brain energy that won’t leave me alone and I have to get rid of it somehow - I get sucked into living vicariously.
When this shortcoming first starts to manifest itself, I’m careful to balance out reading or watching TV or computer time with writing time. I tell myself I just need to decompress a little, that’s all. I’ll just read for an hour or watch one show. Then I’ll write. Soon, though, I’m drawn into the abyss. Either I find myself reading excessively, wasting my way through the Hunger Games series in two days, or I’m abusing Netflix, watching Firefly episodes back to back until four in the morning.
Don’t get me wrong. Both Suzanne Collins and Joss Whedon are worthy of my adoration and obsession. They’re both mind-blowingly creative in ways that are so damn rich it feels almost as good to be hooked up to their energy as it does my own. Almost. It’s certainly easier. And if I could ever do anything that feels good in a healthy way, I’m sure I could regulate enough to just enjoy them instead of using them to harm myself. Alas, I’ve never been much of a regulator. And when obsession is in cahoots with low self-esteem in my life, it’s never pretty.
The only solution is to knock it off. There’s something to be said for awareness. It helps to be able to see that I’m in this place. It makes the bouts shorter-lived. When I notice that I’ve, once again, been sucked in I am forced to stop. If I can’t do it by my own willpower, it helps if I tell on myself. If I say it out loud to someone else, it's not as easy to do it.
2. Veering off the path I know works. (i.e. being lazy.)
So this looks a lot like slacking. The dedicated writing time goes out the window. I’m sure I’ll have time to write somewhere in my day. I stop setting my alarm. I think when Dan’s alarm goes off should be early enough for me to wake up. Except that when Dan’s alarm goes off, then Dan is awake.
See, when I’m in a good place, I’m usually up at 5:00 or 5:30 because I can do my thing while the house is still quiet. I don’t just mean a lack of noise. I mean I am not battling with my family’s energy. They are three of the most compelling, pure, brilliant people I know, and when they’re around, I have trouble paying attention to anything else. Also, they need a lot of things all the time. When they are still sleeping – the heavy sleep they’re still in before the sun comes up – I can’t even feel them in the house. I can focus on getting my head right and spend some time preparing myself to write and then actually write in a disciplined, committed way. If I don’t prepare myself, sure, I can write, but it’s hard for me to get totally connected and I can end up writing from a self-indulgent, inauthentic place.
But if I do my morning pages, for instance, if I keep my commitment to write three pages longhand, stream-of-consciousness every morning before I do anything else, I can rely on that to free me from my weaknesses and blocks. I have to empty out the garbage before I can really access my mind in any kind of significant, unafraid way.
Then I can move onto the other tried and true tools. There are some books I read – two writing books right now, The Artist’s Way and Bird by Bird, and some other spiritual books. The Book of Awakening is a new delicious addition. Then some prayer and meditation and I’m on my way, my listening mind clear, purposeful in my intent. These are all 100% guaranteed tools that ensure my productivity and happiness, but I can’t use them if I’m holding weapons of self-sabotage in my hands.
3. Using circumstances in my life in order to feel badly about myself.
These circumstances always involve interactions with people who I perceive aren’t treating me right. Julia Cameron, who wrote The Artist’s Way, calls these circumstances crazymakers. I can look back and see that every time I have come to a major turning point on this journey where I needed to be more trusting in myself and this process, have even bigger faith, I have brought circumstances into my life that confirm what it is I really think about myself. It appears to me like someone I have brought into the fold has betrayed me in some way. I internalize whatever has happened, sure that it has everything to do with me and what an awful, unworthy person I am, and proceed to bludgeon myself into not writing, or living, whichever the case may be. (see Bad Things Happen, 10/14/09)
Unfortunately, when I’m in a bad place, it doesn’t take much to knock me over. What Julia Cameron says is that as a blocked artist, I am pretty much willing to go to any lengths to stay blocked. Deep down, I’m so intent on not succeeding, so afraid of what that might really mean, that it really doesn’t take much to get me to throw up my hands and say, “Forget it! It wasn’t working anyway. I’m pretty much a piece of garbage. I was just fooling myself.” A mostly innocent comment, the tone of a Facebook post, the wrong answer if I ask someone to read my book, these are things I can turn into tools of self-destruction in seconds flat.
I feel like I came into this world being too much. Too sensitive, too loving, too open, too trusting, too out there with everything. These “too” traits are things that get me into trouble. If warped in just the right way, they are the character defects that place me in a position to be hurt with the crazymakers. I come on strong. Too much muchiness, if you know what I mean. If I vilify this trait instead of exalting it, it can harm me.
But there is that choice, to focus on paying tribute to this instead of using it against myself. Yes, this part of me may sometimes serve a darker purpose if I’m not careful. But a lot of the time it is exactly the thing that forges the bond. In the sustained relationships in my life, it is this effusiveness that draws people to me, that allows me to be fully myself. I think it’s also what allows me to tap into the collective unconscious and write things there’s no way I should be able to write effectively. It allows me to absorb and listen and express myself in a really powerful way.
When I am reflective about the way I work inside my life in a public way (i.e. blogging about my innermost ugly) I can trick myself into healing. When I say this out loud, it makes it much harder to allow myself to do these things.
Because as much as all of this is true, I am just as intent on succeeding. So there’s that.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Some of My Best Friends Are Writers
I didn’t plan it that way. It just happened. The more I look around, the more I realize I’m surrounded. I know I’ve talked in the past about how amazing creative women have come into my life to help me birth books, but today it struck me just how many of my friends are writers and how many of those friends I made before any of us knew we leaned that way and how the intricate tapestry made at the hands of lovers of words has been forming itself all along.
My best friend from second grade, for example, my oldest friend by a long shot – way back to Touch the Ground You’re Dead and the Training Bra Club. In 4th grade we were tasked with writing a newspaper style article about a nursery rhyme. I chose Jack and Jill. Here it is: (I did not edit, as much as I wanted to.)
Villagers Fall Down Hill
By Gaaby Rappaport
It is reported that in a small town west of London, two villagers fell down a hill. They fell down going to fetch a pail of water. Their names are Jack and Jill. They are both in critical condition. Jack, the doctors say, may have brain damage. Jill is in a coma. She could remain there the rest of her life. Jill is now being kept alive by machines. Her mother disagrees with the doctors and says, “I do not want my child to be kept alive by machines. I would like her to die naturally.” She has little hope of regaining consciousness. There is a great feeling of tragedy in the village especially for the families of these poor children.
For real. That’s it. I like it for so many reasons. Not the least of which is my nine-year-old concern for a person’s right to die.
When I was 16, the boy I was madly in love with was a writer. Once he helped me write a sonnet for my boyfriend, who was obviously someone entirely different than the boy I loved. We sat on my porch on 13 Mile Road looking at the Kentucky Fried Chicken across the street. My teenage heart was bursting in my chest under the complication of my circumstances and this is what came out:
If I treat you as if you were beneath me,
You bear my steps without complaint.
My torrential bursts of misery
You let pass over with epic restraint.
I ignore your weak attempts to serve
My wants with half-true care,
My harshest words to crush the nerve
Your lips lean to repair.
I taunt your strings and you perform,
With a smile and a bow you take your leave
Of the stage I have set for you to conform
To the parts I create for you to believe.
And if I fail to see that you’ve been true,
Then who’s the fool, me or you?
I treated the boyfriend like garbage because he wasn’t someone entirely different than who he was, namely the boy I was in love with. There are actually many great things that came from this situation. First and foremost, it has proved unbelievable grist for the mill.
Later in life, shortly after Dan and I started “dating,” the best friend from second grade became our roommate. This involved accidentally seeing Dan naked one too many times and watching us attempt to destroy one another in many horrifying ways. (Don’t worry – it all turned out okay.) Boy oh boy, though, back in those days we had F-U-N.
By this time, she and I kind of knew we were writers. She was a creative writing major, nearly done. I was a 20-year-old freshman taking my first creative writing class. I remember sitting in the backyard of our druggie/hippie commune at a little metal table that had been left behind by a previous tenant. I was sufficiently… altered and attempting to write a paper for said creative writing class about my favorite place, which happened to be my bed. It was a paper fraught with delicious descriptions of the feel of worn down, nubby flannel sheets on my feet and yummy smelling pillowcases that had been steeped in that magic combination of Trésor and saliva, with a little cigarette smoke mixed in (I wasn’t as into clean laundry then as I am now). I wrote about how he got into bed and slept where he fell, while I, on the other hand, was an eggbeater, which is an accurate depiction even 15 years later.
My memory is that my friend gave me a secondary assignment to encourage me to use my brain in a different way. Or maybe just use my brain. My memory could be inaccurate, but it went something like this: you have to use three yellow words somewhere in the paper, you know, lemon, sunshine, brick road. That’s good stuff. Delightful. It was a great paper. I tried to find it, to no avail. I tore apart my laundry room (where I keep a tub full of old writing) and my office (where I keep many files full of old writing). I’m sure I’ll find it as soon as I’ve posted this.
Today, this very oldest friend is a working writer, a professor, teaching young, probably sober minds how to access the good stuff. That boy is a writer too I think. My two best friends from high school – writers. One of my mothers – writer. My husband and two of his best friends – you guessed it – great writers. My sister-in-law and no less than five of my very closest friends, all of these lovely women are brilliant writers. And I found almost every single one of these people before any of us knew what we were, so that list doesn’t even include all of the amazing writers I’ve gotten to hook up with since I finished my first real draft.
http://mrsjanellewilson.blogspot.com
http://norwegianlutherangirl.blogspot.com
http://spearsfamilyproject.blogspot.com
http://notapeach.com
http://blythewoolston.blogspot.com
What prompted me to write this post was one of those crazy Facebook reunions. I’m sure you’ve all had them. Some shiny diamond from your past shows up and reminds you of who you used to be. And it turns out that now you’re both writers. And it turns out you’re both pretty damn happy about the whole thing.
http://thedadscene.blogspot.com
So who cares if I’m a brain slave, forced to sit in the dark of the night while the rest of my house is asleep because I have to use it up or lose it? Who cares if I close up shop and crawl into bed only to be driven back out to my computer because the words won’t leave me alone? Who cares if I’m neurotic and full of fear? Who cares if I alternate between being an ego maniac and a sniveling, insecure nutjob? Who cares that it hasn’t work out like I’d planned or that it’s been so f-ing hard? Who gives a roaring rip about sacrifices and rejection and hurt and struggle and walking around with my nerve endings on the outside of my body for all the world to see?
Together we have written books, plays, poems, songs. We get to be the trusted transcribers. Trust me, my friends, we are the lucky ones.
My best friend from second grade, for example, my oldest friend by a long shot – way back to Touch the Ground You’re Dead and the Training Bra Club. In 4th grade we were tasked with writing a newspaper style article about a nursery rhyme. I chose Jack and Jill. Here it is: (I did not edit, as much as I wanted to.)
Villagers Fall Down Hill
By Gaaby Rappaport
It is reported that in a small town west of London, two villagers fell down a hill. They fell down going to fetch a pail of water. Their names are Jack and Jill. They are both in critical condition. Jack, the doctors say, may have brain damage. Jill is in a coma. She could remain there the rest of her life. Jill is now being kept alive by machines. Her mother disagrees with the doctors and says, “I do not want my child to be kept alive by machines. I would like her to die naturally.” She has little hope of regaining consciousness. There is a great feeling of tragedy in the village especially for the families of these poor children.
For real. That’s it. I like it for so many reasons. Not the least of which is my nine-year-old concern for a person’s right to die.
When I was 16, the boy I was madly in love with was a writer. Once he helped me write a sonnet for my boyfriend, who was obviously someone entirely different than the boy I loved. We sat on my porch on 13 Mile Road looking at the Kentucky Fried Chicken across the street. My teenage heart was bursting in my chest under the complication of my circumstances and this is what came out:
If I treat you as if you were beneath me,
You bear my steps without complaint.
My torrential bursts of misery
You let pass over with epic restraint.
I ignore your weak attempts to serve
My wants with half-true care,
My harshest words to crush the nerve
Your lips lean to repair.
I taunt your strings and you perform,
With a smile and a bow you take your leave
Of the stage I have set for you to conform
To the parts I create for you to believe.
And if I fail to see that you’ve been true,
Then who’s the fool, me or you?
I treated the boyfriend like garbage because he wasn’t someone entirely different than who he was, namely the boy I was in love with. There are actually many great things that came from this situation. First and foremost, it has proved unbelievable grist for the mill.
Later in life, shortly after Dan and I started “dating,” the best friend from second grade became our roommate. This involved accidentally seeing Dan naked one too many times and watching us attempt to destroy one another in many horrifying ways. (Don’t worry – it all turned out okay.) Boy oh boy, though, back in those days we had F-U-N.
By this time, she and I kind of knew we were writers. She was a creative writing major, nearly done. I was a 20-year-old freshman taking my first creative writing class. I remember sitting in the backyard of our druggie/hippie commune at a little metal table that had been left behind by a previous tenant. I was sufficiently… altered and attempting to write a paper for said creative writing class about my favorite place, which happened to be my bed. It was a paper fraught with delicious descriptions of the feel of worn down, nubby flannel sheets on my feet and yummy smelling pillowcases that had been steeped in that magic combination of Trésor and saliva, with a little cigarette smoke mixed in (I wasn’t as into clean laundry then as I am now). I wrote about how he got into bed and slept where he fell, while I, on the other hand, was an eggbeater, which is an accurate depiction even 15 years later.
My memory is that my friend gave me a secondary assignment to encourage me to use my brain in a different way. Or maybe just use my brain. My memory could be inaccurate, but it went something like this: you have to use three yellow words somewhere in the paper, you know, lemon, sunshine, brick road. That’s good stuff. Delightful. It was a great paper. I tried to find it, to no avail. I tore apart my laundry room (where I keep a tub full of old writing) and my office (where I keep many files full of old writing). I’m sure I’ll find it as soon as I’ve posted this.
Today, this very oldest friend is a working writer, a professor, teaching young, probably sober minds how to access the good stuff. That boy is a writer too I think. My two best friends from high school – writers. One of my mothers – writer. My husband and two of his best friends – you guessed it – great writers. My sister-in-law and no less than five of my very closest friends, all of these lovely women are brilliant writers. And I found almost every single one of these people before any of us knew what we were, so that list doesn’t even include all of the amazing writers I’ve gotten to hook up with since I finished my first real draft.
http://mrsjanellewilson.blogspot.com
http://norwegianlutherangirl.blogspot.com
http://spearsfamilyproject.blogspot.com
http://notapeach.com
http://blythewoolston.blogspot.com
What prompted me to write this post was one of those crazy Facebook reunions. I’m sure you’ve all had them. Some shiny diamond from your past shows up and reminds you of who you used to be. And it turns out that now you’re both writers. And it turns out you’re both pretty damn happy about the whole thing.
http://thedadscene.blogspot.com
So who cares if I’m a brain slave, forced to sit in the dark of the night while the rest of my house is asleep because I have to use it up or lose it? Who cares if I close up shop and crawl into bed only to be driven back out to my computer because the words won’t leave me alone? Who cares if I’m neurotic and full of fear? Who cares if I alternate between being an ego maniac and a sniveling, insecure nutjob? Who cares that it hasn’t work out like I’d planned or that it’s been so f-ing hard? Who gives a roaring rip about sacrifices and rejection and hurt and struggle and walking around with my nerve endings on the outside of my body for all the world to see?
Together we have written books, plays, poems, songs. We get to be the trusted transcribers. Trust me, my friends, we are the lucky ones.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Drafts
In case you’ve been wondering, I’ve been writing like crazy. Deep into revisions on my fourth draft, fueled by gorgeous and mind-blowing notes from Blythe. So who can blog under those circumstances? My sister-in-law can, so inspired by her, the woman who blogs under the fieriest of conditions, I thought I would spend some time this morning catching you up. I’m mulling over a troublesome scene and I can’t dive into the book just now, so I thought I’d write down a few things I’ve learned about revison.
I’m on my fourth draft. I think. It’s all a little blurry by now. I’ve said it before (or at least implied it): I thought this would go much faster than it has. Throughout the beginning of this process, I had Stephenie Meyer visions – six months to write it, another month before someone picked it up, maybe a few days after that before it was being auctioned off to a very prestigious publishing house and voila! Now, three years and four drafts later, I’ve come to accept a very different fate. Today, I think I can appreciate it a bit.
It used to be, in my youth, that I never looked at anything twice. Even in my brief stint in college I was reluctant to edit. Editing stole from inspiration, I thought. I was foolish in many ways.
I’ve had some incredible experiences with editing this book. Mostly, I’ve learned that there is always more in there, which kind of makes me wonder if I’ll know when I’m really done. I’ve gotten to go deeper, uncovering what really happened, finding things out I didn’t know before – an occurance that never ceases to amaze me. The other thing editing reveals is that, in the end, as my friend Ms. Lamott says, the writing is the thing. I am continually surprised by my own self, and what could be better than that?
My second draft was spured by the Bad Things Happen woman. My main lesson was finding a way around how confined I was by my main character Iso’s voice and experience. I ended up writing about 40 pages from Jack’s point of view. It was great to write from a man’s perspective and to find out what had happened to him in the years they were apart. I brought in a bunch of new and delicious characters and got fabulous information from one of Dan’s best friends about what it was like to be in music school and to then become a working musician.
Through the months I was working on those pages, I leaned heavely on my husband for peeks behind the boy curtain and learned things like, No, they would not have a talk after punching each other and, Yes, he probably would have sex with her, even though he was in love with someone else.
That draft gleaned some really important and humanizing information about Jack. Until then, he’d pretty much been perfect – too perfect many early readers said. Being able to look at life through the filter of his pain dirtied him up a bit, a theme that has been prevelant in each and every draft.
When the time was right, I got hooked up with a marvelous editor in LA who loved my characters as much as I did, and because of that agreed to work with me for free. Also because she was just starting out on the editing side – she had already published two books – and I came along around the time she needed a guinea pig. Divine Intervention! (Matthew Sweet song. Yum.)
She really pushed me. “You might want to kill me when you hear this,” she would say, and even though I would be scared, I would also be crazy excited, because I knew something was coming that was going to open another brain door I hadn’t even known was there the second prior. I would sit at my desk with my head in my hands, staring off into space while that portal opened and my entire idea of what was supposed to happen expanded. A short burst of magic mushroom awareness, if you know what I mean. Not that I know what I mean or that I would ever advocate anything you might infer from that last sentence.
We decided that all those wonderful new characters didn’t fit in this book, that it was really Iso’s story, but that the experiences Jack had while he was away from her were important and life-changing experiences that we needed to see, but not so blatently. “I think you should write some songs,” she said. “It would be a good way to see where he’s been without actually seeing where he’s been.” Even though my stomach dropped at the prospect, I was excited too. So she ended up teaching me that I was capable of writing songs. She also helped me see that still I spent too much time telling, not enough time showing and more time than anyone would ever want inside my main character’s head. I ended up changing my timeline, peppering Jack’s voice with Iso’s chronologically. I always wondered how that happened in books.
I’m losing track of drafts here. I think that brings us current. When Blythe and I sat down for coffee after she’d finished reading the book she said, “I’m going to be spending the next several weeks talking to you about Iso.” Yippee! I knew good things were coming.
What has happened with this draft is basically the same thing that has happened with all the drafts: opportunity to go deeper. I saw right away that I had only exposed Iso’s childhood insofar as it mingled with Jack’s. How silly of me! And how typical. I really like boys, in case you didn’t know. It’s easy for me to mistake obsession for depth. I needed to find out what her life was like all the other times, to write down in black and white why she became who she became.
Truthfully, I’ve been resistant to seeing what was there this whole time. I didn’t want this book to be about an absent dad. I didn’t want it to be about a crazy neglectful mom. Like I felt about myself at one point in my life, I wanted it to be about a girl who was damaged, but not by anything you could put your finger on. Now I can see that that thought is too abstract, even for me.
So I’m finding out, and it’s as thrilling as you might expect. Every once in a while I have to check with Bestie B to see if what I’m writing is what really happened, which seems like a funny thought, but she understands.
I’m on my fourth draft. I think. It’s all a little blurry by now. I’ve said it before (or at least implied it): I thought this would go much faster than it has. Throughout the beginning of this process, I had Stephenie Meyer visions – six months to write it, another month before someone picked it up, maybe a few days after that before it was being auctioned off to a very prestigious publishing house and voila! Now, three years and four drafts later, I’ve come to accept a very different fate. Today, I think I can appreciate it a bit.
It used to be, in my youth, that I never looked at anything twice. Even in my brief stint in college I was reluctant to edit. Editing stole from inspiration, I thought. I was foolish in many ways.
I’ve had some incredible experiences with editing this book. Mostly, I’ve learned that there is always more in there, which kind of makes me wonder if I’ll know when I’m really done. I’ve gotten to go deeper, uncovering what really happened, finding things out I didn’t know before – an occurance that never ceases to amaze me. The other thing editing reveals is that, in the end, as my friend Ms. Lamott says, the writing is the thing. I am continually surprised by my own self, and what could be better than that?
My second draft was spured by the Bad Things Happen woman. My main lesson was finding a way around how confined I was by my main character Iso’s voice and experience. I ended up writing about 40 pages from Jack’s point of view. It was great to write from a man’s perspective and to find out what had happened to him in the years they were apart. I brought in a bunch of new and delicious characters and got fabulous information from one of Dan’s best friends about what it was like to be in music school and to then become a working musician.
Through the months I was working on those pages, I leaned heavely on my husband for peeks behind the boy curtain and learned things like, No, they would not have a talk after punching each other and, Yes, he probably would have sex with her, even though he was in love with someone else.
That draft gleaned some really important and humanizing information about Jack. Until then, he’d pretty much been perfect – too perfect many early readers said. Being able to look at life through the filter of his pain dirtied him up a bit, a theme that has been prevelant in each and every draft.
When the time was right, I got hooked up with a marvelous editor in LA who loved my characters as much as I did, and because of that agreed to work with me for free. Also because she was just starting out on the editing side – she had already published two books – and I came along around the time she needed a guinea pig. Divine Intervention! (Matthew Sweet song. Yum.)
She really pushed me. “You might want to kill me when you hear this,” she would say, and even though I would be scared, I would also be crazy excited, because I knew something was coming that was going to open another brain door I hadn’t even known was there the second prior. I would sit at my desk with my head in my hands, staring off into space while that portal opened and my entire idea of what was supposed to happen expanded. A short burst of magic mushroom awareness, if you know what I mean. Not that I know what I mean or that I would ever advocate anything you might infer from that last sentence.
We decided that all those wonderful new characters didn’t fit in this book, that it was really Iso’s story, but that the experiences Jack had while he was away from her were important and life-changing experiences that we needed to see, but not so blatently. “I think you should write some songs,” she said. “It would be a good way to see where he’s been without actually seeing where he’s been.” Even though my stomach dropped at the prospect, I was excited too. So she ended up teaching me that I was capable of writing songs. She also helped me see that still I spent too much time telling, not enough time showing and more time than anyone would ever want inside my main character’s head. I ended up changing my timeline, peppering Jack’s voice with Iso’s chronologically. I always wondered how that happened in books.
I’m losing track of drafts here. I think that brings us current. When Blythe and I sat down for coffee after she’d finished reading the book she said, “I’m going to be spending the next several weeks talking to you about Iso.” Yippee! I knew good things were coming.
What has happened with this draft is basically the same thing that has happened with all the drafts: opportunity to go deeper. I saw right away that I had only exposed Iso’s childhood insofar as it mingled with Jack’s. How silly of me! And how typical. I really like boys, in case you didn’t know. It’s easy for me to mistake obsession for depth. I needed to find out what her life was like all the other times, to write down in black and white why she became who she became.
Truthfully, I’ve been resistant to seeing what was there this whole time. I didn’t want this book to be about an absent dad. I didn’t want it to be about a crazy neglectful mom. Like I felt about myself at one point in my life, I wanted it to be about a girl who was damaged, but not by anything you could put your finger on. Now I can see that that thought is too abstract, even for me.
So I’m finding out, and it’s as thrilling as you might expect. Every once in a while I have to check with Bestie B to see if what I’m writing is what really happened, which seems like a funny thought, but she understands.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
My friend Blythe is a fan of the Wordle. This is the content of my entire novel. I am in love with the fact that Jack is the most prominent word. Though maybe I shouldn't be.
title="Wordle: ISO">
alt="Wordle: ISO"
style="padding:4px;border:1px solid #ddd">
title="Wordle: ISO">
alt="Wordle: ISO"
style="padding:4px;border:1px solid #ddd">
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