Naturally, the day I post enough novel dreck to sink a battleship Michele sends folks over. I think I’m supposed to be grateful but, geez, there I sat in my pajamas, painfully gasping for words like a fish on the deck praying for a return to the sea.(Sorry, NaNoWriMo is bringing out the drama mama in me.) So, does Michele like me or is she out to get me? In either case, I had more wonderful visitors yesterday, when I could least afford them- thank you, thank you, thank you. Really Michele- I appreciate the nod. Believe it or not (or not) I will get around to say it in person to everyone who came by.
Problem: NaNoWriMo is hard to type. From here on in it’s Nano. Got that? Nano. When last we left Nano our heroine was standing, as small and average as could be, on the midway at the Michigan State Fair. And although the carnie could come within mere ounces of everyone else- fat, tall, skinny, lean- every year he failed to guess her weight. That’s because she is totally lacking in substance. Her brother, Stewart, is spending more money than she has ever seen on the arcade games and losing every penny. Her father is gazing longingly at steer genitals, imagining the fine breeding stock, if only he hadn’t left the farm and married a New England princess. And her mother is wandering restlessly around the jelly and jam contest worrying about germs and
girt (grit + dirt = girt) grit and sweat. She has no idea she is pregnant with her third child, who will be the third most beautiful baby ever born, ever, and become our klutzy, waif-like heroine’s lifelong nemesis. (That will bring Betsy out of the WMU closet, guaranteed. Remember, it’s FICTION.)
The second most beautiful baby ever born is doing well at five days. Never have I seen such elegant fingers. This baby, at four days, had her hands fully open and gracefully tracing objects unseen, examining the air space in front of her nose. She’s incredibly well finished off for a newborn and I know this stuff since it is, actually, my area of expertise. Not fiction writing but Neonatal development. It’s true. I trained with Barry Brazelton. Maybe you’re too young to remember. Anyway, Alexis is simply stunning with these delicate digits of exploration. Sometimes she brings them together and pops them into her mouth and sucks quietly while staring at you in that blurry eyed yet intent way that infants do.
I’ve been trying to keep the hot meals coming. You know that bread I made two days ago? Well, there’s a problem. Beyond the obvious one related to the yeast.
I did, in fact (not fiction) heave the loaf out the door at the tail-less squirrel, failing to note that that little metal paddle thing that kneads the dough was embedded in the loaf like fossil in stone. The possum dragged the whole loaf off last night- we saw her doing it- but it didn’t occur to me until tonight that the paddle was missing. So where do you think I might find it? I mean now that there are 4 inches of leaves covering the acre of yard and who knows where that rock of Gibraltar ended up. I suppose a consolation prize would be if the possum ate the metal part and died. I hate that wicked looking creature. And that’s saying a lot coming from a nature/animal lover like me. Possums are most foul.
The first and foremost beautiful
alien baby ever born is alive and well in Florida. She’s half way through her first term and loving everything about school. She did trip over her modem cord and pulled her computer off the desk with a resounding smash and crash of parts so her father bailed her out with a new laptop. Good thing too, because, with two people writing novels under this roof, there’s not a whole lot of income being generated. I get to see her in less than two weeks-yes, yes, yes!
Yes, yes, yes. FG continues to write like the whirling dervish he is. He’s up to almost 8,000 words. His novel takes place in 1963, features 4 brothers and neighbors who are building a bomb shelter. It’s good, too. I’m gonna smack him. At least he didn’t get the bright read Nano sticker I got by going over to the regional meeting at Espresso Royale Caffe. Rich chose to play golf instead. The writer’s group was everything I imagined. And more. or less. I’ve stared the competition in the face. And now I’m going to watch Trading Spouses.