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on the journey,
Emily
Please feel free to post a comment or ask a question on writing and/or the creative process.
Click on either "comment" below or send me an email by clicking on the email icon!
Help expand The Fiction Writer's Journey Community and make this blog page yours, too!
on the journey,
Emily
posted by Emily Hanlon at
11/18/2004 08:53:00 PM
7 Comments:
Whoops. Claire has written once and lost it to the mysteries of cyberspace or the blog swamp?!!!!
So again, she tries.
The question, who writes your stories, fascinated me. I believe Prissy Precocious started for me. She had a turn of phrase, a quick ability to stream words across a page, high-school teachers loved her and college professors said she had "talent." She smiled serenely and ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she was destined to become the South's first Thomas Wolfe female writer.
And so she wrote of women waiting for the electirc chair, of Irish peasants starving to wait for the fairies. And she bought a ticket to New York the day she finished college.
In NY it was disconcerting to find so many people like her. Her specialness dimmed just a bit. But she took heart. Took courses at the New School and New York University. But, ah too prissy, she had fallen so deeply in love with Mr. Harold Ick. He would put his arms around her and whisper, "Not yet my darling.You need to prepare. You will write suns and moons. You will be the greatest, but just not yet. Trust me." And she did. She listened to him, and waited.
In her thirties she could not resist trying a story about one mr. Amos Dewitt, mouse extradoraire' and violinist. Her then teacher and peer writers loved it. She dumped it when another writer, published of course many times, said, "But, Claire, mice don't talk." Now she looks back and says, "Damn well they do bloody talkl." But by now Amos Dewitt has passed on to his reward.
Prissy did sell three personal essays to the Boston Globe and was gloriously happy. I remember seeing her running down the Cambridge, Mass street with her first check. "I did it."She wrote about her aunt in Normandy/World War II; about giving up her beloved cigarettes; and then about leaving N>Y> A sadness.
She was doing well. She entered a fiction contest in Cambridge and won first prize. Another heafy check and pride.
Then again Harold ICK came by and said, "OH dear, oh dear. You know of course the real writers were out at Iowa or Baltimore or or or....This is petty stuff. You should not be doing this. You are better. Wait. don't try yet. The structure is weak, the message is superficial, the characters one dimensional. And, Claire, you have lost your lyrical voice trying to tell a story. Ah dear dear Claire. Save yourself."
And she did. I did.
Shortly I went back to work full time and then to graduate school and then to twenty years of work. Writing crept in like dew on a fragile flower. A poem here, a short story idea here. Piles of papers. Always papers in my house. Eventually I would throw them out.
Too many.
There was the professional writer me who did some articles on psychotherapy. They bored the hell out of me; I stopped.
And so. where are we. Where is Prissy, the bloom of youth off her cheeks. She has gone away. As Amos did to his reward. Now Amanda Holland has come to help me. This time we thought of learning to learn and being humble. Mrs. Grandoisity we , with great difficulty, pitched at the local dump, and refused to return even though she cried most pitiously.
We've written pretty continiously for a year. The magic princess
Emily Hanlon has come to help. However, we had to sedate ICK when He heard we had contracted with Emily. "That *))#&^ he screamed. "She will do you no good."
ICK has subsequently had to be periodically restrained. However, we are trying to get him to
stay on his meds.
Amanda and Claire have written a short story about Meg and Don and April. We finished it more than we had ever "finished" a story. And with a rather crazed intensity, stapled it shut with seven staples. It awaits later review.
Now we pace in the waiting room. What next. Who knows. Is it the alcoholic's wife;the psychiatric patient; the homosexual in small town South Carolina; the crazy woman who almost killed her children and then invited me down to roast hotdogs?
I do not know. Amanda , help. And whoever else is in there. What are we to do. Where do we go. Ideas never deserted us. We had so many. Ideas were falling around us like rose petals from old roses. Now we are willing to work, and ideas retreat.
We sit stolid by the window and wait. A man is approaching us. He has on black jeans, black turtle neck sweater, and is wearing a belt whose buckle glistens in the moonlight. Amanda gasps and leans toward me. "Claire." "Yes, i know," I answer. "It's him." to be continued
By
Anonymous, At
11:30 PM
Whoops. Claire has written once and lost it to the mysteries of cyberspace or the blog swamp?!!!!
So again, she tries.
The question, who writes your stories, fascinated me. I believe Prissy Precocious started for me. She had a turn of phrase, a quick ability to stream words across a page, high-school teachers loved her and college professors said she had "talent." She smiled serenely and ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she was destined to become the South's first Thomas Wolfe female writer.
And so she wrote of women waiting for the electirc chair, of Irish peasants starving to wait for the fairies. And she bought a ticket to New York the day she finished college.
In NY it was disconcerting to find so many people like her. Her specialness dimmed just a bit. But she took heart. Took courses at the New School and New York University. But, ah too prissy, she had fallen so deeply in love with Mr. Harold Ick. He would put his arms around her and whisper, "Not yet my darling.You need to prepare. You will write suns and moons. You will be the greatest, but just not yet. Trust me." And she did. She listened to him, and waited.
In her thirties she could not resist trying a story about one mr. Amos Dewitt, mouse extradoraire' and violinist. Her then teacher and peer writers loved it. She dumped it when another writer, published of course many times, said, "But, Claire, mice don't talk." Now she looks back and says, "Damn well they do bloody talkl." But by now Amos Dewitt has passed on to his reward.
Prissy did sell three personal essays to the Boston Globe and was gloriously happy. I remember seeing her running down the Cambridge, Mass street with her first check. "I did it."She wrote about her aunt in Normandy/World War II; about giving up her beloved cigarettes; and then about leaving N>Y> A sadness.
She was doing well. She entered a fiction contest in Cambridge and won first prize. Another heafy check and pride.
Then again Harold ICK came by and said, "OH dear, oh dear. You know of course the real writers were out at Iowa or Baltimore or or or....This is petty stuff. You should not be doing this. You are better. Wait. don't try yet. The structure is weak, the message is superficial, the characters one dimensional. And, Claire, you have lost your lyrical voice trying to tell a story. Ah dear dear Claire. Save yourself."
And she did. I did.
Shortly I went back to work full time and then to graduate school and then to twenty years of work. Writing crept in like dew on a fragile flower. A poem here, a short story idea here. Piles of papers. Always papers in my house. Eventually I would throw them out.
Too many.
There was the professional writer me who did some articles on psychotherapy. They bored the hell out of me; I stopped.
And so. where are we. Where is Prissy, the bloom of youth off her cheeks. She has gone away. As Amos did to his reward. Now Amanda Holland has come to help me. This time we thought of learning to learn and being humble. Mrs. Grandoisity we , with great difficulty, pitched at the local dump, and refused to return even though she cried most pitiously.
We've written pretty continiously for a year. The magic princess
Emily Hanlon has come to help. However, we had to sedate ICK when He heard we had contracted with Emily. "That *))#&^ he screamed. "She will do you no good."
ICK has subsequently had to be periodically restrained. However, we are trying to get him to
stay on his meds.
Amanda and Claire have written a short story about Meg and Don and April. We finished it more than we had ever "finished" a story. And with a rather crazed intensity, stapled it shut with seven staples. It awaits later review.
Now we pace in the waiting room. What next. Who knows. Is it the alcoholic's wife;the psychiatric patient; the homosexual in small town South Carolina; the crazy woman who almost killed her children and then invited me down to roast hotdogs?
I do not know. Amanda , help. And whoever else is in there. What are we to do. Where do we go. Ideas never deserted us. We had so many. Ideas were falling around us like rose petals from old roses. Now we are willing to work, and ideas retreat.
We sit stolid by the window and wait. A man is approaching us. He has on black jeans, black turtle neck sweater, and is wearing a belt whose buckle glistens in the moonlight. Amanda gasps and leans toward me. "Claire." "Yes, i know," I answer. "It's him." to be continued
By
Anonymous, At
11:30 PM
Whoops. Claire has written once and lost it to the mysteries of cyberspace or the blog swamp?!!!!
So again, she tries.
The question, who writes your stories, fascinated me. I believe Prissy Precocious started for me. She had a turn of phrase, a quick ability to stream words across a page, high-school teachers loved her and college professors said she had "talent." She smiled serenely and ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she was destined to become the South's first Thomas Wolfe female writer.
And so she wrote of women waiting for the electirc chair, of Irish peasants starving to wait for the fairies. And she bought a ticket to New York the day she finished college.
In NY it was disconcerting to find so many people like her. Her specialness dimmed just a bit. But she took heart. Took courses at the New School and New York University. But, ah too prissy, she had fallen so deeply in love with Mr. Harold Ick. He would put his arms around her and whisper, "Not yet my darling.You need to prepare. You will write suns and moons. You will be the greatest, but just not yet. Trust me." And she did. She listened to him, and waited.
In her thirties she could not resist trying a story about one mr. Amos Dewitt, mouse extradoraire' and violinist. Her then teacher and peer writers loved it. She dumped it when another writer, published of course many times, said, "But, Claire, mice don't talk." Now she looks back and says, "Damn well they do bloody talkl." But by now Amos Dewitt has passed on to his reward.
Prissy did sell three personal essays to the Boston Globe and was gloriously happy. I remember seeing her running down the Cambridge, Mass street with her first check. "I did it."She wrote about her aunt in Normandy/World War II; about giving up her beloved cigarettes; and then about leaving N>Y> A sadness.
She was doing well. She entered a fiction contest in Cambridge and won first prize. Another heafy check and pride.
Then again Harold ICK came by and said, "OH dear, oh dear. You know of course the real writers were out at Iowa or Baltimore or or or....This is petty stuff. You should not be doing this. You are better. Wait. don't try yet. The structure is weak, the message is superficial, the characters one dimensional. And, Claire, you have lost your lyrical voice trying to tell a story. Ah dear dear Claire. Save yourself."
And she did. I did.
Shortly I went back to work full time and then to graduate school and then to twenty years of work. Writing crept in like dew on a fragile flower. A poem here, a short story idea here. Piles of papers. Always papers in my house. Eventually I would throw them out.
Too many.
There was the professional writer me who did some articles on psychotherapy. They bored the hell out of me; I stopped.
And so. where are we. Where is Prissy, the bloom of youth off her cheeks. She has gone away. As Amos did to his reward. Now Amanda Holland has come to help me. This time we thought of learning to learn and being humble. Mrs. Grandoisity we , with great difficulty, pitched at the local dump, and refused to return even though she cried most pitiously.
We've written pretty continiously for a year. The magic princess
Emily Hanlon has come to help. However, we had to sedate ICK when He heard we had contracted with Emily. "That *))#&^ he screamed. "She will do you no good."
ICK has subsequently had to be periodically restrained. However, we are trying to get him to
stay on his meds.
Amanda and Claire have written a short story about Meg and Don and April. We finished it more than we had ever "finished" a story. And with a rather crazed intensity, stapled it shut with seven staples. It awaits later review.
Now we pace in the waiting room. What next. Who knows. Is it the alcoholic's wife;the psychiatric patient; the homosexual in small town South Carolina; the crazy woman who almost killed her children and then invited me down to roast hotdogs?
I do not know. Amanda , help. And whoever else is in there. What are we to do. Where do we go. Ideas never deserted us. We had so many. Ideas were falling around us like rose petals from old roses. Now we are willing to work, and ideas retreat.
We sit stolid by the window and wait. A man is approaching us. He has on black jeans, black turtle neck sweater, and is wearing a belt whose buckle glistens in the moonlight. Amanda gasps and leans toward me. "Claire." "Yes, i know," I answer. "It's him." to be continued
By
Anonymous, At
11:30 PM
Whoops. Claire has written once and lost it to the mysteries of cyberspace or the blog swamp?!!!!
So again, she tries.
The question, who writes your stories, fascinated me. I believe Prissy Precocious started for me. She had a turn of phrase, a quick ability to stream words across a page, high-school teachers loved her and college professors said she had "talent." She smiled serenely and ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she was destined to become the South's first Thomas Wolfe female writer.
And so she wrote of women waiting for the electirc chair, of Irish peasants starving to wait for the fairies. And she bought a ticket to New York the day she finished college.
In NY it was disconcerting to find so many people like her. Her specialness dimmed just a bit. But she took heart. Took courses at the New School and New York University. But, ah too prissy, she had fallen so deeply in love with Mr. Harold Ick. He would put his arms around her and whisper, "Not yet my darling.You need to prepare. You will write suns and moons. You will be the greatest, but just not yet. Trust me." And she did. She listened to him, and waited.
In her thirties she could not resist trying a story about one mr. Amos Dewitt, mouse extradoraire' and violinist. Her then teacher and peer writers loved it. She dumped it when another writer, published of course many times, said, "But, Claire, mice don't talk." Now she looks back and says, "Damn well they do bloody talkl." But by now Amos Dewitt has passed on to his reward.
Prissy did sell three personal essays to the Boston Globe and was gloriously happy. I remember seeing her running down the Cambridge, Mass street with her first check. "I did it."She wrote about her aunt in Normandy/World War II; about giving up her beloved cigarettes; and then about leaving N>Y> A sadness.
She was doing well. She entered a fiction contest in Cambridge and won first prize. Another heafy check and pride.
Then again Harold ICK came by and said, "OH dear, oh dear. You know of course the real writers were out at Iowa or Baltimore or or or....This is petty stuff. You should not be doing this. You are better. Wait. don't try yet. The structure is weak, the message is superficial, the characters one dimensional. And, Claire, you have lost your lyrical voice trying to tell a story. Ah dear dear Claire. Save yourself."
And she did. I did.
Shortly I went back to work full time and then to graduate school and then to twenty years of work. Writing crept in like dew on a fragile flower. A poem here, a short story idea here. Piles of papers. Always papers in my house. Eventually I would throw them out.
Too many.
There was the professional writer me who did some articles on psychotherapy. They bored the hell out of me; I stopped.
And so. where are we. Where is Prissy, the bloom of youth off her cheeks. She has gone away. As Amos did to his reward. Now Amanda Holland has come to help me. This time we thought of learning to learn and being humble. Mrs. Grandoisity we , with great difficulty, pitched at the local dump, and refused to return even though she cried most pitiously.
We've written pretty continiously for a year. The magic princess
Emily Hanlon has come to help. However, we had to sedate ICK when He heard we had contracted with Emily. "That *))#&^ he screamed. "She will do you no good."
ICK has subsequently had to be periodically restrained. However, we are trying to get him to
stay on his meds.
Amanda and Claire have written a short story about Meg and Don and April. We finished it more than we had ever "finished" a story. And with a rather crazed intensity, stapled it shut with seven staples. It awaits later review.
Now we pace in the waiting room. What next. Who knows. Is it the alcoholic's wife;the psychiatric patient; the homosexual in small town South Carolina; the crazy woman who almost killed her children and then invited me down to roast hotdogs?
I do not know. Amanda , help. And whoever else is in there. What are we to do. Where do we go. Ideas never deserted us. We had so many. Ideas were falling around us like rose petals from old roses. Now we are willing to work, and ideas retreat.
We sit stolid by the window and wait. A man is approaching us. He has on black jeans, black turtle neck sweater, and is wearing a belt whose buckle glistens in the moonlight. Amanda gasps and leans toward me. "Claire." "Yes, i know," I answer. "It's him." to be continued
By
Anonymous, At
11:30 PM
Whoops. Claire has written once and lost it to the mysteries of cyberspace or the blog swamp?!!!!
So again, she tries.
The question, who writes your stories, fascinated me. I believe Prissy Precocious started for me. She had a turn of phrase, a quick ability to stream words across a page, high-school teachers loved her and college professors said she had "talent." She smiled serenely and ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she was destined to become the South's first Thomas Wolfe female writer.
And so she wrote of women waiting for the electirc chair, of Irish peasants starving to wait for the fairies. And she bought a ticket to New York the day she finished college.
In NY it was disconcerting to find so many people like her. Her specialness dimmed just a bit. But she took heart. Took courses at the New School and New York University. But, ah too prissy, she had fallen so deeply in love with Mr. Harold Ick. He would put his arms around her and whisper, "Not yet my darling.You need to prepare. You will write suns and moons. You will be the greatest, but just not yet. Trust me." And she did. She listened to him, and waited.
In her thirties she could not resist trying a story about one mr. Amos Dewitt, mouse extradoraire' and violinist. Her then teacher and peer writers loved it. She dumped it when another writer, published of course many times, said, "But, Claire, mice don't talk." Now she looks back and says, "Damn well they do bloody talkl." But by now Amos Dewitt has passed on to his reward.
Prissy did sell three personal essays to the Boston Globe and was gloriously happy. I remember seeing her running down the Cambridge, Mass street with her first check. "I did it."She wrote about her aunt in Normandy/World War II; about giving up her beloved cigarettes; and then about leaving N>Y> A sadness.
She was doing well. She entered a fiction contest in Cambridge and won first prize. Another heafy check and pride.
Then again Harold ICK came by and said, "OH dear, oh dear. You know of course the real writers were out at Iowa or Baltimore or or or....This is petty stuff. You should not be doing this. You are better. Wait. don't try yet. The structure is weak, the message is superficial, the characters one dimensional. And, Claire, you have lost your lyrical voice trying to tell a story. Ah dear dear Claire. Save yourself."
And she did. I did.
Shortly I went back to work full time and then to graduate school and then to twenty years of work. Writing crept in like dew on a fragile flower. A poem here, a short story idea here. Piles of papers. Always papers in my house. Eventually I would throw them out.
Too many.
There was the professional writer me who did some articles on psychotherapy. They bored the hell out of me; I stopped.
And so. where are we. Where is Prissy, the bloom of youth off her cheeks. She has gone away. As Amos did to his reward. Now Amanda Holland has come to help me. This time we thought of learning to learn and being humble. Mrs. Grandoisity we , with great difficulty, pitched at the local dump, and refused to return even though she cried most pitiously.
We've written pretty continiously for a year. The magic princess
Emily Hanlon has come to help. However, we had to sedate ICK when He heard we had contracted with Emily. "That *))#&^ he screamed. "She will do you no good."
ICK has subsequently had to be periodically restrained. However, we are trying to get him to
stay on his meds.
Amanda and Claire have written a short story about Meg and Don and April. We finished it more than we had ever "finished" a story. And with a rather crazed intensity, stapled it shut with seven staples. It awaits later review.
Now we pace in the waiting room. What next. Who knows. Is it the alcoholic's wife;the psychiatric patient; the homosexual in small town South Carolina; the crazy woman who almost killed her children and then invited me down to roast hotdogs?
I do not know. Amanda , help. And whoever else is in there. What are we to do. Where do we go. Ideas never deserted us. We had so many. Ideas were falling around us like rose petals from old roses. Now we are willing to work, and ideas retreat.
We sit stolid by the window and wait. A man is approaching us. He has on black jeans, black turtle neck sweater, and is wearing a belt whose buckle glistens in the moonlight. Amanda gasps and leans toward me. "Claire." "Yes, i know," I answer. "It's him." to be continued
By
Anonymous, At
11:30 PM
Whoops. Claire has written once and lost it to the mysteries of cyberspace or the blog swamp?!!!!
So again, she tries.
The question, who writes your stories, fascinated me. I believe Prissy Precocious started for me. She had a turn of phrase, a quick ability to stream words across a page, high-school teachers loved her and college professors said she had "talent." She smiled serenely and ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she was destined to become the South's first Thomas Wolfe female writer.
And so she wrote of women waiting for the electirc chair, of Irish peasants starving to wait for the fairies. And she bought a ticket to New York the day she finished college.
In NY it was disconcerting to find so many people like her. Her specialness dimmed just a bit. But she took heart. Took courses at the New School and New York University. But, ah too prissy, she had fallen so deeply in love with Mr. Harold Ick. He would put his arms around her and whisper, "Not yet my darling.You need to prepare. You will write suns and moons. You will be the greatest, but just not yet. Trust me." And she did. She listened to him, and waited.
In her thirties she could not resist trying a story about one mr. Amos Dewitt, mouse extradoraire' and violinist. Her then teacher and peer writers loved it. She dumped it when another writer, published of course many times, said, "But, Claire, mice don't talk." Now she looks back and says, "Damn well they do bloody talkl." But by now Amos Dewitt has passed on to his reward.
Prissy did sell three personal essays to the Boston Globe and was gloriously happy. I remember seeing her running down the Cambridge, Mass street with her first check. "I did it."She wrote about her aunt in Normandy/World War II; about giving up her beloved cigarettes; and then about leaving N>Y> A sadness.
She was doing well. She entered a fiction contest in Cambridge and won first prize. Another heafy check and pride.
Then again Harold ICK came by and said, "OH dear, oh dear. You know of course the real writers were out at Iowa or Baltimore or or or....This is petty stuff. You should not be doing this. You are better. Wait. don't try yet. The structure is weak, the message is superficial, the characters one dimensional. And, Claire, you have lost your lyrical voice trying to tell a story. Ah dear dear Claire. Save yourself."
And she did. I did.
Shortly I went back to work full time and then to graduate school and then to twenty years of work. Writing crept in like dew on a fragile flower. A poem here, a short story idea here. Piles of papers. Always papers in my house. Eventually I would throw them out.
Too many.
There was the professional writer me who did some articles on psychotherapy. They bored the hell out of me; I stopped.
And so. where are we. Where is Prissy, the bloom of youth off her cheeks. She has gone away. As Amos did to his reward. Now Amanda Holland has come to help me. This time we thought of learning to learn and being humble. Mrs. Grandoisity we , with great difficulty, pitched at the local dump, and refused to return even though she cried most pitiously.
We've written pretty continiously for a year. The magic princess
Emily Hanlon has come to help. However, we had to sedate ICK when He heard we had contracted with Emily. "That *))#&^ he screamed. "She will do you no good."
ICK has subsequently had to be periodically restrained. However, we are trying to get him to
stay on his meds.
Amanda and Claire have written a short story about Meg and Don and April. We finished it more than we had ever "finished" a story. And with a rather crazed intensity, stapled it shut with seven staples. It awaits later review.
Now we pace in the waiting room. What next. Who knows. Is it the alcoholic's wife;the psychiatric patient; the homosexual in small town South Carolina; the crazy woman who almost killed her children and then invited me down to roast hotdogs?
I do not know. Amanda , help. And whoever else is in there. What are we to do. Where do we go. Ideas never deserted us. We had so many. Ideas were falling around us like rose petals from old roses. Now we are willing to work, and ideas retreat.
We sit stolid by the window and wait. A man is approaching us. He has on black jeans, black turtle neck sweater, and is wearing a belt whose buckle glistens in the moonlight. Amanda gasps and leans toward me. "Claire." "Yes, i know," I answer. "It's him." to be continued
By
Anonymous, At
11:30 PM
Whoops. Claire has written once and lost it to the mysteries of cyberspace or the blog swamp?!!!!
So again, she tries.
The question, who writes your stories, fascinated me. I believe Prissy Precocious started for me. She had a turn of phrase, a quick ability to stream words across a page, high-school teachers loved her and college professors said she had "talent." She smiled serenely and ruffled her feathers. It was obvious she was destined to become the South's first Thomas Wolfe female writer.
And so she wrote of women waiting for the electirc chair, of Irish peasants starving to wait for the fairies. And she bought a ticket to New York the day she finished college.
In NY it was disconcerting to find so many people like her. Her specialness dimmed just a bit. But she took heart. Took courses at the New School and New York University. But, ah too prissy, she had fallen so deeply in love with Mr. Harold Ick. He would put his arms around her and whisper, "Not yet my darling.You need to prepare. You will write suns and moons. You will be the greatest, but just not yet. Trust me." And she did. She listened to him, and waited.
In her thirties she could not resist trying a story about one mr. Amos Dewitt, mouse extradoraire' and violinist. Her then teacher and peer writers loved it. She dumped it when another writer, published of course many times, said, "But, Claire, mice don't talk." Now she looks back and says, "Damn well they do bloody talkl." But by now Amos Dewitt has passed on to his reward.
Prissy did sell three personal essays to the Boston Globe and was gloriously happy. I remember seeing her running down the Cambridge, Mass street with her first check. "I did it."She wrote about her aunt in Normandy/World War II; about giving up her beloved cigarettes; and then about leaving N>Y> A sadness.
She was doing well. She entered a fiction contest in Cambridge and won first prize. Another heafy check and pride.
Then again Harold ICK came by and said, "OH dear, oh dear. You know of course the real writers were out at Iowa or Baltimore or or or....This is petty stuff. You should not be doing this. You are better. Wait. don't try yet. The structure is weak, the message is superficial, the characters one dimensional. And, Claire, you have lost your lyrical voice trying to tell a story. Ah dear dear Claire. Save yourself."
And she did. I did.
Shortly I went back to work full time and then to graduate school and then to twenty years of work. Writing crept in like dew on a fragile flower. A poem here, a short story idea here. Piles of papers. Always papers in my house. Eventually I would throw them out.
Too many.
There was the professional writer me who did some articles on psychotherapy. They bored the hell out of me; I stopped.
And so. where are we. Where is Prissy, the bloom of youth off her cheeks. She has gone away. As Amos did to his reward. Now Amanda Holland has come to help me. This time we thought of learning to learn and being humble. Mrs. Grandoisity we , with great difficulty, pitched at the local dump, and refused to return even though she cried most pitiously.
We've written pretty continiously for a year. The magic princess
Emily Hanlon has come to help. However, we had to sedate ICK when He heard we had contracted with Emily. "That *))#&^ he screamed. "She will do you no good."
ICK has subsequently had to be periodically restrained. However, we are trying to get him to
stay on his meds.
Amanda and Claire have written a short story about Meg and Don and April. We finished it more than we had ever "finished" a story. And with a rather crazed intensity, stapled it shut with seven staples. It awaits later review.
Now we pace in the waiting room. What next. Who knows. Is it the alcoholic's wife;the psychiatric patient; the homosexual in small town South Carolina; the crazy woman who almost killed her children and then invited me down to roast hotdogs?
I do not know. Amanda , help. And whoever else is in there. What are we to do. Where do we go. Ideas never deserted us. We had so many. Ideas were falling around us like rose petals from old roses. Now we are willing to work, and ideas retreat.
We sit stolid by the window and wait. A man is approaching us. He has on black jeans, black turtle neck sweater, and is wearing a belt whose buckle glistens in the moonlight. Amanda gasps and leans toward me. "Claire." "Yes, i know," I answer. "It's him." to be continued
By
Anonymous, At
11:30 PM
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