3: 19-22.
Handwritten but barely. It’s been a rough week. We’ll see if I can find the heart to really continue this.
3: 18.
It was her wanting that killed her, I think. Her desire to see herself as something more. Look at her first album. Tender Tender–what emotions it evoked, how real true it was. I’m not saying her next one wasnt true, it was. It was just true to someone else. Looking back on it, I’m not sure if it’d be more right to have included that apostrophe in the title. Corrina Proverbs Blues.
3: 17.
It’s all about becoming smaller, tightening up. You’re already small. To want to occupy more space in a personal manner ought to be against human nature. Diet. Exercise. Be modest. Live modestly. Shave your head. Sell your second home. Your third and fourth too. Rent rooms instead. Explore. Live in Europe, in a city in Europe, in Madrid, where the apartments its citizens live in are neat and compact and on the pulse of livelihood and liveliness. Texas isnt better because it’s bigger and you’re not popular because facebook validates that notion. Expand only inside and take what’s given, not what’s available.
3: 16.
A fun little piece of wordplay for my newly minted protagonist, Corrina Proverbs.
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Corrina, Corrina, her figure spins her off the stage and through the window, before the hard headlights of a troubled night, on the upended rind of a life she took lightly until learning of its end.
3: 15.
I wrote in my notebook last night about heels, as did some of you too. I never got around to typing it up. Clearing the air. And to clarify, the heels were affixed to my protagonist for this shorter idea I’ve got brewing. I’m intrigued.
3: 14.
Sorry! Time got away from me. I’ll have to count the outlining I did in critical thinking class as my day’s work. It’s not much, but it’s going to be solid.
3: 13.
Outline for a story I shouldnt yet be focusing on.
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For a week the supply of forks in the silverware drawer had been dwindling and now three remained. Marion and his wife sat at the wooden kitchen table out of sight from the corridor leading into the room and waited–and not for long. As dusk began to settle Linus walked in without pretense nor caution nor shame and looked at his curious parents, opened the drawer, and took a fork with him out the back door. Wordlessly. As always. The adults stood and followed him a couple of minutes later, watching their son’s head weave through the cornfield of Knave’s Acre, and as they approached the clearing in which Linus sat, they heard a high thin squeak. Over his narrow shoulder were twelve forks standing upright in the dirt with a fieldmouse dead on the tines. Before him now was another mouse similarly dying, its small body trembling, eyes focused on nothing.
3: 12.
Cant figure out names or titles for this shorter idea. I’ve been handwriting scene plans and such, I know how I want to present the story–but dammit. C’est la vie. This is my last day of spring break, and I shall resume posting here tomorrow.
3: 10.
To Yuma. (Handwritten too. Kind of liking it.)
ever in good stead. 