The wind blowing outside sounds a lot like the storm in my head, swirling in the gray matter behind my eyes...
As I drove home today, I was thinking about the birth of my daughter, and the fact that I labored for 40 hours before she finally emerged. This last week of school reminded me of that...will these two weeks on retreat be as productive and rewarding as that 40 hours in April, 1998?
Letterlady already knows what she's gestating. She's birthing a novel that will make her famous and will one day be added to the canon of AP texts that she currently indoctrinates her students with.
I haven't had the ultrasound. I could be carrying a book of poetry or a children's picture book about an amicable divorce where the family isn't deconstructed but rather expanded. (Might be too soon for that, though there is a shameful dearth of quality children's literature on the subject.) It could be a book draft of my article about raising a reader, but nonfiction seems so unglamorous given the alpine ambiance that will surround us. And the poetry has been piling up on my tongue for months for lack of a spoon big enough to manage the bites and ease the digestion.
I read once that Sue Grafton started writing her murder mysteries (A is for Alibi, etc.), because she was having homicidal fantasies about killing her ex-husband. I hope it's a true story.
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Another inspiration , I recall, for Sue Grafton was when she got sick and tired of Hollywood reading her screenplays and not going for them.
Rings true a bit for me. Except I am getting sick and tired of Hollywood NOT reading my screenplays and not going for them.
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