First I painted my nails to give me something pretty to look at while I read my brains out. I'm taking a Faulkner class and a Romantics class this semester and none of those fuckers were exactly stingy with words.
Then I saw this picture:
And I turned to The Boy and I told him to strap on his boots and head out for blueberries because I needed that in my face as soon as possible. I believe my exact words were, "strap on your boots because I am strapping on a bra and making us some fucking pancakes so you had better suck it up, mister!" Don't worry, he did.
Then I went back to reading and it's going to be a lot more of that this week, along with a fair amount of writing. Then, this weekend, I'm off to Germany but not before having a Day of Awesome. My friend and I are going for chicken
here, then trapezing (!!!)
here, then having cupcakes from
here and then going to
this spa. Be jealous.
1-1/2 years ago, i permanently relocated to Oxford, Mississippi -- home to William Faulkner (and the "Ole Miss Rebels").
ReplyDeleteregionally speaking, the writing of novels takes place on an uneven playing field: Yankee novelists have to think up characters, plots to involve them in, resolutions, etc. by contrast, Southern writers just have to change the names (and hope they don't get shot). This, btw, is precisely what Faulkner did.
ps: kudos to The Boy for getting you blueberries.