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Doing a large washing of winter clothing right now. All my sweaters and cardigans look wonderfully warm to me. I also have a huge pile of really old clothes that need to be thrown out or donated. I'm terribly lazy about things like this...I usually make piles of things to donate and piles of things to take to the dry cleaner, and they just sit in my room, being used as extremely comfy kitty beds. I promise today I WILL do the things I need to do in order to keep my room clothing-pile free.
I'm also going through the bag that contains the vast collection of gothic clothing I bought at age 21. There's lots of pretty stuff in there...velvet corsets and ruffly skirts and bodices with tassles hanging off. It's unlikely I'll ever wear them again. Some stuff I could easily part with. Other things I can't because I still have a strong Victorian fetish and a voice whispers to me, You never know! You never know when you decide to be something for Halloween that absolutely requires a velvet corset. You never know when there's a party and you're going to wear a skirt that would actually look fantastic with a tassled bodice. You never know when you're in the mood to let your Goth Flag wave.
Also a lot of those items are dry clean only, and the hell I'm paying for drycleaning just to take them to Disgraceland.
One of the games the cats really like to play is Chase the Bouncy Ball. Unfortunately, last week there was an incident where a small red bouncy ball bopped Puck right on the nose and he ran under the table all squinty eyed. I saw the ball in my room today and since Puck was lurking around all my clothing piles, I bounced it out the door for him to chase, and instead of running after it like he usually does, he hissed and ran under the dresser for safety. Poor guy! I promised him that I'll get rid of it. We'll stick with the more lightweight bouncy ball.
I'm very engrossed in reading "The Time Traveler's Wife" by Audrey Niffenegger right now. It's one of those books that are so amazingly good that you're terribly happy that you're only in the middle of it and there's still more to go. It's also one of those books that as a writer, makes you pull your hair out, whining, "Why didn't I think to write about a guy who has a genetic disease that makes him time travel, so he meets his future wife when she's little and when she grows up they have this amazing and completely non-cheesy romance?" Then throw in the fact that the author is a teacher for Columbia College's Story Workshop, and it makes you howl like a frustrated werewolf. How come all these kids going to Columbia are getting taught by these awesome authors like Audrey Niffenegger and Irvine Welsh? All we had was Don DeGrazia! Granted, at the time we thought that was pretty cool, but it just wasn't Irvine Welsh-cool. Also, I liked my class with Don a lot, but he was completely Story Workshop trained. It makes you wonder what it would have been like to be taught by someone who wrote an amazing book before teaching at Columbia. Someone who wouldn't have been all hung up on how the desks were set up and what kind of word you were giving and if your story had a close sound and a far away sound.
Sometimes reading a wonderful book just makes me depressed about my own writing. It's not deep enough, it's not layered enough, I don't do enough of it. I worry that it's all just glorified chick lit. But maybe I should shut the fuck up and just write.
I'm also going through the bag that contains the vast collection of gothic clothing I bought at age 21. There's lots of pretty stuff in there...velvet corsets and ruffly skirts and bodices with tassles hanging off. It's unlikely I'll ever wear them again. Some stuff I could easily part with. Other things I can't because I still have a strong Victorian fetish and a voice whispers to me, You never know! You never know when you decide to be something for Halloween that absolutely requires a velvet corset. You never know when there's a party and you're going to wear a skirt that would actually look fantastic with a tassled bodice. You never know when you're in the mood to let your Goth Flag wave.
Also a lot of those items are dry clean only, and the hell I'm paying for drycleaning just to take them to Disgraceland.
One of the games the cats really like to play is Chase the Bouncy Ball. Unfortunately, last week there was an incident where a small red bouncy ball bopped Puck right on the nose and he ran under the table all squinty eyed. I saw the ball in my room today and since Puck was lurking around all my clothing piles, I bounced it out the door for him to chase, and instead of running after it like he usually does, he hissed and ran under the dresser for safety. Poor guy! I promised him that I'll get rid of it. We'll stick with the more lightweight bouncy ball.
I'm very engrossed in reading "The Time Traveler's Wife" by Audrey Niffenegger right now. It's one of those books that are so amazingly good that you're terribly happy that you're only in the middle of it and there's still more to go. It's also one of those books that as a writer, makes you pull your hair out, whining, "Why didn't I think to write about a guy who has a genetic disease that makes him time travel, so he meets his future wife when she's little and when she grows up they have this amazing and completely non-cheesy romance?" Then throw in the fact that the author is a teacher for Columbia College's Story Workshop, and it makes you howl like a frustrated werewolf. How come all these kids going to Columbia are getting taught by these awesome authors like Audrey Niffenegger and Irvine Welsh? All we had was Don DeGrazia! Granted, at the time we thought that was pretty cool, but it just wasn't Irvine Welsh-cool. Also, I liked my class with Don a lot, but he was completely Story Workshop trained. It makes you wonder what it would have been like to be taught by someone who wrote an amazing book before teaching at Columbia. Someone who wouldn't have been all hung up on how the desks were set up and what kind of word you were giving and if your story had a close sound and a far away sound.
Sometimes reading a wonderful book just makes me depressed about my own writing. It's not deep enough, it's not layered enough, I don't do enough of it. I worry that it's all just glorified chick lit. But maybe I should shut the fuck up and just write.
