Writing has been sluggish lately. The excuse I’ve been using is that once you get into the revision/editing mode it’s hard to change gears. While that’s not entirely true, it will have to do. In fact, I’ve been teaching myself bookbinding, and making blank journals. Since I’ve been giving away my mistakes, this is turning into and expensive hobby, but it is fun, and when a project is done there is a loftable THING to show, goofs and all.
Still, I’ve resurrected Miz Quickly in an attempt to get myself back into writing rhythm. Writing the prompts reminds me that there are many back, side, basement, and attic doors to the groove.
The last time I wrote here it was spring. Now it’s effectively August, and has been August since May. Horrible weather. That others have it worse does not make me happy.
The Publisher of Testify, Yellow Jacket Books, is closing shop. (There are still a few copies for anyone who wants to order one. Contact is barbara.e.young at gmail dot com.) When the publisher sends my files, legally giving the work back to me, I may consider putting it back out on my own. Or, melding it into a larger collection.
My first solo reading ever was at the Scarritt-Bennett Center in June. An unpredicted storm kept almost everyone who might conceivably have come home, safe and dry. Truth, if anyone else had been reading, there would have been two fewer.
Damn weather again.
Seems like everything out of my mouth is a complaint, she says, ruefully.
Trying to imagine why that is, and what might be done about it, I think about blessings and curses, and remember a Grimms’ story called–in the edition I read–“The Boy Who Learned to Shudder,” and more properly “The Story of a Boy Who Went Forth to Learn Fear.” This second translation of the title would have been more useful to second- or third-grade me since, like the boy, I didn’t know what shuddering was. Not in my vocabulary, or dictionary. And it was that in thosed days there was no internet, and bookmobiles were few and days between. If I’d known public librarians would be tickled to answer an eight-year-old’s simple literary question, would I have called? Sixty-odd years under that bridge, but likely not.
How would one go about going forth to learn how not to complain?