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“How’s the writing coming along?” - my friend

That harmless little question is just enough.  Enough to bring me to the library; a place that used to be wonderfully silent but now, thanks to two rows of internet hookups, is full of ringtones, constant wriggling and surreptitious giggle:  I’m only guilty of one of those offenses (guess), and being that I’m here, I’ll stop bitching about it, ‘cause atleast I have a book beside me.  More of Dorothy Parker’s delightfully grim short stories, and in the car Isabel Allende’s “The Infinite Plan”; the later amazes me by writing the inner thoughts of a man so well that I keep turning to her picture to remind myself that she must be female.  And if I was, at some point, averse to female writers; I’m no longer.  I’m also halfway through another Oates’ book called “FOXFIRE:  Confessions of a Girl Gang”.  Currently (until Dorsey writes a new fl book) there are no male writers holding my attention (except in fleeting glimpses*).

As you can tell, my reading has been much more prolific than my writing as of late.  My real life keeps getting in the way of my imaginary existence (dammit), rudely pushing goliard aside for her salt-of-the-earth gravity based alterego, the mother, the wife, the daughter, the HoH that keeps everyone’s feet on the ground.  And that one, well, her writing is limited to grocery lists and things-to-do lists; which are prolific in and of themselves.  these days.

plants