Take Friday off.
Wake up, get a massage, drive to Indy. Meet with the editor of Indianapolis Monthly during the day, meet with close high school friends at night. Drink three glasses of red wine, and far too many glasses of sangria with your tapas. Catch a Michael Jackson cover band at The Vogue, and let four Red Bull & Vodkas get you moving. Move well until you hit the pavement on the way back to your friend's car. Pretend no one saw. Go to bed.
Wake up, hydrate, drive to Bloomington. Meet with a favorite high school buddy and her husband during the day, have far too much food with them at a trendy cafe at night. Drink wine, talk writing. Drink more wine, talk relationships and old houses and Ghana and mothers and Christians and yoga. Eat so much chocolate you begin to feel sick. Go to bed.
Wake up, hydrate, drive home. Crack the windows and blare the radio. Croon with the Top 20 crooners until your cell phone rings, and you tell someone far away what a wonderful weekend it's been.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
And surprise, surprise...
I will not be moving to a remote oil and gas town in northwestern New Mexico.
This is not, as some surmised, because I couldn't get a good bagel on Sunday.
Rather, it was because I wouldn't have been Ms. Navajo—a dream of mine since, well, about three weeks ago.
I could have covered the reservation every now and then, but for the most part I would have been a city and county government reporter. Nothing wrong with that; it just wasn’t enough to lure me there.
I hit it off with an attractive, mountain man photographer, but he didn't quite tip the balance. Everyone else on the staff was either in a serious relationship or married.
And there were other troubling signs: restaurant choices were Mexican, Mexican or Mexican, and the nearest department store was three hours away. I was told housing could be hard to find, but there was a never a shortage of trailers. And one editor, with whom I would have been working closely, mentioned she once joined a polygamous cult.
Oh, and when I visited, an editor sent me 45 minutes away to do an article on Durango, Colorado’s annual Wedding Expo. Every time I approached a vendor for an interview, they’d say, “Congrats! When’s the date?”
If there is a God, he gave me a little wink.
This is not, as some surmised, because I couldn't get a good bagel on Sunday.
Rather, it was because I wouldn't have been Ms. Navajo—a dream of mine since, well, about three weeks ago.
I could have covered the reservation every now and then, but for the most part I would have been a city and county government reporter. Nothing wrong with that; it just wasn’t enough to lure me there.
I hit it off with an attractive, mountain man photographer, but he didn't quite tip the balance. Everyone else on the staff was either in a serious relationship or married.
And there were other troubling signs: restaurant choices were Mexican, Mexican or Mexican, and the nearest department store was three hours away. I was told housing could be hard to find, but there was a never a shortage of trailers. And one editor, with whom I would have been working closely, mentioned she once joined a polygamous cult.
Oh, and when I visited, an editor sent me 45 minutes away to do an article on Durango, Colorado’s annual Wedding Expo. Every time I approached a vendor for an interview, they’d say, “Congrats! When’s the date?”
If there is a God, he gave me a little wink.
Good thing I skipped out on those Super Bowl parties...
Although let's be honest, I was only looking forward to the food.
So I just finished a draft. Four months, and far, far too many words later, and I actually wrote a conclusion to my novella of a draft.
I have this very strange feeling in my stomach...
Twenty minutes ago, when I knew this was going to happen, I went into my family room, kissed my parents on the cheek, and told them they were great. (Note to self: this should be done more often, not only when you finish 40-page drafts).
I think parts of the draft really bite, and it's far too long, but at least I've got something to work with. (Ben S.: Are you ready for this baby? Begin to prepare yourself. Although I think it needs a week of editing before it's ready for you.)
My guy is in the hospital again, by the way. I'm going to see him tomorrow.
This has all been so strange and rather sad...
So I just finished a draft. Four months, and far, far too many words later, and I actually wrote a conclusion to my novella of a draft.
I have this very strange feeling in my stomach...
Twenty minutes ago, when I knew this was going to happen, I went into my family room, kissed my parents on the cheek, and told them they were great. (Note to self: this should be done more often, not only when you finish 40-page drafts).
I think parts of the draft really bite, and it's far too long, but at least I've got something to work with. (Ben S.: Are you ready for this baby? Begin to prepare yourself. Although I think it needs a week of editing before it's ready for you.)
My guy is in the hospital again, by the way. I'm going to see him tomorrow.
This has all been so strange and rather sad...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
