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Ray. She’s feeling better. She was giggling when I came home today. Ahhhh.

A good story I heard at work. You know how it is. Every once in a while someone tells you a story at work. It’s your classic gathering of friends with small children. The evening progresses, everyone’s been fed (changed if necessary), you’re sitting on the couch, leaning back, when someone interrupts someone else’s brag

Rrowl. And I still haven’t finished the first chapter of the story. Ok, it’s up to nearly forty pages so far, and I’ve only missed three days since Dec 31. Nevertheless. And I’m going to have to do a rewrite before anybody (even Lee) is begged to read anything. Once again, I think to myself:

Six more weeks of winter. I’ve passed Groundhog’s Day without comment. First, it was a bright, sunny day. (Whistle cheery theme here.) Then, it became darker and ominous. Darker, and more ominous. Lions and tigers and bears, Oh my! Finally, I said, “Shit!” Joe’d gone to a company dinner for post-Christmas. Some idjit had almost

Raynews. Ray still isn’t feeling well. Lee said she cried for about half the morning, which is just damned unusual for her. And she isn’t sleeping well. Poor bebes. Lee’s napping now before work.

Space Shuttle. The Columbia boke up on re-entry today. An Israeli Air Force Colonel, Ilan Ramon, was one of the astronauts. No solid news of terrorist activity; security had been increased for both the launch and re-entry. Seven lives were lost. Lots of debris was found between Waco and the Louisiana border. 1967: Apollo 1

Dang it. James Howe is not Lemony Snickett. Daniel Handler is Lemony Snickett. Aaaaauugh. That theory blown. On the other hand, reading an interview with him, his other, adult books seem very interesting. The interview contains swearing, I note for your edification. Daniel Handler seems like the kind of author that small-minded parents everywhere should

Hm. I could have sworn I posted something since last time. Eh. Ray isn’t feeling well. One minute, I followed her into the kitchen to put her jammies on for an early bedtime, the next, I’m saving said jammies from a pool of vomit. Ironically, this morning the cat had barfed all over those jammies

Class. Every once in a while, I think up hypothetical English classes for college that I wish I’d had. My favorite has been “How not to write,” in which the class dissects great works of literature that they’ve always hated. Or Danielle Steele, I’m not sure yet. Maybe a smattering of classics and popular fiction

Thinking about writing. I just do that. I don’t know. Probably nobody’s going to come up with the ideas that I have. I realised yesterday that what I like most about people’s writing–including the things I consider masterpieces–is the writer’s style. Incidentally, the people who like what I write say they like the style. I