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Rejection. No, I haven’t had any rejection letters lately. I should be so lucky…more waiting. I’ve discovered another writer at work, a chica taking a writing-for-children course, a publisher of poetry and a sarcasmatrice. She said she was dreading the end of her writing course, because then she would be On Her Own and Have […]

Mad. Why can’t I stay mad? I get mad. I yell (in the case of a sincere apology, I’m done). I hold grudges. I lose trust in people. I just don’t stay mad. If the time between getting mad and giving someone a piece of my mind is more than a few hours, in most

Note. Never go grocery shopping hungry. Never go to a bookstore intellectual. Never bring up the name of one of your favorite authors–to anyone–unless you’re planning to reread something. Especially (and this isn’t the case) if it’s somebody like Robert Jordan, because…holy crap, that’s a lot of wordage. Or Agatha Christie. Or Danielle Steele. Bleh.

Attack of the Cutes. Imagine, if you will, the song “Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing,” by Chris Isaak. Add to that one five-month-old bebe that’s just learned to sway back and forth to the music. On top of that, add momma lying on the floor next to her, close enough for bebe to reack

Responsibility. Sometimes I get tired of being a mother. It’s the responsibility. (Can you see the looks on some of my relative’s faces? “Ha! I knew she’d never be able to pull it off, the flibbertygibbet.” Of course, being all-American, all-Christian Midwesterners, nothing would be said. Nothing, not even, “How can I help?” Especially not

A.I. Here’s the entirety of the short story “A.I.” was based on, “Supertoys Last All Summer Long.” From Zannah. Oh yeah. And the story was by Brian Aldiss.

Opinions. I’m the kind of person who really needs to think before I speak. Sometimes that means I keep my mouth shut. Sometimes that means I Say The Wrong Thing. Sometimes I think as much as I need to think, and people start shaking me by the shoulders: “Are you OK? Are you OK? Anybody

Baby news. Yesterday, the banana, i.e., the first non-cereal food ze bébé has tasted. I popped open the top and tasted it. Lee saw me. He was grossed out that I tasted it. Not because of any supposed spit contamination (not that I stuck my tongue in it or anything), but because it was baby

Jealousy. I’ve decided that reading Mecawilson is a bittersweet experience. Bittersweet? That’s not the word. If there’s some word combining the tang of pickles with the acidic, gut-eating taste of jealousy, then that’s the word I mean to use instead. “Bittersweet.” He’s funny. I’ve seen a lot of good writers on the net lately, good,

Oven. An update of my progress in editing “Feather” would read something like this: Crap. And you know what that means. Let’s have a nice learning experience, eh? I’ve finished the first go through the manuscript. I now have beats, which each of them have a beginning, middle, and ending; the story is now twice