There's something deeply satisfying to me about sitting here at this table in this cafe with all these stories spread out around me to read. Dozens. I'm listening to Radio Free Klezmer. I'm plowing through story after story about father/son relationships, most of which involve a)hunting b)fishing or c)camping. Then there's winter sports. Poor V has to deal with my constant stream of "never do this" in a story. The latest had to do with fabric stretched tight over women's breasts. Christ. She said she wants to write a story in which fabric droops over a woman's breasts. I say more power to her. I'm realizing why Jenna Blum was so anti-child narrators now, and why AGNI has a blanket policy. (That sounds like a policy to issue afghans to its contributers, but of course I mean a blanket policy against child narrators).
It's homecoming weekend and yesterday I passed a float that consisted of two large papier mache yams. How rad is that?
Stove, the leaves on the trees are still bright. I wondered to myself whether that would still be the case when you came, then realized you'll be here in 5 days, and how much can really change in that time? Yee-haw.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Hunh, a lot of my favorite slush pile stories have had child narrators. But most of them failed to solve the "what will happen this precocious little person" question, and made them very conventional bitter recluses.
I'm excited for the leaves! They are turning here too (only yellow, though), and I remembered sadly the other day that the fact that they are falling means that the trees will be bare all winter. In California, one forgets these things.
There's a falcon on a wire outside my window right now as I type this (or at least that what it is to this amateur ornithologist).
Post a Comment