Words are Optional

Last weekend I got hit with strep throat, and it was nasty. My throat and tonsils were hugely swollen, red, raw. I could barely swallow; I couldn't speak more than a few words aloud without gagging on them. There's probably some odd metaphoric significance there, or would be if I were a character in a work of fiction. I don't want to think too hard about it now though.

When I get sick, it tends to hit my throat. I've had laryngitis more times than I can count, and at one time a nodule was threatening to form on one of my vocal cords. This is my first experience with strep, though, and I hope it's my last. But not being able to speak is an odd sensation. It certainly makes me more aware of the words I say: which ones are truly important or significant, which ones don't need to be spoken.

At any rate, I've been on massive doses of Amoxicillin, and am starting to feel a bit more like my old self, although I still have a lingering sore throat. I'm faintly alarmed by this; I so don't want the intense pain to return that I'm contemplating hourly salt water gargles or something equally penitent/potentially helpful.

Thursday (a few days ago, today's Saturday) my son's preschool teacher watched E for about an hour while I went to the library. I checked out 8 (yep, count 'em) books (7 novels, one collection of short stories) and several CDs. I've just finished the collection of short stories and am starting on a novel. I'm going to quote its beginning paragraph in a bit; it's truly wonderful so far. Having lots of great reading material makes me feel rich in all the ways that count.

D and I actually managed to spend some "quality time" together today. The earth didn't tremble, but it was altogether nice all the same, and hopefully will happen again without the huge gaps we've been having between such events. Okay, TMI...I know, I know. Still, it's the most newsworthy and wonderful thing that's happened lately, so definitely blog-worthy on that account.

I've been thinking a lot about writing lately. My mom is pushing me to get my work published. This wouldn't be so bad (I often need folks to light a fire under me) if she had any idea of what getting something published entails, but she doesn't. She did offer to help, though. So I gave her my hard copy of Writer's Market and some emailed advice (from a third party) to read. We'll see how it goes. (And I still have an online subscription to WM, so it's all good.)

It might be good to talk about it with Mom once she has a feel for what is involved, because she's relentlessly optimistic. I just want to temper that optimism with some sort of awareness. Then, maybe I'll be able to believe it. Nah...on second thought I probably won't. But maybe that's okay too.

I'm also feeling a bit like a hack, since I have been reading such gifted writers. I'm thinking, maybe there's a reason that I'm not published that goes beyond the sheer laziness of not wanting to research, write pitches, send, and wait...ad nauseum. Maybe deep underneath it all, I sense that I don't quite have what it takes to be successful. Or maybe I'm just insecure. I don't know.

I'm feeling pleasantly relaxed right now in a low-key way. No exhilarating highs or crushing lows. That's good, I guess. Sort of good. Maybe good. Dammit, that should be good, shouldn't it? I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide.

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licking my lips in anticipation (of the writing, bien sur...what did you think i meant?)

the opening paragraph to The Kingdom of the Wicked by Anthony Burgess:

"I take my title from the name the Jews have traditionally given to the Roman Empire. You may expect to meet all manner of wickedness in what follows - pork-eating, lechery, adultery, bigamy, sodomy, bestiality, the most ingenious varieties of cruelty, assassination, the worship of false gods and the sin of being uncircumcised. So you may lick your lips in anticipation of being, as it were, vicariously corrupted at the hands of your author. It is all too possible that the practice of literature is a mode of depravity rightly to be condemned. But, as is well known, literature ceases to be literature when it commits itself to moral uplift: it becomes moral philosophy or some such dull thing. Let us then, in the interest of allaying the boredom of this our life, agree to our complementary damnations. My damnation is, of course, greater than yours, since I am the initiator and you are merely the receptor of evil recordings. Moreover, you may throw this book into the fire if your disgust becomes too great; I am committed to writing it. Take another cup of wine and acccept that we human beings are a bad lot."

With a first paragraph like that, it has to be good! ;-)

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Q&A (taken from ladymerri)

I want everyone who reads this to ask me 2 questions, no more, no less. Ask me anything you want. I will answer them honestly. Then I want you to go to your journal and copy and paste this, allowing your friends to ask you anything to which you must answer honestly.

(note: if you're not an LJ friend, then email me. You're not getting off the hook that easily! ;-) )

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