Ewww.

Thiiiiiiiiiiiis much (arms stretched wide): that is how much I hate summer. I am living in the wrong state/hemisphere. I'm not ashamed to admit it; I had cleavage sweat today at Costco.
What I wouldn't give to have a steaming cup of cocoa in front of a fire. I want to be bundled in my winter yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

And I'm not one of those Richmonders who complain in the summer that they want winter, and in the winter that they want summer. I like fall. And I like winter. I hate summer.

What does "feminist" mean anymore?

I'm not sure. But a friend of mine is attempting to find out through a series of questions posed to a forum of women, aged 22-30. She's taking a look at what it means to be a woman now, where we came from, and how our generation differs from the Facebook-reading, cellphone-texting, gossip-blogging one that seems to be coming up.

HH, if you're reading this, I think it'll be interesting to look at the generation that preceded us. Not just our mothers, but the women who really remember New Kids on the Block from their high school/college years (rather than elementary/middle).

If she starts posting soon, I'd love to link this to her site as well.

That's cool, Junot?

This is probably old news to my more literate friends, but I was absolutely astounded by the story of Junot Diaz, the writer who won the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for fiction. I haven't read his book (though I think I will now), but he served as an inspiration. In the interview I saw, Diaz came across so human, so real, and so...well, normal.

I think some writers can get discouraged by the intimidating literati. It can be filled with so-called artistic types, who swill coffee and smoke cigarettes. (Yes, I know this is a cliched description, but cliches come from somewhere, and believe me, I've seen it.)

But the literary community is also composed of really normal people. That's encouraging. And also lifting my spirits is the fact that every writer seems to think their writing sucks. Even good writers. I can't count the number of workshops I been in when I am exceedingly jealous of someone else's rough draft. "Why didn't I think of that," is a common thought. And the person who wrote it thinks it's terrible. And not in that phony "aw, shucks" way.

So I take heart and feel inspired again Now if I can actually do anything with it...

Livin' on a prayer

I was watching the Today show this morning, drinking my coffee as usual, a little peeved that I was low on Coffeemate. The news of the morning was Kennedy's brain tumor diagnosis. I don't want to get into the fact that he is a political figure, because where life and death are concerned, we're all on a level playing field.



What struck me was how all the anchors and senators said that their prayers were with Kennedy and his family. I think that is a great thing.



What struck me was not how the media prays when something is wrong; it is the absence of prayer when everything is all right. In fact, when something is not tragic, they're almost afraid to infringe on someone's rights by mentioning prayer.



There is a lot that is wrong in the world. But there's also a lot that's great. Let's try praying in thanks every once in awhile.





Case in point...



Pilots land on a wing and a prayer
WELLINGTON (Reuters) - Two New Zealand pilots whose plane ran out of fuel landed on a wing and a prayer, literally, local media reported on Wednesday.

Grant Stubbs and Owen Wilson from Blenheim, at the top of the South Island about 50 kilometers (30 miles) south of Wellington, were in a microlight plane when the engine cut out.
"When you're in a microlight if you crash, you usually die. I turned to O B (Wilson) and he said we had no fuel," Stubbs told the Marlborough Express newspaper.
"I asked what we should do. He said: 'You just pray, Grant.'"
Stubbs said he prayed to God to get them over a ridge and they finally landed in a small grassy area, and beside a 20 foot high sign saying "Jesus is Lord -- The Bible."

Abdul-errific

Here is when my favorite moment from this season's "American Idol" began:

Paula: "Oh gosh, we've never had to write these things down ... fast enough," she began, sounding like her usual self (somewhere between manic and "thank you, sir, may I have another"). "Jason, first song, I loved hearing your lower register, which we never really hear, um ... ."

And that's where the show started to have meaning for me again.

"The second song, I felt like your usual charm wasn't — it was missing for me. It kind of left me a little empty."

Which was awesome because Castro had only sung his first song. So I found myself (literally) stating to my LCD, "There's only been one song! There's only been one song! This is great because there's only been one song!"

I was torn between my usual glee, and feeling very awkward for her. It must make for a very messy personal life, but it sure does make good TV.

Memoirs of a Tween

I don't know why I care, but I just read that Miley Cyrus is all set to pen her memoirs. At 15. 'Nuf said.

If I'd be able to write a memoir at 15, I could have hit a mid-life crisis at 20, and now, at 27, should be able to retire.

Kids sure do grow up fast these days.

Writing again?

So I had a few poems published late last year, and I'm desperately trying my hand at short stories again. Here's where I am. I have a long way to go.
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The day was hotter than most. Jan stood on the platform, with the toes of her right foot inched slightly over the yellow line that was the boundary between people and trains. Right foot slightly over, left foot slightly behind and en pointe, she watched the train roll in from the left. She assumed it was coming from the West, since west was always left on a map.

The train kicked up dirt and spun it off as red dust into the air as it neared. Squinting her eyes, Jan saw that it gave the mountains that rose up from behind a pinkish hue, and she liked that. She had seen mountains before, after all, when the carnival traveled, but they’d never been pink like that.

The carnival. It was the first place she remembered and the last place she’d seen her parents.

Jan had two parents who she had called Dan and Lily for as long as she could remember speaking. Dan and Lily, especially Lily, pleaded with Jan to call them mom and dad. But they were unlike other parents, though Jan did not know it at the time. Dan was the midget who worked the Ferris wheel and Lily made cotton candy. One would think that Jan, having been born into the circus world, would not know that her parents, or even their very way of life, were different. Most children are like goldfish, and adapt to whatever environment they’re put into. But Dan and Lily were different, and Jan was not like most children.

Jan was born in the middle of a lightning storm on a night in early February. This in itself was odd, given that Kansas was not prone to lightning storms much before the spring. It was what it was, though, and it was a lightning storm. Many of the carnival workers were superstitious folk, and did not believe it to be healthy to move a woman in labor. So Jan came quietly into the world under a big top.