Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Funny writing here. I'm beginning to believe I have no readers, or almost none. Ever since Robert stopped posting, all his fans stopped coming by. I know I'm not as erudite as he is. I see things from my own narrow view. But not having to worry about people reading this is also a sort of freedom. Who cares what I say here?
So here goes: Why do people crow about Pushcart nominations? They're nice, but unless they actually turn into a prize, who cares? Don't most of us get nominated year after year?
This is a photo of my Valentine's Day roses. I took it a day or so ago, but they are still lovely and give me a lot of pleasure.
Yes, I am running out of steam. Maybe I'll write more later.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Last night, reading the Birds of America story by Lorrie Moore called "Agnes of Iowa," I came upon this: "Every arrangement in life carried with it the sadness, the sentimental shadow, of its not being something else …" and I thought, that's why she writes stories, that's the reason to be a writer! To not have to choose — or anyway, to have, in some measure the arrangement and the something else as well. Maybe that isn't what she meant, but it works for me.
Oh yes: found a newspaper cutout — not even a coupon, just a picture — of BumbleBee Chunk Light Tuna In Water — stuck in my Lorrie Moore book, from the library. How perfect!