I had such a moment of self-recognition when I saw it. That is EXACTLY what I look like every day when set eyes on my computer. I clasp my hands joyfully and a sort of exuberant red backdrop magically appears around me and sometimes I even say something like, "Oh, you wonderful, silly writing machine!" before I sit down and start typing away, page after page after page of my thrillingly inventive stories. Unless things aren't going so well. Well, okay, to be honest, what's more likely to happen is that I sit down, start madly chewing a toothpick, and then a small cat jumps on my lap. It's really not that exciting. There's never an exuberant red backdrop. Just a little cat. Which I must say, ain't so bad, y'all.
I know, I've posted about this before. Consider this an update! She is still incredibly, mysteriously invested in the new play I'm working on. It's not even about cats. (Hyuk, hyuk!)
I wonder if, when I'm done, I'll have to say "by Jocelyn Meinhardt...and Beatrix."
Also, I am still, and will probably always be, really angry and sad, not necessarily in that order, about David Foster Wallace's death. McSweeney's is posting memories people have written about him here. Apart from the incomprehensible human tragedy aspect of it all, there's the cap he put on his writing output by offing himself. All you have to do is read one of his essays or stories and you recognize his inimitable voice right away. And now it's gone for good. It really sucks.
No comments:
Post a Comment