Snippets from a letter sent.

I love writing letters because I always start out self-conscious and fumbly with my hello's and how are you's then something clicks and things become conversational and I'm making observations and connections I hadn't yet voiced or fully realized yet. It's a way to truly be in the moment with someone far away or simply not-very-close. I wrote one such letter (emails count as letters now, sort of, don't they?) today, and thought it summed up pretty perfectly where I am these days. So, hello again, Clare.

Speaking of novel, I started writing one. But how long does it have to be to consider it a novel you've begun? It's the first time I've felt excited about an idea in a really really long time. That alone has been worth it. I'm hoping to ride the momentum until I'm so far in I can't find my way out except to finish it. But these days I'm so exhausted with the publishing and writing world. My writing group is great; it's small and on a scale I can understand and handle. But the idea of going to writing conferences, wrangling an agent, and schmoozing with literary giants makes me squeamish. What happened to the days of publishing under a pseudonym in some local paper and being appreciated after your time? I think that's more my style.

I recently read Andre Dubus III's memoir, Townie. It was amazing, and what has resparked my desire to read everything and write. It was so beautifully written and shed light on a lot of issues that I never was very exposed to but am fascinated by. I've been reading his father's stories, Andre Dubus. In the Bedroom (which I'd seen the movie that's based on one of the stories--Killings, SO GREAT) I'm reading now. And hoping to read House of Sand & Fog (by Andre Dubus III) next. Either way, I'm just glad to be reading again. And just in time for summer-ish weather! It's been cold again this week, but last Saturday's warmth and sandal-wearing and park-napping are still fresh in my memory. I love love Boston in the summer. I always forget and then every AprilMayJuneJuly it all comes flooding back just in time for Fall. 

PS--I bought tickets to go to DC in May, and I couldn't be happier. The next month (half-month!) will be chock full of anticipation for meandering walks, late nights, too much giggling, and bathroom floors. And ice cream. There will be so much ice cream. 

On writing.

I keep writing about women being abused. Not verbal or neglect or emotional, but physical with scars everyone can see. I don't know what this says about me or my thought process or the story I'm trying to work out in my head, but that's the narrative that I keep coming back to. I am not being abused, but I am aware of its consequences, of the way it seeps out of one person's rage and into all of the bits around it, a stream that fills and covers the rocks while also soaking the feet of dirt below it. I haven't been writing as much as I have before, but I have been looking through old notes, old fragments of stories filed away. I am doing the math; adding and subtracting and creating these dense equations of fictions old and new. These muscles are no longer toned, but I am working them slowly, pausing, then working them again until they remember. Until they recognize the motions and are able to create new ones of their own.

Ritual: Thursday morning coffee dates.

Welp, after a week of beautiful spring weather, someone went and reminded Massachusetts that it's still March. It's been rainy and cold, or in other words, amazing reading weather. I've been taking the bus to work so I can get in as much time reading Andre Dubus III's memoir, Townie, as I can. It was a lovely surprise, getting sucked into this book I picked up as a last minute decision on my way out of the library a week or so ago. And now I want to check out all of Andre Dubus Sr.'s short stories. I feel the itch again, to write something new, to show a bit of the world as I see it to someone, even if it's just the someones in my writing group or some of you here.

It's become my Thursday morning, work-from-home day ritual to get up at my normal time, take the trash out, and sit at 1369 reading until 9 o'clock. I've been taking notes on overheard conversations again, little details on characters on the bus, things that these three kids said at the bus stop yesterday afternoon that had me wondering what I was like at that age, concluding I was never that brash, never that outspoken. A part of me admired those kids for all they've figured out so young, another part mourned their loss of something I had then, something that didn't require my learning so much so soon. Today, while reading, I jotted this down, as encouragement, as reminder:

"What good does writing do, Mom? Who cares about making up stories? I want to do something important for people." 

It was as if I'd reached over and slapped her face with a damp rag. "I can't believe you just said that, Andre. I won't tell anyone you just said that."

 

Short Story Challenge: What Was Taken

I'm a writer, particularly of short fiction (until someday I actually finish a novel). So when Ashley suggested a little short story challenge, I was up for it. This short bit is what I came up with. My writing has gotten shorter and shorter lately, definitely something I need to work on.

"What Was Taken"

Tonight we came home to this scene: The front door, ajar. Our things–clothing, books, dishes (broken), and those tiny milk glass figurines I’d been collecting since I was in high school–strewn about. I leaned against the door frame, staring, thinking about all of the words I would use to describe this: Agape, ajar, strewn, shattered, nausea. Dennis whispered commands at me: Get back! Call the police! Get your cell phone! Don’t touch anything! The more he hissed, the heavier I became, pushing against that door frame like a life support. In the end, it was he who rummaged through my purse to find my cell phone. He had to hang up twice and redial because he was fidgeting and shaking so much he couldn’t dial 911.

By the time the police arrived, Dennis had dragged me into the yard, standing close to the truck so we could make a quick getaway in case the “people who did this” decided to exit through the front door and chase us. We stood in silence as the sirens and the lights singled us out to the neighborhood. Heads poked out of houses, blinds slid open, and cars driving by slowed. And all I could think – as the officers walked through the house and Dennis, taking inventory, barked the things we were missing at them – was about that weekend I went camping with my dad when I was 12. We had just pulled up to the campsite, the sun had set and he was in a bad mood because traffic had delayed us. He hated pitching a tent in the dark, but still, he whistled while he did it. Perhaps it was his whistling that roused the buck nearby, who came charging out of the woods at such a speed I couldn’t help but stand and stare at it, wondering at the way I couldn’t make out its hooves. The only thing I’ve ever seen that has matched the speed of that deer was my father, who picked me up and threw me in the truck so fast that my shoulder popped out of its socket. The buck head butted the driver’s side door, making a dent that looked like a sculpture. My father drove up about a half mile from the campsite where he put my shoulder back in place and let me drink some of his soda with whiskey in it. When we went back to the camp site a few minutes later, my tears dried and sticky on my face, the tent was in shreds and our cooler of food was on its side, sandwiches and ice cream bars mushed into an unrecognizable pile. I sat quietly, thinking about cleaning up all that mess, when my dad put the truck back into drive and pulled away. “It’s just stuff,” he said when I sniffled.

Share your own story and link up at Adventures of Newlyweds! 

Day 1: 10 Potential Book Titles

I've been a bit distracted this week: by tragedy, by work, by impending travels. I don't want to forget about my goals, though. So here's day one, in no particular order:

• The Next Day, and the Day After
• What You See When You Look
• Falling, Into Place
• The Rest of It
• The Sum of Its Parts
• Outward Sign of an Inward Change
• Where the People Went
• The Sounds of Others
• I'm Wide Awake
• Where We've Been Before

Right. As you can see, these titles are vague and suggestive, but not conclusive. I suppose it's all a grand image of how my writing is right now, and my attitude toward it. I want to write (ten novels, even!), and yet I am separated by a space larger than I am, larger than I am capable of wading through, right now. So I wait, and I know that eventually I'll have to 'fess up and admit, It's all on you, kid. In the meantime, Day 1 down. 

The Twelve Days of Writing

These days I am a mess of crumbs and deadlines, so it's no wonder I haven't spent much time baking or writing or reading. When I do have leisure time, the pressure of finding just the right thing to spend it doing is too much, and I usually fold up and crochet or knit something or play video games with Mike. So I've decided to be proactive, and take a tweet I saw last night as a sign: A 12-Day Plan of Simple Writing.

Day 1:
Write 10 potential book titles of books you’d like to write.

Day 2:
Create a character with personality traits of someone you love, but the physical characteristics of someone you don’t care for.

Day 3:
Write a setting based on the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen.

Day 4:
Write a letter to an agent telling her how wonderful you are.

Day 5:
Write a 20-line poem about a memorable moment in your life.

Day 6:
Select a book on your shelf and pick two chapters at random. Take the first line of one chapter and the last line of the other chapter and write a short story (no more than 1000 words) using those as bookends to your story.

Day 7:
Write a letter to yourself telling you what you need to improve in the coming 6 months.

Day 8:
Rewrite a fairy tale from the bad guy’s point of view.

Day 9:
Turn on your TV. Write down the first line that you hear and write a story based on it.

Day 10:
Go sit in a public place and eavesdrop on a conversation. Turn what you hear into a short love story (no matter how much you have to twist what they say).

Day 11:
Write the acknowledgments page that will be placed in your first (next?) published book, thanking all the people who have helped you along the way.

Day 12:
Gather everything you’ve written over the previous 11 days. Pick your favorite. Edit it, polish it and either try to get it published or post it on the Web to share with the world. Be proud of yourself and your work.

So there you have it: my newest project for the next 12 days at least. Wish me luck!

New-tines.

I'm a sucker for a good routine. I'm not a big planner, but I've come to expect certain things out of my days. Mondays I come into work early, get a jumpstart on the week. Tuesdays I have my writing group at night, so I tend to have cereal or a muffin for dinner. Mike comes on Wednesdays, and lately we've been going bowling or playing tennis when we can. Thursdays are my free days, usually to hang out with Meg when she's off. Mike comes home again on Fridays and the weekends begin. For the most part, weekends are without routines, though I love my coffee shop visits and lazy Sunday nights of cooking and watching movies.

Last night I got to Central Square a little too early for my writing group, so I stopped off in Goodwill in search of a sweater. I found one, made out of cashmere, that's a little too big on me. I bought it anyway. I also bought these shoes without trying them on. Turned out they were ten bucks, which would have been a dealbreaker had I known beforehand. Alas, I assumed secondhand shoes would be cheaper. Lesson learned. But I do like them, and aside from some squeaking earlier, they're not giving me any problems.

Lately my leisure time has been spent knitting. I can't quite explain it, but there's just something about creating something. To spend hours and concentration on something, coming out on the other end with something tangible; it's a great feeling. I suppose it's similar to my process of writing, except knitting is a little more instant gratification. These days knitting has taken the place of my old writing and reading time, except this time I'm not worrying about it. I tend to go through phases of great productivity and absolutely none at all, and I'm taking this ebb in stride and countering it with a different form of creation.

My newest routine is taking a lunch break at work. At my job before this, most of us powered through lunch, which I usually used as an excuse to run errands on Fridays or leave the office a little earlier. My new work routine feels healthier, and I come out of the morning actually feeling refreshed rather than overwhelmed by the remaining four and a half hours. And for the days when I do feel overwhelmed, there's a stash of Reese's PB cup left over from Halloween that's been very kind to me.

'Tis the season-ish.

We did it! After spending the whole weekend with it hanging over our heads, we finally booked our plane tickets to Georgia for Christmas (well, right after Christmas for Mike). I'm glad to have that crossed off my to-do list, but I'm avoiding figuring out how long it'll take to pay off the credit charge.

So, in a little over a month I'll be headed back to Georgia to see this little munchkin:

I love the very visible digression of her patience with photos.

This weekend was wonderful. From a date night to a Saturday-long double date with Jennatron and multiple coffee shop hang out sessions, I feel refreshed and, for the first time in a while, as though the weekend was long enough. I finally finished a draft of a story and sent it out to my writing group, which is a major accomplishment these days. I haven't been making my writing the priority it ought to be, so it felt good to plant ourselves at Lyndell's and tap away at my computer with Mike's smiling face just across the table from me.

Then we went to the mall so I could buy black jeans. I love that wonderful, patient man.

I'm currently fighting off a weird cold thing that includes a scratchy throat, congestion in my chest, and waves of heat that make me want to take my temperature when I get home. 'Tis the season, I suppose. I plan to hole up in my apartment watching Mad Men and Gilmore Girls, reading submissions for tomorrow's writing group, writing my final piece for TNGG: Boston, and eating a $5 pizza from Oggi's in Harvard Square. Take that, Monday!

On writing. Again. On writing again.

I am writing so many things. There is a book review on a book I finished a week ago, a new book review that looms with the second half of the book I'm reading now. There is a letter over two months old, a story due tonight, at the latest. I just wrote an email and sent it off to its destination, which is to say I sent it to the third floor of this office building. In these cases, I am a writer. I write, I form words, string them together, send them along. But in so many other ways I am less a writer than I have ever been.

In college, I lived in a tiny room that got the most heat in the winter and the least breezes in the summer. The closet was large, but the room itself barely housed my twin bed, bookshelf, and desk. I lit my little cove with a lamp, and sometimes I'd sit for hours in front of my typewriter, hacking away at printer paper I stole from my roommate whose printer was out of ink anyway. I loved that apartment, that room, that space, that time, those hours. That confidence and promise that what I was writing was not so much good as on its way to being good. Being something, finished. I haven't had that confidence in a while. I've even stopped lying to myself that I'll wake up early in the morning to write. I sleep past my last alarm, roll out of bed well after the sun has begun its ascent.

Mike jokes sometimes that it's his fault, makes an exaggerated frown that ruffles the whisks of facial hair in the places that it bothers to grow. I always reassure him, No, it isn't you. And it isn't. And I'm happier; by the day, I have new and newer reasons to be happy. But I am wondering how far I will go away from that girl cooped up in her $500 closet of a room, with a budget item solely for typewriter ribbon. I miss her everyday. I think she'd like it here.

PS - That's my nook up there, my old roommate with the inkless printer.

What is, before the sun.

Sometimes I wish the early morning dark could last all day. The earliest parts of the day are always my favorite. There's such an intimacy to it, and the luxury of waking slowly. Of watching the world wake with you, feeling it rise and stretch and greet you with its muted colors turned richest hues. In the city, early morning breeds a silence matched only by the first snowfall, the first warm weekend days. It is a silence dense with possibility, with novels I will write and miles I will run. There is not much else -- an empty notebook, a fresh cup of coffee, a pen newly uncapped -- that encourages me quite the same.

Photo via

Gifts in many shapes.

Yep, that's my man. I used to have the biggest crush on Joaquin Phoenix because of his complete vulnerability and family-man tendencies in Signs (oh please, I'm not the only one), so when I saw the resemblance at the library last week, I was thrilled. Too bad school just started and he had to shave it.

I've decided what I'm getting myself for my birthday! I just decided it, actually. I came pretty close to ordering it, but I've decided to wait for my next paycheck to make sure it's in the budge*. I can't wait to spend fall evenings sipping cocoa and listening to Bon Iver on vinyl. Or, as it will more likely turn out, making dinner and shivering in sweats because winter elbowed fall out of the way too early and listening to Bon Iver on vinyl. Either way, I'll be twenty-five. FACK.

I'm currently working on my 25 before 25 list, listening to this song on repeat, and impatiently waiting for the end of the day so I can see Mike. I just had a conference call on the development editing I'm doing, and it went really well. I finally feel caught up and firm in my footing to take a look at the manuscript. I also love using words like "manuscript"!

So remember Tuesday when I was a big, fat baby and I whined and whined and then slipped in that bit about TNGG? Well, I'm here to elaborate.

First of all, I'm stoked. TNGG is The Next Great Generation. It's us. (I'm assuming you're my age for this exercise.) We are 18-30 (for this exercise's sake); we are of a different world than our parents, but still with hints of a past largely missing from our children's (yeesh, or neices' and nephews') world. TNGG is a start-up, for all intents and purposes, building from the ground up something that we can be proud of. It's starting small-ish, but I can tell that it's going to grow because that's what our generation does: It grows things out of, seemingly, nothing at all. We are the generation of entrepreneurs in a failing economy. We don't know when to quit. And so TNGG is creating something our generation wants to read on Boston.com. That's right, my name's going to be smack dab in the middle (or, okay, over on the side-ish) of Boston.com.

And today is the official launch of TNGG Boston! (Well, it's supposed to be, but the page is empty as for now. But you can see our cool header!) So head over, check out some of the articles, and I'll be sure to keep you updated of when my articles are published.

This opportunity has popped up at such a great time in my life and career. I've been working out what I want to do with my life and all of that fun time stuff, but this is a great reminder that I don't necessarily need a plan. Often plans derail the greatest surprises. So here's to my final month as an "early 20s"-er and to many more surprises in the second half of this decade.

*That means "budget," but it's a play on words because it won't, you know, budge.**
**Imagine my income if I were a comedienne.

How to tell if you're actually a writer.

Photo from Goodreads

All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer. 

- Ernest Hemingway

That's the literary quote of the day on my iGoogle. I read that first thing upon starting my computer and thought, "Oh, fuck." That's a tall order, Ernest. And don't get me started (again) on the state of my novel. I'm hoping that having recently started East of Eden, and subsequently abandoning Travels with Charley (for the time being), will push me in the right direction. I've always compensated for any lack of real writing inspiration with a good book and according to everyone (read: Oprah), East of Eden is just that. And now that I have a rubric courtesy of Ernie up there, I'll be able to know once and for all just how good it is. 

I've been loving my smoothie breakfasts in the mornings and being in the office again, though taking the train again is both a comfort and a hindrance, as usual. Today is an Ice Cream Social put on by my company's building, and I only wish I had more friends that worked here so we could eat our soft serve in the parking lot chatting about our days. Instead I'll probably bring my beast of a book with me and do a little damage. Tomorrow I'll be working from home and it can't come soon enough. Mike will be in town, hopefully in time for an Indian lunch buffet (yes, again) and then off to Rhode Island for the night. Each day that I can leave the house in a cardigan, I feel a little more rushed to squeeze in these whirlwind weekends before the snow moves in and traps us again. 

Novel, novel, on the wall.

So I mentioned at the start of the August Break that I want to start writing a novel. Let's just say, it's not so going well. I've begun; I have three characters and a setting, but that's all I have. I am currently rethinking my plan to just hack away at it, and let it become whatever it wants to be. That mumbo jumbo doesn't sound so promising when I'm sitting down to an empty page.

I recently read Susannah Conway's post on editing a book, and it got me excited, antsy for where I'll be in a year, two years, five. I want to immerse myself in the writing of this, but I can't seem to get past the first page. That's hardly enough to dunk my head in, and yet I still feel the early sensations of drowning. To make a long story short: BLEGH.

Any writers out there with tips for outlining a novel?

A novel idea.

I've been thinking, and the more I think about this August break, the more excited I get. I've been sitting on this urge to start writing a novel for about a month now. Previously, I always said I'd never write a novel. But lately I've felt lazy, my well of short story ideas drying up. Each time I drop a pebble, waiting for the sweet sound of liquid - plop - I hear instead the quick thud of solid ground. This sudden impulse to sit and write about the same people and the same place for a very long time has not subsided, so I think I'll take this month of producing visual stimuli to pour my words into a story. Wish me luck. 

A writer's life.

From Rando

I have some exciting news! One of my bits of flash fiction was published by the online literary magazine, fwriction:review. I must admit, reading this little blurb that the great Danny Goodman wrote about me and my story made me tear up a bit (see it here). Every once in a while I get a reminder of why I keep trying. Here's the short short if you're interested.

What are you celebrating today?

Laughter in the sun.

The sun is shining today. I am keeping up with my letters to grandma, even though I haven't received any from her in quite some time (tsk, tsk). I finished Nabokov's Laughter in the Dark for the No Fun Book Club this morning on the train, and had time to play some of my Words with Friends games. Today I've already spent $11 on food and iced coffee, which is a fail. It was all delicious, so at least it's not a FAIL. At 4:20 I will board a bus to Ludlow again, and I cannot wait. My heart flutters at the thought. Anticipation, putting off things you want so badly: These are the page-turners of our lives.

I look forward to cuddling, lounging, reading, cooking, and bowling this weekend. I have gotten two separate instances of praise from two separate bosses today, and I feel good. I read a couple great interviews at 100interviews.tumblr.com, and I am in awe of Gaby Dunn. She is going places, and I'm excited to read along as she does.

Excitement for the Redivider fiction contest has officially turned to anxiety. Anxiousness.

Dad gets in on Wednesday (!!) and he'll be hanging out at the rescheduled Writles meeting that night. I'm so excited to see him and do some more Cambridge-exploring with him. We are so similar, and it is so convenient. Mike is coming Friday and will stay until Saturday, which will be perfect timing and amount of time. I'm excited to see their dynamic and show him ours.

Today's blessing: The guy at Lyndell's accidentally put sugar in my iced coffee, and it was delicious. Coffee milkshake first thing in the morning? OKAY.

Dance, dance.

It's Monday. Today I'm making plans to go to a hip hop class at the Dance Complex in Central next week with Eleanor. I want to try out the yoga class in Inman this or next Wednesday. I can't wait to visit all of my favorite coffeeshops this week. An IKEA trip is planned for next weekend, so I'm also planning to revamp the apartment in time for spring, make it a little more cozy and liveable.

Excited to see Nabi today! I have to read two submissions for tomorrow's Writles meeting, and make serious headway on Jung. I don't even want to talk about it. It's snowing outside and for once, I'm thankful that my desk faces a wall. Guh.

TGISpring-ish

I slept weird and my neck has a crick in it. I wish it had a cricket in it. That would be more worthy of writing about.

I've been in this weird writing lull. When I finally get time to sit down and write, my brain is blank and my mouth opens and suddenly the whole earth is blacker than my brain, the future is bleak. Hopefully it's just a phase.

Randall is in town, and it's been interesting being around someone who knows and remembers well the middle school me. No one up here is acquainted with the younger, more prude-ish, boy haircut and body type, soft spoken and painfully shy version of me. I don't necessarily miss her, but I still have a dang soft spot for her. Last night was hot dogs and beer at Bukowski's because everywhere else was charging a cover and way too packed. Cyndi ended up bailing on coming because she planned too last minute which meant last minute hurdles and last minute realizations that it's real far and real expensive. I wish I could make it down there for the Cherry Blossom Festival, but we may have to settle for a May visit.

I've been going back and forth between getting shit done and doing absolutely nothing other than daydreaming and checking the time on my phone to see if the day's almost over. My bosses have been on vacation this week, so it's been pretty lax and I've felt like my own boss. How intoxicating.

Yesterday and today have been tiny doses of spring, and I'm excited to report that after a new haircut, a sunny bike ride, and two days of cuffing my pants and wearing Toms/flip flops, I'm a happy girl. Body issues have been plaguing me this past month, and I'm excited to get those figured out and go into the newest season with a sunnier disposition.

Things I love.

Back in the 'Bridge last night. After a quick nap for him, Mike and I went to ten cent wing night at the Asgard, and I got those french fries I've been craving. We got ice cream at Christina's with Jennatron, then met Meg and Tom at the Druid for drinks afterward. Mike left this morning, and I've gone through my usual withdrawals today. I worked from home since the bosses are out of town for the week. I got a good amount of work done, and did some laundry and grocery shopping that were completely essential. Tomorrow I'm going to the office, then Thursday night it's working from home again before picking up Randall at the airport around 7. Cyndi gets in Friday late-late, pretty much Saturday AM with her roommate Ellie. It's going to be a full house, but I'm looking forward to a fun return to Cambridge. Hopefully there'll be dancing and not TOO much drinking, though I fear Randall may have something else in mind. He suggested drunken Monica Lewinski poem-writing, which should be awesome. I think Mike's coming for some portion of the weekend, so I hope it all works out.

Dad bought his ticket to come visit today: April 13 - 18. I'm stoked. He might meet Mike's parents if they end up coming for lunch one day. I wonder if this is all weird for him, especially since he's so far away. I'm excited for him to meet Mike though; I think they'll get along great. Meg remarked last night that Mike can get along with anybody, and my heart almost exploded. I got the best one.

Tonight was writing group, and I was prepared with all of my critiques and even some left over from a meeting I missed a couple weeks ago. It felt good to not be behind or scrambling. I had coffee with Jenna today, and it was a triumphant return to 1369. It's so funny to watch us mature, almost at the same rate, figuring our shit out at the same time in different ways. It's like when Cyndi, Randall, and I graduated from middle school into high school, then into college. Except these days, the changes are a little more subtle and a hell of a lot more scary.

The No Fun Book Club meeting was pushed back a week on account of me and my revolving door. I'm secretly stoked for the schedule conflict because I'm not even close to finishing the book. It's like college, except free!! Ahhhh!!

I picked up a new collection of short stories that I read a review on (somewhere) by David Rakoff, Half Empty. I skimmed the first story, and saw that it involved Y2K and decided to wait to read it. I'm reminding myself that I felt similar when I started reading Things We Didn't See Coming by Steven Amsterdam, but that ended up being a phenomenal collection/novel in stories, so we'll see. My New Yorker issues are piling up, and I still haven't made it all the way through the Paris Review. I decided not to submit to Ploughshares because I've already submitted to them this year, and I don't have anything ready to send out. Another lesson in deadlines and priorities. Thanks, universe.

Today's list (besides groceries) -- Things I Love:

1. Email chains with tangents and inside jokes and one-liners and being able to hear each person's reply in their voice and intonation.
2. Snail mail 4 Life.
3. The ability to hop a bus to visit friends in Philly.
4. My dad!
5. Mangoes that I eat before they rot.
6. Every voice on NPR.
7. Opening the windows because the kitchen's warm after a long winter.
8. That moment in writing, like in running, when it's no longer laborious but natural and rhythmic.
9. Taking my contacts out after a long day.
10. Looking forward to a haircut.

Discovered Bon Iver today. Also love Sarah Jaffe and Nikki Minaj.

Tangelos and Tuesdays.

Good morning!

This Tuesday morning smells like tangerines and sunshine, a big change from my mood last night. I'm so prone to loneliness, sometimes it's obnoxious. It was nice to get to talk to Kate though, and actually feel like I could be there for her. I'm trying to get signed up with Mint.com so I can get my finances in order and figure out a trip to New Orleans and LA sometime soon.

The Writles might be canceled tonight due to sickness and ill-preparedness on my part. Part of my has my fingers crossed, so maybe I can get some writing done. I did that thing where I woke up at 615, then 625, then 645 before I jumped out of bed and into the shower. I really need to get my act together and maximize my time. I didn't go to bed too late last night, especially after Mike all but fell asleep on the phone. It was guhdorable.

Next week is looming now, and I'm preparing myself for a busy house and weekend. I'm hoping I'll have time to get my haircut at some point because my bangs are really starting to get on my nerves. I've been feeling a little blegh lately and maybe a fresh hair style will stave off my anxiousness to hop on my bike and ride without tights or closed-toed shoes. That day's still a long way off.

We lose an hour Saturday night, which makes me sad that the bright early mornings will be gone come next Monday.

This morning I read Writles submissions, and poor Jung sat neglected in my backpack. If the meeting is canceled for tonight, I plan to dive right into him on the train ride home. Life is still a whirlwind, but hopefully I'll learn soon enough how to tip my umbrella so I fly just right.