bwa-hahahahahahahaha!
Here I have all these knitting projects I want to do, and NaNoWriMo, and massive amounts of attic wallboard that still need to be mudded, and meals for Debbie & Barry I want to make . . . and I go and get my wrist broken.
Not just broken, mind, but spectacularly broken, borderline shattered.
I'm not terribly upset about the forced rearrangement of my to-do list -- at least I've gotten 98% of the critical knitting done, and I can do NaNo in longhand. I'm not even terribly upset about the injury itself. I get that accidents happen. I get that I would have been better off wearing wristguards with my rollerblades. I'm beyond grateful that I only broke my wrist, and my left one, at that.
What I'm most upset about is the behavior of the girl who caused my fall. I'm talking to you, Girl in the Blue Shirt. Yes, it was by accident that you fell, then slid into me from behind and knocked my legs out from under me. But as you got back to your feet, as your eyes met mine, and as you heard me say, "Ohhhhh, that's broken!" -- why did you feel the best thing to do was to just get up and skate away?
Shame on you for leaving me there on the floor, and shame on your parents for raising you to cover your own ass instead of attending to the person you've hurt. When my daughters were four, they had more integrity and compassion than you do as a teenager. They saw what you did, and it scared them. It was an accident, but you were still responsible, and you chose to shirk that responsibility. We were at the rink for a solid 5 minutes longer, getting everyone's skates off and shoes on. One man who saw the accident got me a bag of ice from the snack bar. You never came around to apologize or check on me. I don't care if you were scared -- you hurt someone and walked away.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
everyday, everyday, everyday . . .
Now I've gone ahead and done it . . . signed up for NaNoWriMo 2010.
Those who've known me since high school will have no trouble remembering me with my open journal in my lap as I sat cross-legged in one of those clunky metal and "wood" chair-desks, head down, blissfully unaware of the activity around me, working on yet another poem. (What's that? Wendy, please solve for X? Wait, I'm in Algebra? I thought this was World History . . . )
Most of those who've met me since college will have no trouble scratching their heads, looking puzzled, and mumbling, "Huh?"
Yeah . . . I Used To Write, and I miss it like I'd miss breathing. I've been wanting to get back to writing for almost two decades, but in spite of how out-of-sorts I feel as a Former Writer, I kept letting everything else get in the way. I mean, I'm not avant-garde enough to be a poet, anymore. I don't have enough cool ideas to be a freelance writer. I don't have enough time to be a novelist. I don't think blogging counts. I don'tdon'tdon'tdon'tdon't . . . I don't want to miss that part of who I am, anymore.
Last year, I found out about NaNoWriMo over Thanksgiving weekend and I promised myself I would do it this year. Now that September 2010 has rolled around I *almost* passed on it because "I have too much knitting to do." (Seriously!! That's what I told myself!! Do you see how easy it is to cheat yourself and keep from doing something you love??? Learn from me, people. Learn from me.) Fortunately, a new friend pshawed my excuse and rather pointedly informed me that even if I don't complete the challenge (50,000 words in one month), I'll have written more than I would have otherwise. See, that just can't be argued with in any sort of logical fashion. There's nothing but truth in that statement. Even sitting here trying to come up with a sample argument for the sake of showing you how ludicrous it would sound makes my eyes get stuck in Glazed Over Mode. So, I did the only logical thing I could do -- I kept my promise, and signed up!
[singsong] I'm writing a novel! [/singsong] (Yeah, I know it's supposed to be <> but you try and get <> to show up as text if you're using them to write a pretend html code -- for a few minutes, it looks like everything will stick, but once your work autosaves, BOOM! the fake code only shows up in the html editor. I'm sure Dan could fix it, but I would rather leave this little rant in place, instead.)
Yes, 50,000 is a blasted short novel, but I don't have to stop at 50,000. I just have to get at least that far. My novel won't go (49,994) Susan smiled, reached towards Carl and (50,000)
In fact, I don't have either a Susan or a Carl. So there!
I'm excited and twitchy and I so want to get started, but the trick is that you're not allowed to begin actually writing until November 1st. Until then, I can fill my mind and my journal with all sorts of outlines, character sketches, background information, story arcs, and research. I can't start writing, yet. But in the meantime, I can get all that knitting done.
Those who've known me since high school will have no trouble remembering me with my open journal in my lap as I sat cross-legged in one of those clunky metal and "wood" chair-desks, head down, blissfully unaware of the activity around me, working on yet another poem. (What's that? Wendy, please solve for X? Wait, I'm in Algebra? I thought this was World History . . . )
Most of those who've met me since college will have no trouble scratching their heads, looking puzzled, and mumbling, "Huh?"
Yeah . . . I Used To Write, and I miss it like I'd miss breathing. I've been wanting to get back to writing for almost two decades, but in spite of how out-of-sorts I feel as a Former Writer, I kept letting everything else get in the way. I mean, I'm not avant-garde enough to be a poet, anymore. I don't have enough cool ideas to be a freelance writer. I don't have enough time to be a novelist. I don't think blogging counts. I don'tdon'tdon'tdon'tdon't . . . I don't want to miss that part of who I am, anymore.
Last year, I found out about NaNoWriMo over Thanksgiving weekend and I promised myself I would do it this year. Now that September 2010 has rolled around I *almost* passed on it because "I have too much knitting to do." (Seriously!! That's what I told myself!! Do you see how easy it is to cheat yourself and keep from doing something you love??? Learn from me, people. Learn from me.) Fortunately, a new friend pshawed my excuse and rather pointedly informed me that even if I don't complete the challenge (50,000 words in one month), I'll have written more than I would have otherwise. See, that just can't be argued with in any sort of logical fashion. There's nothing but truth in that statement. Even sitting here trying to come up with a sample argument for the sake of showing you how ludicrous it would sound makes my eyes get stuck in Glazed Over Mode. So, I did the only logical thing I could do -- I kept my promise, and signed up!
[singsong] I'm writing a novel! [/singsong] (Yeah, I know it's supposed to be <> but you try and get <> to show up as text if you're using them to write a pretend html code -- for a few minutes, it looks like everything will stick, but once your work autosaves, BOOM! the fake code only shows up in the html editor. I'm sure Dan could fix it, but I would rather leave this little rant in place, instead.)
Yes, 50,000 is a blasted short novel, but I don't have to stop at 50,000. I just have to get at least that far. My novel won't go (49,994) Susan smiled, reached towards Carl and (50,000)
In fact, I don't have either a Susan or a Carl. So there!
I'm excited and twitchy and I so want to get started, but the trick is that you're not allowed to begin actually writing until November 1st. Until then, I can fill my mind and my journal with all sorts of outlines, character sketches, background information, story arcs, and research. I can't start writing, yet. But in the meantime, I can get all that knitting done.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)