My Dear Friends,
Today I ready copies of my manuscript "What Killed Frizzy" to send out tomorrow (missed the .37 cent mailing). At long last, I finish something, put it in a bottle, and send it to sea. The thing is, I like this manuscript. It seems fresh and original. My 22 year old son sits in an easy chair and reads the whole thing today -- a high compliment, as he's not fond of reading -- and says, "it could be longer."
The story incorporates some of my new words (schmarmy and bureaucratina, the feminine of bureaucrat). The truly, truly odd thing is that I don't seem to care if anyone else likes it. I think it's good. What a momentous event. I have been overwhelmed by the simple tasks of marketing, copying, revising, addressing, and now I have gone and done it. It is truly a red letter day.
Yesterday I mentioned that I want my writing to traffic in emotional truth. I now need to work on what I mean by that. I am interested in love, death, sacrifice, and responsibility. You know, the everyday stuff of life. I love the comments you leave for me, so heartfelt and honest. These are not the themes of an 800 word column. Hence, I'm a "poor woman's Maureen Dowd."
*Thanks to SR for the title of my entry.
Tomorrow, I'll try to give you an out-take from Frizzy.