tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60269532011-04-21T19:06:56.657-07:00NaNoWriMoLittle9s National Novel Writing Month Blogarbynoreply@blogger.comBlogger41100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026953.post-1133390844334595052005-11-30T14:47:00.000-08:002005-12-01T11:14:24.380-08:00linkarbynoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026953.post-1099956649111970842004-11-08T15:29:00.000-08:002004-11-08T15:31:43.050-08:00escapist wishes The phone rings around 11 o’clock. “Hello?” I cradle the phone in the crook of my neck and continue rifling through papers on the floor. “What are you doing?” “Just going over some old manuscripts.” “On a Saturday night? You were working on that shit last night too.” “I’ll thank you to not refer to my writing as ‘that shit.’ And anyway, I feel like I’m on the verge of something here.arbynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026953.post-1099953941103545432004-11-08T14:43:00.000-08:002004-11-08T14:47:00.363-08:00trying “It’s easy not to care what people say, it’s harder to pretend to try.” —k-Os, The Love Song Sitting here pondering the mountain of papers filling my bedroom floor, a stack of unfinished manuscripts to the left of me, a mound of finished ones to the right, it becomes overwhelmingly clear that Chara was right; I have a deep-seeded prejudice against all things happily ever after. I’ve arbynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026953.post-1099620270295039232004-11-04T18:03:00.000-08:002004-11-05T14:07:16.410-08:00So Much For My Happy Ending I can tell by the look on her face that she hates it already. “Look, I didn’t really have time to work out the—“ She holds up a finger in my direction without even turning my way. She flips to the next page and returns her finger to its perch on her lower lip. I go back into the kitchen to tend to my scones so that I don’t have to watch the mixed arbynoreply@blogger.com1