I really have to go, one day. EVERY "What City are You?" says it's me. I always think it will be somewhere in CA...I guess I have a little 'tude, after all.

Oddly enough, I like human traffic jams--not active mindless mobs, but crowded streets. They make me feel nicely anonymous and weirdly powerful. As if I could do anything and there are too many potential suspects for anyone to pin it on me.

I melt down. I had forgotten just how often I get bumped into, brushed against by, and accidentally footstepped on, and by just how many people I've never seen before and have no desire to see again, when I hit Manhattan. I like it not (the bump-brush-stepping part; Manhattan itself is fine).

Tomorrow is my meeting with my editor. Today was Kristin, and later Kristin and my daughter at a family style Italian restaurant called Carmine's.

I can't stand human traffic jams. Thus, desert. I keep thinking about the 'Qatsi movies and feel compelled to do something unexpected and unpredictable, like suddenly lurch sideways, or do a 360 or something. Then at that point, the human traffic jams don't like me.

Edited to add what I meant to say, which is, I'm glad you're having a good trip, deb.

It's very strange. I grew up in the country, with only one house even in sight, and I still find hills and mountains and wilderness beautiful. But my soul doesn't feel like it's firing on all cylinders unless I'm surrounded by people. I think it's the sense of mad potential.

Drabble time!

This is our sort-of 1-year drabble anniversary -- a drabbleversary, if you will. I'm not sure there's any super-duper-fantabulous drabbleversary challenge topic that exists, but I'm giving it a shot.

Challenge #52 (more pictures from Look At Me) is now closed.

Challenge #53 is: One Year. Do anything you want with it. Anything at all.

And thanks to everyone who's a part of this community, just for being a part of it, and for your willingness to share some truly incredible writing over the past year. My writing teacher always says that sharing one's writing with others is a generosity, and that's really true. So thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

Now go write something!

But my soul doesn't feel like it's firing on all cylinders unless I'm surrounded by people.

I love being surounded by people. I want to choose the people, is all. And not being much of a toucher, prolonged yet random contact turns me into a killing machine.

I had lunch with my editor, and she has a verbal synopsis of erika's book, and I have details for erika, and we have until October.

Because I've not posted enough like a nut today.
One year, I hope to feel brilliant, not crazy. One year, I hope to feel so at home in my real life that I don’t want to live in my computer anymore. One year I hope to stand, or, okay, sit with my political brothers and sisters when this whole neo-conservative thing is just an embarrassment in our history books. One year, I hope to have a life so filled with love, it would never occur to me to pine, except for fiction’s sake. One year I want to see all those places that are now just pictures. One year, I want to be able to leave the change in the couch. One year, I want to tell all the people that dump on me now to kiss my fine crippled ass, and by the way, I don’t think you’re on the list. Bye. Someone will show you out. One year, I hope to be Zen enough that that won’t be the best part of this list. One year, I want my book to be The Shit. One year, I want me to be too. I want young girls to be glad to get casts because it makes them more like me. Then I can die.

Then I can die.

Nope. Actually, then you live forever.

Not even going to try to write anything on a public computer on a stool in a hotel lobby...

I wanted to avoid the obvious melancholy possibilities of One Year. So . . .

In the course of a year I've found out booze is not evil, though it can turn people into idiots. In the course of a year, I've found out what all the fuss was about guys.

People who haven't known me most of my life have said I was smart, so maybe it's time to believe them. People who weren't raised like me are not wicked, they're just people.

I'm smart, I can think, one or two people think I'm sexy. College is very educational.