I tried to write a story and read "Bridget Jones" when it came out...my story was v.v. bad, all Bridget impression. My relation to language is pretty auditory, about rhythms and junk. "Gordon Bennett", if you say it while irritated could definitely have the same sound as "God damn it." (I'm still sometimes surprised that I didn't stick out the poet thing.)

And here we have the definitive explanation of Gordon Bennett as slang.

Thing is, I always hear it in his voice. So it has a specific sound for me.

I guess people don't get to pick what they're famous for.

Oh, dear.

I'm no longer embarrassed to write sex scenes--that is, to do handwritten rough drafts of them. Somehow it's different when I'm typing them in, especially while half-listening to a baseball game and DH's commentary on the Sunday paper. It's just...there's still no terminology I really like for the female anatomy. It's all too vulgar, too clinical, or too purple. I'm erring on the side of purple, but I'm not happy about it.

Anyway. For now I'm just typing it in as I handwrote it. I'll give it a rest before I decide if it's lame, stupid, or otherwise unsexy.

I am pleased.

We spent the day out and talked about the second book - since we were in Sausalito, which has a shitload of rock memories and associations for me that go back to 1970, it was a good place to do it. I now have the murderer, the motive, and a healthy subtheme in place for WMGGW; and we got a nice table at Angelino's, on Bridgeway, by telling them I was setting a scene in there for my next book. Local Author Scores Table! They were apologetic about it not being a window table, with a view of the water, but Nic patted her hand and told her we know what the City looks like, since we live there.

Tomorrow, I write and write and write.

And an under-the-wire drabble. Me with a different take, yet again, on Meat:

Galatea

Once upon a time...all good stories begin there, right? So did I. I was fifteen, blazing, fearless, passionate; if you were right, I was hard to pigeonhole and harder to forget. I was downy as a duckling, awaiting a spark. You kissed me to life. Young healthy meat became flame and heart.

Now we sit in different chairs. You're clay, and I hold the spark. With language, memory, history, I take the meat of the matter that was us, and breathe life into it. I have you back again; I have me back again.

We're equal now. Pygmalion is Galatea.

OOH, Deb, I really like that. The sentiment, and the way you expressed it.

Also, I have the chapters you sent and will be reading them after the 2nd cuppa joe has kicked it. I am gronkly today.

Kewl.

Teppy? Topic?

Thanks for the reminder, Deb! I'm feeling under the weather, and my head is very very muzzy.

Challenge #63 (meat) is now closed.

Challenge #64, suggested by Deb, is trust. Refer to the Prince song if you need inspiration. Or even if you don't need inspiration but just feel like jumping up and dancing.

The Monday not-writing curse strikes again...