I know that...it was an unfortunate attempt at humor that started with carrots and sticks and morphed to whips and chains. Or something. Which reminds me, most of my revisions happen because I'm going along and remember "They don't live in your brain, you idiot. If you want them to see what you see, you have to write it in."(I'm nothing if not gentle with myself.)OK, Tep, I'll give it a shot. My brain is very distracted today...ooh shiny, but maybe later. interesting topic.

Home ------ There wasn't one house where I grew up...more like about fifteen. All within the same town(which despite that is not "My Hometown" in the Springsteen sense) It's more like a place where I'm a freak who shakes her head at the sports-digging, Republican voting locals. I fit in at the local indie bookstore with the lefty slogans and authors I love. Sometimes, in those books, or on TV, I get one line that makes me say "My brother! My sister! Where have you been all my life?" But all the insult humor in the world won't really make you Jewish.(I've checked. There are Rules. It's a thing.) -more-

I'm not certain what's wanted, in this "home" piece.

We have geography here, of a flavour not really found anywhere else. The City has dimples in the architecture, knowing winks from behind irregular hilltops. If your car hit Pacific Heights, Divisadero Street, in just the right spot, without slowing down? You get airborne for a few moments, clutching the wheel and screaming, as the Bay comes up in your face as a dark variegated splash of blue. Then you realise, you're still a mile from it, and you calm down, but your car is now travelling downhill at a filthy angle, and you smell brake-pad lining as the car finally slows down.

There's food here, a lot of it; as of the mid-nineties, San Francisco had the highest concentration of restaurants per capita of any major city in America, and I have no reason to think that's changed. We're a city of foodies, all food, every food.

Twenty five years ago, I lived in a tiny flat in North Beach. On Saturday mornings, during a particular season, I would walk down to Fisherman's Wharf, early early early, and go bring fresh bread to the crab boats coming in. I'd go home with about ten pounds of fresh crab. Salad, louis, chowder, learning how to make crab cakes properly. Also, my flat was only a few blocks from Graffeo, on Columbus Avenue, and the smell of roasting coffee beans from their huge roastery was a kind of running perfume in my life, walking to work through North Beach, stopping at Cafe Trieste for espresso and hot pastry and poetry, playing pinball at Broadway Joe's on the way home.

This was home then, and I ran away from it. I love Florence, and Paris, and London. But in the end, it's always going to be San Francisco.

Some people find home where their families are. And I do, a little, with my mother. But both my fathers have left me, and what would be my extended family is not happy unless they are not speaking to someone else. I used to feel at home in the Independent Living Center...I'd get hyped on Crip Power and Mochachino and be convinced I could change the world by Thursday. But I didn't. Then, I was Erika the Birth Survivor, healing my primal pain and stuff. Which felt like home till it felt like a womb, and that didn't work out, last time. Now, even with a condo, I sometimes feel homeless, except in cyberspace.

I'm not certain what's wanted, in this "home" piece.

Whatever you want to write, really. I wrote about non-geographic home. Just a few snippets, totally rough:

Home is my Mom's somewhat bony hugs, and my grandma's squishy ones. It's my Dad's shout of "Hey!" in greeting as I let myself into his apartment for a visit.

Home is my brother. Anywhere, any time, Vermont, Oxford, Cincinnati. My brother might just be the truest home I know. The way we think alike, the way we understand each others' half-formed phrases, the way we can finish each others' jokes (which no one else ever finds funny except us, who are weak from laughter at our wit). Christmas Eve, driving around to look at the tackiest decorated houses we can find. The only other person who knows what forces shaped me into me. The only other person in the world who really knows why it was such a bad idea to take Mom to my psychiatrist appointments.

Home is Katie, even when she was living in Colorado. When she sang at her grandmother's funeral, I was almost overwhelmed with love, thinking, "This is one of my favorite voices in the world." Katie has always been home to me, through college, when she was in St. Louis and I was in Oxford and she felt like the only real human connection I had, and after college, when we were back in the same city.

Justin used to be home to me. Or, I wanted him to be. By now, it's hard to say which is true. I think he was. I think he really really was.

Xenos [note: this is the Freak-Ass Church] was home to me. The apartment with Jamie. Luke. Luke was home to me -- as familiar to me as my own thoughts. It wasn't false -- I made them my home. I made them my home as completely as any I've ever had. It just wasn't the right home.

I do think that if one is scattered and random by nature, not a reliable self-starter and natural procrastinator, getting one's backside into the desk chair for a certain period of time each day is a good way to be handy should the muse wander by.

Huge motherfucking wrod.

t scratches self I am such a lazy writer that only the weekly impetus of writing assigments for class gets me into the state of mind where I'm productive. If I were disciplined enough to schedule my work, instead of letting it slide, I'd have written the short story that's been nibbling at me for months. I'd have put together my poetry ms. It's really lucky for me that I have this organic talent, because I don't practice *anywhere* near enough.

Oh, God. The Word Autosummarize feature is hilarious. (Tools | Autosummarize, tell it to put the summary in a separate document, then pick the ten-sentence summary.)

Protagonist: Rosamund Nemanjic

Rosamund nodded. Rosamund nodded. Rosamund turned to Katrin. Rosamund considered. “Nicholas! Nicholas shrugged. Rosamund tensed. "..., Highness?" Rosamund exhaled.

I guess you can see why she's the protagonist, huh.

(blinking)

Must go see what it does to mine...

edit: "this feature is currently not installed."

Maybe just as well...

The Word Autosummarize feature is hilarious.

Oh, I love that thing! I have gotten way too much enjoyment from plugging text into it and snickering.

The Word Autosummarize feature is hilarious.

tries

giggles

My entire NaNo so far (which it counts as 2542 sentances) reads:

"Connek?"

"Connek?" Connek cried.

Connek guessed. "Connek?" "Lesky!" "Bob! "Bob!" Modryp.

"Lesky!"