the sidewalks were wet. the sky was wet. i was dry. mother nature is weird.
my homework this week was to write a piece that was all scene and no summary. it’s a good life assignment too. i live too much in my head, in my thoughts, in my emotions. i need less character development and more plot points.
and, ACTION.
just another sunday of FaceTime…
baby mac (to sister J): does abby have a boyfriend?
sister J: why don’t you ask her?
baby mac (to me): do you have a husband?
me: no.
baby mac: why not?
me (to baby mac): i haven’t met him yet.
me (to sister J): sheesh, i don’t even get this kind of pressure from mom!
chip and cracks, when in china or a sidewalk, tell tales of use and family gatherings and parties, but when they’re in your bone? the tale takes a decidedly depressing air filled with pain and limping.
does the reveal of the truth make something more true or is it enough for you and only you to know it?
my search for a good umbrella continues feverishly as i’ve been stuck twice now in the middle of a rainstorm with an umbrella that looked more like a spider than a shield. PSA: don’t buy an umbrella from CVS. that “lifetime warranty”? not true. i bought an umbrella last week, opened it once, and then went to use it yesterday and two of the metal spokes were permanently bent. FOR NO REASON. as i walked to the square, the mere suggestion of a breeze caused the other spokes to crumple up. why isn’t there a compact umbrella that’s sturdy and portable and keeps you dry? why? why? why? why can europe create amazing, useful, solid umbrellas, but the US can’t?
do a google image search for mammatus clouds.
the news i’ve been dreading and hoping for in equal measures has finally dropped:
THE SCORPIO RACES is to be made into a movie.
the conflict raging in my head: this is my favorite book in the world (yes, yes, i’ve said it. it’s true.). i re-read or listen to this book at least once a year. sometimes twice. the beauty of the book is in the way maggie stiefvater commands the english language. every single word is there for a reason. a very specific reason. every single character is flesh and blood and bone and in every chamber of my heart. i’ve imagined thisby and sean and puck and george holly and the capaill uisce and finn and dove so many times and they’re mine. all mine.
if it gets turned into a movie, someone else will write the screenplay. someone else will bring thisby to life. someone else will be sean and puck and george holly and it won’t be built on the foundation that maggie stiefvater shoved into my brain.
i’m not sure i’m ready to see that thisby.
and yet.
and yet.
and yet, this story, stark in its telling but lush in its living, is meant to be on-screen.
a substantial piece of wood fell off the truck barreling through the yellow light into the middle of the very busy road. having just cast my midterm election vote and having just had a battery of car issues, i allowed the patriotic duty in me to well up. at that very moment, all traffic lights blinked red affording me the safety to dart into the road and pull the wood out of the road and over to the sidewalk.
the driver may have been oblivious to the side effects of his insane driving, but i was not.
at class last night, many people were absent, which placed the responsibility of delivering feedback on me. it’s a delicate thing to bite your tongue and give honest constructive criticism at the same time. it’s a difficult thing to look past the obvious barriers in language to the story underneath. and yet, why is it so much easier to do all of that than write your own story? why am i trying to write a story? revise a novel? for what purpose? when do you forge ahead and when do you tuck your work into that dark corner of your heart never to be seen again? what does the breaking point look like? is it better to be aware of your surroundings or should you barrel through the intersection, things flying out of the back of your truck/mind?
Abigail Mumford 