I’m slipping, don’t think I don’t know it. My prose has been shoddy, “The Human Comedy“ has languished, my posts are full of typos and misspells and sometimes entire misposts.
I forgot to put books on the tables this morning at library, hid out back before Holly or Jennifer could ask for the broom, got in a fight with Chiquita, and am now here alone with my words. Words, words, words and all of them bad. So many to choose from and yet I chose, just now, these:
“I slept well the night I gave June the key, as often happens with mistakes.”
Hmm. Well, technically, I didn’t choose those, Nell Freudenberger did and she put them in The Dissident. It kind of makes me mad, though, because I had been just about to choose them, I swear, right before she did and now I’m left to choose others. Such as these:
“Elizabeth David Night fell flat and Ellen tottered eerily before the unopened door resembling Carrie at the prom just after they’d doused her in blood.”
Menza menz. Also these:
“Howard found her swaying like this, bent toward the scattering leaves, and plucked her at the stem like a poppy.”
What do they mean? I don’t know, they’re just words. Here’s more:
“Ellen eventually discovered, not to her liking, that Howard looked at everyone in that same gauzy way, in the same way he looked at her. Bankers, babies, the girl at the information desk at Barnes and Noble; even the guys at the Jiffy Lube. where he dropped his car every 3,000 miles.”
I’m not crazy about that passage. I don’t think “gauzy” conveys what I want, nor does it mesh well with the miles – there’s a certain charm about Howard that your “3,000 miles” Joe lacks, but I needed a detail. The detail I actually need is his car, the kind of car Howard drives, but I don’t know it. I should know what he drives, but I don’t. Let’s move on:
“It’s not us, Ellen said out loud one day, three months into their seventh year. It’s the great room that got small.”
Oh, dear, I’m afraid I have to go. I just had an episode with the broom that’s left me rattled. Holly hunted me down and demanded to know where it was. I stalled, I stymied hemmed and hawed, and eventually I led her to the exact spot of the broom. (Brilliant luck!) And with a slight degree of authority, I might add. I think she thought it was there because it’s where I’d last used it. That’s the attitude I took, anyway.
Still, I wasn’t prepared for all of that so I have to lie down now and rest.
If you’ve got words of your own to send me, please do.
[Anne Snow turned 40 two days ago. E. will, very shortly, write a poem.]