Dear Reader,
Will someone have a talking-to with my Word Raccoon? She seems to think that now that the dining room ceiling is this close to being finished, we need a new, colorful project.
I beg her pardon.
Remember how I mentioned the kitchen ceiling? I agree with her that if we do something with it, we should paint it.
“Exactly!” she said. “How hard could it…”
I clamped my hand over her mouth, but she licked it, and when I removed it with disgust and wiped my hand on my pants, she finished with, “…be.”
She followed that with a reminder that we have over half a can of the hallway paint left and, well, yellow would be perfect for a kitchen.
Oh, WR.
I just said the other day that I am done painting rooms yellow. You have to paint so many coats, and there is always one spot where…
I do wish she’d let me finish my list in the order I prioritized the house instead of following her own ideas.
That being said…
How hard could it be?
Compared to the dining room ceiling, it would be nothing: clear out some furniture, spread out drop cloths and newspaper, stir the paint, grab a roller, and climb the ladder.
We should prime it first.
We’re not going to.
Anyway, as you can see, we’re very much still in the thinking stage. (Eye roll.)
In WR’s mind it’s already a done deal, even though I told her I’m taking a two-week break from household projects, with the exception of painting the outdoor trim if the weather cooperates. And when there aren’t professional painters nearby.
Speaking of, I wrote this today.
On a Fall Thursday Morning in July
On a Thursday in July,
you don’t expect
to get to wear your
blue sweater.
Or to see the neighborhood calico
wearing a collar with a tag.
The animal is someone’s,
but somehoww yours, too.
The seasons have shuffled the playlist and
a Fall day has been
fully dropped
into the mix.
The cherry tomatoes
from the
farmers market
at least still taste like
July.
The house next door is
slowly
turning
purple,
one glorious side
at a time.
I turn my chair away
from the scene.
Nope, not gonna write with
painter butt
in my face
all day.
AND, earlier WR patiently let me work on my third novel today, Deaccessioned. Before I knew it, we’d written 1,000 words. They were words the story needed, and I felt myself crouching beside them, listening, watching.
WR did the most remarkable thing while I wrote. She stopped me and told me to back up when I explained where I should have shown. She tells me that when it comes to poetry all the time, but this time I felt it.
It was challenging to translate movement I could see perfectly in my head into language without sounding as though I were trying to write beat poetry.
I also argued with an online dictionary because I used the word “bade,” and I looked it up to be sure I was using it correctly. I was told it’s an archaic word.
Excuse me?
I queried further and yes, it’s still in use, but not commonly used, which I already knew and also already knew. I don’t think I would have cared if it were considered archaic; if I want to use a word, I’m going to use it. #WriterPrivilege
Doesn’t that just mean people don’t care to use a word anyway, not that they can’t?
I mean sure, I guess if you want to be understood then you really ought to use words that are stocked on the middle shelves, but also, I’m not a fan of the language police.
Rant over, Babe.
Here it is, not ten a.m., and the writing says, “You’re done writing for the day.”
I agree.
Still waiting on the tin snips, so no tile work yet. I think it’s time to hit the gym. (And why do we say that when it feels more like the gym hits us?)
No disrespect meant to the housepainters in my poem. In fact, I rather suspect they like the attention their work is receiving from surprised townsfolk.
Gotta love it. Just gotta.
Drema