goin' down mammary lane. . .

B-O-O-B.

That's right. I wrote it, dammit.

And now that that's out of my system, I can discuss more important things, like this blog here that I abandoned the other day.

I miss you, little blog. Damn. I miss not being able to fuck around with font size and colors. I feel squelched by wordpress, in the regard. Don't get me wrong, wordpress saved my butt when Blogger fucked up, excuse  my French, the other day. I was beside myself, so frustrated. And even now, I can't type anything in Blogger on my pc. Just here, on this laptop. Crazy, huh?

But like I said, I liked Blogger when it was working, dammit. And I miss it. And I want it back but some things you can't get back. For whatever reason, they go the way of the dinosaur, or Pluto. Gone, and you don't realize how much you cared for them until you don't have them anymore. That goes for things, and years, relationships. . .

Don't get me started.

Too late, I guess. Once in a while I think about certain relationships I nurtured and/or exploited and/or fucked up. People I thought I was close to, I'm not close to anymore. Mostly my fault. You can't undo what's done. You know what, though? You should be able to, dammit. You should be able to make amends and have all be forgiven. You should be able to hit 'rewind.' Make all the hurt go away. Wake up and all is right with the world, everything's hunky dory. You didn't say that, do that, write that. . . piss him off. Offend her. Fuck it up.

Should. Yeah, right. Says who? Every minute that ticks by is a minute we can't get back, and all we can do is cast our eyes behind us, look wistfully at what was. Meander down mammary lane, remembering the good, trying to forget the bad or swearing we won't fuck up like that again; promising ourselves we'll cherish what we have right now 'cause it can all be gone in a heartbeat, an error in judgment, a lapse of attention. . .

A computer glitch.

But it was nice while it lasted, dammit.

confessions of a crappy spellre

i sukc. . .

I am the proud owner of a bunch of letters. BFA. MA. Okay, five letters. Worked my little butt off for those damn five letters. Cost me thousands, no lie, and I can't tell you how many hours of HELL I suffered through, getting those two degrees. 

I can write, but I can't spell. 

My god, I am a crappy speller. I've spend countless hours pulling up dictionary.com, checking the spelling of a stoopid woid I should know by now. The enorimity of my disfunction borders on mind-boggling, and makes me want to cringe, or hide under a slimy rock. Or both. Craziest part of the equation is the fact that I've now written--let me count--over 282,500 wirds, I mean. . .

Is this insanity? What the hell am I doing?

Truth is, it doesn't matter. I'm lucky in that I can craft a decent sentence, and another one, and put those two together in a meaningful way. I've written four complete novels and I'm working on number five. Not saying their all good, they ain't. But they're decent, and with more effort on my part, they may be viable one day. Look how I just wrote "viable." No problemo. Sometimes there's no ryme or reason to it. Sometimes I think my little pea brain takes a mini-vacation that I don't know about. Later I pull up something I'm written and think, what the hell? I know how to spell "voratious." I think. Looks funny. Let me look that bad boy up. Oh, crap. J. C. Penney with a damn second e, for chrissake. Ridiculous, how bad I spell.

But like I said, it doesn't matter. In the long run, my mistakes will stick out like a sore thumb. Somebody will catch the screw-ups--if not me, then my betas. If not my betas, my dear husband. He's a voratious reader, a really good speller and if not him, maybe one day, if I'm lucky, an editor will grab that perverbial pen and vomit red all over my beautifully written manuscript. Guess what, folks? That'll be okay with me.

That's what keeps me going, you know it? The thought that one day my manuscript will cross the desk of an editor, on its way to getting published. I gotta believe that. Everybody has there cross to bare, don't they? Maybe I suck at spelling but dammit, I can right.