After the Boon, or Returning to Earth…
The past two weeks have blurred into a string of words: diarrhea, elation, fear, palpitation, sweat, congratulations, diarrhea. The inevitable realities of life intrude like they always do: transmission problems, black ink low lights, unfortunate weight gain.
I met with my writing group last night. Our goal is and has been, to each submit an entry to the PNWA literary contest. I intended to enter the novel, but the rules say no published work (heh heh, still weird). I waded through my short stories and Pink Flokati floated to the top. It is the story of a father emerging from a haze of despair through conversations with catalog representatives and obsessive hoarding. The due date for the entry is the 20th, so I'm listening to Dead Can Dance; they help me to find that moody grieving place necessary for this kind of story. What is it about faux medieval canticles, Lisa?
I met with my writing group last night. Our goal is and has been, to each submit an entry to the PNWA literary contest. I intended to enter the novel, but the rules say no published work (heh heh, still weird). I waded through my short stories and Pink Flokati floated to the top. It is the story of a father emerging from a haze of despair through conversations with catalog representatives and obsessive hoarding. The due date for the entry is the 20th, so I'm listening to Dead Can Dance; they help me to find that moody grieving place necessary for this kind of story. What is it about faux medieval canticles, Lisa?
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