This 'n That...
No writing for many days… Feel like head is going to blow! Actually, I’m still kind of basking in the glow of completing “And the Angels Sing,” book 2 in my series, She Can Dot It: The Sunny Harte World War II Mysteries. Awesomely long title, eh?
Had a fabulous father’s day! My husband arranged his own special activities which included riding a train south to Providence and hitting the zoo there. All we (myself, kids) had to do was show up. It was fun riding on a train, which was built the year I was born and was as old and creaky as I am. I spent some time in that “writer’s trance” imagining Sunny and her pals on the train in 1943, what it smelled liked and felt like (besides being crammed cheek-by-jowl full of soldiers!)
The trip had many highlights, including a game of “spot the crap on the side of the tracks.” Chairs, sofas, tin cans, numerous tires, one of those plastic egg-shaped kiddie cars, enough Dunkin’ Donuts cups and bags to wallpaper Mt. Everest, and a piece of a washing machine. The washing machine was expected—did you ever notice that when you hike in the woods or in some remote place, you’ll inevitably stumble upon a washing machine (often with a dryer; they travel in pairs). Which begs the question, why? Why would someone take the trouble to drag a washing machine into the middle of the woods? To avoid paying a $50 hauling fee? I’ve got a secret for all you washing-machine abandoners: leave the thing on the corner; the town/city will get so sick of looking at it they’ll come get it for free.
The other two highlights were the amazing elephant projectile pooping at the zoo (do I really need to describe it?) and the wealth of graffiti decorating the overpasses and supports we passed on the train. Graffiti, as in urban art, not just the “F-word” in four-foot letters (though we saw plenty of that). Words sketched out in big, bubbly letters so distorted you can’t make them out. The letters look like letters, but put them together and you have no idea what the word says.
Who writes graffiti? Guys who’ve dragged their washing machine out to the tracks to abandon it and just happen to have a can of spray paint in their jeans pocket? And how do they learn to write such mesmerizing but ultimately unreadable graffiti? Is there a class they can take? "Graffiti 101, meets MWF, lab fee for spray paint." It’s quite the quandary!
Adventure over I’m now back to working, taking advantage of the last full week of school to get things rolling on my next tome. Not sure what it’ll be about, but I’ve already got a catchy title: Sex, Graffiti, and Washing Machines!
Janet – No power in the verse can stop me!
Had a fabulous father’s day! My husband arranged his own special activities which included riding a train south to Providence and hitting the zoo there. All we (myself, kids) had to do was show up. It was fun riding on a train, which was built the year I was born and was as old and creaky as I am. I spent some time in that “writer’s trance” imagining Sunny and her pals on the train in 1943, what it smelled liked and felt like (besides being crammed cheek-by-jowl full of soldiers!)
The trip had many highlights, including a game of “spot the crap on the side of the tracks.” Chairs, sofas, tin cans, numerous tires, one of those plastic egg-shaped kiddie cars, enough Dunkin’ Donuts cups and bags to wallpaper Mt. Everest, and a piece of a washing machine. The washing machine was expected—did you ever notice that when you hike in the woods or in some remote place, you’ll inevitably stumble upon a washing machine (often with a dryer; they travel in pairs). Which begs the question, why? Why would someone take the trouble to drag a washing machine into the middle of the woods? To avoid paying a $50 hauling fee? I’ve got a secret for all you washing-machine abandoners: leave the thing on the corner; the town/city will get so sick of looking at it they’ll come get it for free.
The other two highlights were the amazing elephant projectile pooping at the zoo (do I really need to describe it?) and the wealth of graffiti decorating the overpasses and supports we passed on the train. Graffiti, as in urban art, not just the “F-word” in four-foot letters (though we saw plenty of that). Words sketched out in big, bubbly letters so distorted you can’t make them out. The letters look like letters, but put them together and you have no idea what the word says.
Who writes graffiti? Guys who’ve dragged their washing machine out to the tracks to abandon it and just happen to have a can of spray paint in their jeans pocket? And how do they learn to write such mesmerizing but ultimately unreadable graffiti? Is there a class they can take? "Graffiti 101, meets MWF, lab fee for spray paint." It’s quite the quandary!
Adventure over I’m now back to working, taking advantage of the last full week of school to get things rolling on my next tome. Not sure what it’ll be about, but I’ve already got a catchy title: Sex, Graffiti, and Washing Machines!
Janet – No power in the verse can stop me!
posted by Janet at 7:22 PM
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