Jacques arrived late last night in a pouring rain storm. The super quiet boy might still be in the house too. But he’s so quiet I take no comfort having him here, so I was happy to see Jacques pull into the drive. The house is so big and quiet when it’s just me here. I don’t know how long he’s staying, but after so many months without access to his home I would assume he’ll be here for awhile.
Need to buy coffee today. And some produce. God! I want some really good olives! Maybe I’ll try Jacob’s Larder.
Stacy has decided to cut this weekend’s visit short, stay only one night instead of two. I’m a little disappointed, but I totally understand why. She’s got a house to get into! Now that’s exciting stuff!
Frank McCourt is coming to give a reading in Halifax in June and I want to go! I REALLY want to go. The reading is on the Dalhousie University and actually you can get lodging in the dorm there during the summer months that is much cheaper than staying in a hotel. A return trip by train or bus will only run me 60 and change. It’s very tempting. The thing of it is that I’ve never actually been to Halifax in that way before. I’ve been there only on trucking excursions. They say trucking is a great way to see the country and they’re right you do get to “see” lots, but you don’t actually get to get out and interact and “do” anything. So I’ve never done anything in Halifax before. And that could be an exciting adventure for me. Ah well. The whole thing is likely not worth thinking about anyway. It’s too soon. I’ll never be able to afford to go.
The editing and rewriting and general probing of my brain continues as I work on my . . . memoir? A friend of mine came up with a pretty good title — Writing in Spite of Myself. I like it. It fits the project. All this time I’ve been writing without thinking it was anything, thinking it wasn’t writing at all. I’ve always known I had stories, but I just assumed everyone had the same kinds of stories, or that nobody would find my stories interesting. Now that I’ve started this project for real and I’m talking to more people about it, I’m seeing things a little differently. I have apparently lived a lot early in life. I always thought I was too young to write a memoir, that I hadn’t lived enough yet to be taken seriously. But I’m starting to see that I’ve learned a lot of big lessons at a young age. I’ve started opening up more to people, stories are coming up, spilling out, and people want to hear them, are interestd. It kind of freaks me out.
Am meeting a writer friend for coffee this evening and to have AGM 2007 conversation. Will be nice to get out and socialize, hope it’s not raining.
Mood: all over the map
Listening To: birds, tons of birds chirping outside my window
Hair: i don’t want to talk about it