Garden Party

This is what my new flower garden looked like in the sun. In the summer. When we had summer. Apparently it's over. Today I called the pellet stove repair guy and we turned the heated floor back on. It's really cold here. Global warming? Don't worry about it. Come to Seattle.

Moving on from my little moan...I'm quite proud of the garden business. My cat Uncas (you'll notice him in the corner) is thinking that he would have liked the dalhias a little farther away from the heather. Okay, I'm making that up-- I don't have dalhias or heather but I can't remember the names of the real plants.

Just for some perspective, this is what the place looked like before the purchase went through.

Really.

I've been working very very hard.

Slow Start

Good morning, good morning. Well, the weather has turned and it seems we’re done with summer already in the Northwest. The clouds have rolled in and gone are the sunny, clear, hot days. I’m feeling fortunate that I finished some gardening while it was nice. Being a novice and all, I was able to enjoy my first foray into digging around in the dirt in sunny sunny weather, moving plants from one spot to the next, trying an orange beauty next to a pineapple mint. Even though the instructions said “full sun”, I put it in “partial” & hoped for the best. (There’s no such thing as full sun in these woods.) It’s cloudy days and shade for you, verbena, if you’re fortunate enough to come home with me. In the last week I’ve moved nearly a ton of rocks and gathered driftwood from the beach, sculpting the land into beautiful, welcoming grounds. I believe I’m addicted. The cats too were enchanted by the weather in the last few weeks, sprinting back and forth from one patch of grass to the next, chasing each other, and leaving gifts of dead vermin on the path.

Today we all sit inside the studio, pouting at the early change in season. They cry, looking up at me, as if I could stop the rain. “It’s not my fault,” I say. I walk to the window with the little one and contemplate the gray, gray sky. Will I still manage to ride my bike to work? It’s hard to keep good habits when even the sun is hiding. Maybe, I think, I’ll just go back to bed.

Almost a year later, she has something to say.

This morning, I’m going to write about the cycle, the ebb and flow of the writer’s psyche: the elation, the depression, the fantasy, the misery, the accolades, the criticisms, the swell and the drain, the yin and the yang. God, I’m tired of (but am going to have to embrace) the fact that I’m a sensitive, moody artist—one who is extremely affected by the opinions that other people have of my writing. When they tell me I’m good, I’m on top of the world, imagining life as it should be, imagining I have finally come into my own. Then one critique too much, one slip of the rug under my feet, and I’m unbalanced. My first reaction (particularly to someone who may or may not be a husband and who may or may not be writing at this particular time), is to say: “why don’t you write something better, then?”

The cycle:

I finish a story I don’t feel particularly good about, but am happy to have finished as it’s taken several months, off and on. I don’t expect anyone to think the story really works, but deep down, deep down, I think, wouldn’t that be nice if someone did.

I give the story to "someone" (who may or may not be a husband) to read, just as a first impression. He’s normally a good reader, has insightful opinions.

He reads half the story and thinks it’s amazing, says I’ve found my style, best thing I’ve written. I’m elated. I’m delighted. Maybe I can't recognize my own talent.

He finishes the story, says “wow, that was creepy,” then turns over to go to sleep. Hmmm.

I can actually feel the joy drain from my body. I’m quiet for a time, then finally have to ask, “What, you didn’t like it?”
Why? Why did I have to ask that question? Why couldn’t I have left well enough alone?

He proceeds to list some pretty major issues: my favorite scene might be too much, certain characters' language was not believable, the ending doesn’t satisfy, it’s over the top. Then he says I just need to “tighten it up a little”. He sounds condescending.

Confidence stripped. I proceed to spend the next couple of hours tossing and turning, stewing, trying to find a way to blame him.

There’s no getting around it. Writing is hard. I’ve chosen a difficult, often unrewarding vocation (today it does not feel like an avocation). But here’s my remedy: I’ve got my butt in the chair and I’m doing my time. That’s the only thing to do. There was a day when I would have closed the computer and found something else to do, believing there was no point in continuing. I would have stopped until inspiration or encouragement or a good mood hit me again. But not now. Now I’m hoping that sitting through this pain, this disbelief, charging right through the center of the insecurity is going to dispel this particular depression. Maybe the act of putting in the time, maybe that alone will make me a good writer.

Blogging Without Obligation

Thanks for this idea and link, ti. I'm posting it right away. Lord, I don't need the pressure.

Practice Makes Me Mediocre

Well, with prompting from Bug to do exercizes, I finally caved. So, here's my attempt at voicing what my newest character is yearning for. It's fairly long, so don't feel like you've got to read the whole thing. It was really for me to kick myself in the ass, to write SOMETHING as I've gotten to the point in the story that I don't really know where to go. The action has taken place now I need to resolve. Perhaps this helped:

This picture really doesn't have anything do do with the story. The kid's just so damn cute- I'm making a loose connection to practicing, as if the kid were practicing badmitton like I am with writing, but I think my allusion is not really working. (Which is why I needed to explain it)

Okay, the exercize:

Jesus, my legs don’t work like they used to. The worst thing about getting older is how brittle and yellow your finger nails get. Like the vampire’s nails in the old Bela Lugosi films. I really don’t want to die. I’m holding on tight even though the quality of life after seventy goes down hill pretty quickly. I am having a lot of trouble with the aging process altogether. I hate being wrinkled and I hate the way people pay absolutely no attention to you—and if they do, it is pity that shows in their eyes, not respect, certainly not envy. When I was younger the dowdy housewives would always shoot me looks of disapproval. They were jealous of my shapely legs, my tiny waist. I knew. I knew what those looks meant. There used to be men watching too, but now not even old men check me out. It’s an even worse punishment than not having jealous stares. No one envies or desires anything from you at eighty-five.

Even my son pays no attention to me. I’m in his way now, a nuisance. I never felt that way about him, even when he was a little kid- and I’ve never really liked children. How I ended up with three is a mystery to me. The girls were in my hair all the time. Trying to keep them out of trouble was too much work. I couldn’t be following them around when I had to be out working at all hours, trying to put food on the table. It was inevitable that JoAnne would turn out bad. If their father had stayed he could have helped, could have worked while I stayed home to watch the kids. Wayne, however, he was a big help with his sisters. He took care of them when I couldn’t. But JoAnne just wouldn’t be helped by her younger brother. That girl was as stubborn as they come. She just wouldn’t be helped by anyone- never will be. Dottie did alright for herself and I think it was because of Wayne. That boy was good to her, took care of her. And all Dottie does is put her brother down. I think she’s jealous of his success. Or maybe she’s jealous of his good looks. I don’t know, but there’s a lot of jealousy floating around in my life, always has been.

All I really ever wanted was for them—all of my children—to love me in a way that I couldn’t love them. Something shut off inside of me when Reynold left. Something congealed like the culture dishes in a lab. It’s a terrible thing to get to the end of your life and realize you’ve done it all wrong. I should have been able to hold on to him—I should have fought to keep my soldier husband. With a father figure to look up to maybe Wayne would have had the confidence to stick with acting. He might have gone on to acting school instead of working in that damn cemetery like some kind of joke. It was funny to him when he was a teenager to be working there, playing a gravedigger, playing at acting morbid. He could of made it as an actor, I know. He was so good in high-school plays, good at everything he did, always entertaining the family. I would have been so proud to have a son in the movies. I would have been happy to die then, knowing at least my son was someone to be envied. At least I would have done something good in life.

Day Off/ Day On

I'm newly inspired today as I read each of your posts. I'm always thanking you, but I have trouble on my own. Here, I'm going to show you just what a geek I am and quote Evita: "It's hard to keep momentum when it's you that you are following." In my defense, I only know the musical so intimately because I worked on a production at summerstock on the coast of Maine when I was 19.

Funny, the things that stay with you--which is actually what I want to talk about as I've been studying Robert Olen Butler's From Where You Dream. I picked it up thinking, God, not another craft book. But, to my great surprise the book is comprised of his lectures that expound on how writers must get out of their thinking brains and into their unconcious (I would guess he mostly means subconcious, but who am I to question a master?) Regardless, this is just the advice I've been needing as we've spent so much time analyzing and tearing apart stories this past year. I need to find a happy medium between where I started (all artistic impression, subconcious flow) and where I went (dry as can be, over-structured, over-written).

To help kickstart the flow, D & I took the day off yesterday and went to see the newly remodeled Seattle Art Museum. Much better, much better than the old cramped building. We were both in love with the painterly quality of the John Singer Sargent (I'm always surprised with the force of my reaction to his work). I was disappointed by the Rauschenburg they had (one of his earlier "combine" pieces), and the Jasper Johns wasn't my favorite of his either. We were surprisingly taken in by the Warhol (above). And there was, an intense piece by Do Ho Suh, a gigantic samurai coat made out of dogtags, some kickin' Japanese scrolls and panels, and a wild Australian aboriginal piece, but I can't remember her name- started with an S. Oh, that's lame, but it sure was nice to be in the city for a day. We ate in Chinatown & got our city walking fix with a promise to ourselves to get back to it with a vengence today. So, I better stop fooling around here.

Raising Funds & Teenagers

Oh, those darn kids are amazing to me. They give me hope for the future. They're the ones that will forge ahead, leading us into a brighter, greener, safer tomorrow. I'm in love with a group of teenagers- is that wrong?

So, our little fundraiser had salsa dancers (7 youngsters who choreographed their own piece)*, raps about Harry Potter, raps about Calculus, a rockin' band, a not so great solo performance by quite the Diva who somehow managed to mix spanish, reggae, harmonica, guitar and strange social commentary, confusing her audience but looking fabulous while she did it, and poetry readings (some original, some by Sherman Alexie--no, he wasn't there). The skateboarders boycotted because they didn't want to wear full protective padding, but the kid who's taking an engine out of a truck & converting it to battery power was present with his informational wall of photos. And the popcorn and molassass-ginger cookies- amazing. Love them. Chocolate cake and lemonade, what more do you need? And, to top it all off, we made $600 from the generous donations of the attendees (I think it was mostly the parents).

My husband said-- after he was done helping me pick up, bless him-- "What a community we live in. The parents mix with the teenagers like it's nothing. No way, when I was a kid, would we have been good with our parents hanging around. These kids love it. It's a different world."

Of course, my husband is very east coast.


* The salsa dancers were my favorite. I'll have picts. later.

Just When You Thought I was Gone, Now You Will Get to See Exactly What I Am Up To....

Oh, It’s been a long time sisters, but inspired both by Bug and TI, I’ve decided to wrangle my time into this reverse schedule. How come it seems like more to do when I write it down? Wow, I better stick to it, or I’m going to get jammed up the last week, where, as you will notice, I’ve taken some work- work I said I wasn’t going to do this semester, but well, dammit, I like having money in the bank & the Youth Council business just isn’t cutting it in that department, (though it’s rewarding and gives the warm fuzzies and all).

THIS IS MY IMAGE OF WARM FUZZIES

Time to run. Got to put on a show, you know…..

September 7^th- Send out Packet

September 1^st-6^th- Work Microsoft show, write 7 pages Craft Essay & do exercises from The Scene Book, Draft Letter to AJ

August 28^th- 31^st- Prep for Microsoft show & finish last few “passes” of story in the evenings

August 21^st- 27^th- Finish Draft of new story

August 20^th- Send out story for IS

August 14^th-19^th- Read From Where You Dream, Write Rough Draft of new story, go over IS story again

August 13^th- Write Draft of IS

August 12^th- Finish Section of The Art of Fiction

August 11^th- Go Chaperone my Youth Fundraiser!!

I'm Back but I'm in a Dust Bowl

Oh, the rigorous life of the rock n' roll roadie. Okay, so I'm not a roadie anymore, but I couldn't pass up the repetition opportunity. I'm out in the big world, crawling out of my cozy little cave and lo and behold, I've surfaced in a Tennesee dustbowl. It's confusing because the air is so heavy with moisture, the sweat clinging to our skin, and yet as we breathe we take in pints of dust. The cilia in my nose have caved in- they're taking a beating on the front lines and the rear guard (the lungs, of course) are feeling the heat.

But it's a Bonnaroo blissful time out here in the trenches. I'm listening to the Police in the distance- they sound just like the do on the record I had when I was 12. I've got some jamming bands on my stage and I'm making the crew happy by stashing a case of beer for them. I just keep smiling because I'll be on my way to school in another week, I've got these darn bands under control and I just interviewed a couple of EMTs to solidify some details in my latest story- very very enlightening. Rock on.

Okay, Okay

I will be back, really. I just, well, I just....Hmmmm. You know. I've been busy.

La Voix

I thought I'd post my favorite Baudelaire poem, which many of you probably already know, for Poetry Thursday (though I didn't link to the PT site)-- you inspired me, bug! This translation is by George Dillard, and is in my opinion the best I've read:


The Voice

My bassinet against the wall of books was thrust:
A gloomy Babel, where fiction, science, fabliau,
Everything, Latin ashes and Hellenic dust,
Mingled in chaos. When I was high as a folio,
Two voices spoke to me. The one, insidious, firm,
Was saying: “Earth is a most delicious cake. Be wise.
I can (and then your joy would have an endless term)
Give you an appetite of corresponding size.”
The other voice said, “Come! Come travel into dreams,
Far out, beyond the possible, beyond the known.”
That voice was like the wind along the shore, that seems
A music out of nowhere, into nowhere blown-
A crying phantom, to frighten yet to captivate.
And I replied: “I will, delightful voice!” Then fell
What one may call, alas, the special curse, the fate
That still pursues me. Always, behind the spectacle
Of this immense existence, in the unstarred abyss
I see, distinctly, extraordinary world on world,
And, ravished victim of my own clear-sightedness,
I go with stinging serpents round my ankles curled.
Since then, like the old prophets waiting for a sign,
I love most tenderly the desert and the sea;
I find a curious suavity in bitter wine,
I smile at the saddest moments, I weep amid gaiety;
I take facts for illusions—and often as not, with eyes
Fixed confidently on heaven, I fall into holes.
But the Voice speaks to me: “Guard, fool, thy dreams!
The wise
Have none so splendid as thou hast.” And the Voice
consoles.

Statements Containing Fundamental Character

Okay, I’ve decided since only ti knew a couple of these words, I should put up the definitions. And thanks for the contributions, Megan, Kiyotoe, FC and ti. I looked them up if I didn’t know the meaning & have added them to the list here.

Priapic- 1. Of, relating to, or resembling a phallus; phallic.
2. Relating to or overly concerned with masculinity.

Bifurcated- To divide into two parts or branches.

Paroxysm- 1. A sudden outburst of emotion or action: a paroxysm of laughter.
2. a. A sudden attack, recurrence, or intensification of a disease.
b. A spasm or fit; a convulsion.

Extirpate- 1. To pull up by the roots.
2. To destroy totally; exterminate. See Synonyms at abolish.

Troglodyte- a. A member of a fabulous or prehistoric race of people that lived in caves.
b. A person considered to be reclusive, reactionary, out of date, or brutish.

Ciliate- Having cilia:
1. A microscopic hairlike process extending from the surface of a cell or unicellular organism. Capable of rhythmical motion, it acts in unison with other such structures to bring about the movement of the cell or of the surrounding medium.
2. An eyelash.
3. Botany: One of the hairs along the margin or edge of a structure, such as a leaf, usually forming a fringe.

Clerihew- A humorous verse, usually consisting of two unmatched rhyming couplets,
about a person whose name generally serves as one of the rhymes.

Nimiety- Superfluity; excess.

Lateritious- from Latin latericius (made of brick): brick-red

Agamist- from Greek a(without) gamos(union): an unmarried person

Bibulous- 1. Given to or marked by the consumption of alcoholic drink: a bibulous fellow;
2. Very absorbent, as paper or soil.

Mome- A stupid, doltish person; blockhead, fool.

Tatterdemalion (Excellent word!)- A person wearing ragged or tattered clothing;
ragamuffin

Defenestration (got to love it)- An act of throwing someone or something out of a
window

Discursive- 1. Covering a wide field of subjects; rambling.
2. Proceeding to a conclusion through reason rather than intuition.

Heteronormativity (this wasn’t even in my dictionary, but on wikipedia):
the perceived reinforcement of certain beliefs by many social
institutions and policies.

Toper (ha!)- A chronic drinker.

***Dragon, yours were good, but I’m a painter (triptych) and a technician (lavaliere mics) who doesn’t like to equivocate. I just happened to know them all!

Dam/Words

Well, the dam hasn't actually broken, but there do seem to be a few cracks in the wall. There's a couple of drops trickling through here and there. These fissures speak of an impending wave that I'm ready to ride the crest of. I'm speaking in metaphor today, I'm all about the phrase.

And so I offer you up a myriad of interesting words to ponder, words I've taken down in print over the years because they interest me. I have yet to use any of these beauties myself, but it's good to know they are in my back pocket if I need them. Some, you may already know, some you may question their validity. I considered handing you definitions as well, but, then that would spoil all the fun.

Priapic

Bifurcated

Paroxysm

Extirpate

Troglodyte

Ciliate

Clerihew

Nimiety

Lateritious

Agamist

Bibulous

Mome

That's enough for now. What can you all add to the list?

Blocked as a Rock

I’m still feeling emotional. I’m still walking around a gooey mess, and this seems to have put a real halt to my creative abilities. I’ve only written five pages on my new story so far. That’s one page more than I had last week. And so I want to talk about this block.

This is what I am up against

I sit at the blank page day after day. I write a sentence, I erase it. I write a paragraph & go over it twenty times, changing the order, changing verbs. I’ve looked through craft books & thought about doing some of the exercises, but can’t bring myself to make the effort. I’ve written in a journal about the character. I know about the character. But action? The story seems as incapable as I am of making a move.

I know, I know. Kill the inner critic and just write something, anything. But I can’t. I type another sentence and spend an hour polishing it. I’m waiting for the dam to crack. I’m

anticipating a flood any day now. Bound to happen.

But while it isn’t happening, while I’m sitting here contemplating why I can’t manage to write anymore, I put forth the idea that there is a certain amount of stimulus that we are comfortable working with. We want small dramas, or if we have big dramas, we need distance before we can write about them. Small dramas because we need material, but we as writers cannot afford to be overwhelmed emotionally. Anything larger requires too much energy—energy that should be put into the writing.
Well, see, I’ve managed to at least put this down on paper. Maybe I’m on my way.

Oh, bug, thanks for the shout-out for the Thinking Blogger meme, but I think I'm gonna pass today, especially as most of my blog buddies have been tagged already from one person or the other. Just look to the left- all of the links listed are smarty-pants (to use Gili's terminology).

I'm Not Talking

There are times when you are going through something, something intense, but you just can't talk about it. That's what I've heard. Some people clam up when they are feeling emotional. Some people hate to share. Perhaps it makes them feel vulnerable. Perhaps they believe showing emotion will paint them as weak. Whatever their reasoning, let me say, I am not one of those people. In fact, I tend to be quite the opposite. If I have a hang nail I'm likely to whine about it to the guy next to me on the bus.

No, really, I'm not that bad. But I do like to talk about my pain. I like to share my uncomfortableness with my friends in the hopes that I will evoke some empathy. That's why we write, correct? To try somehow to identify what it is that makes us feel, what brings us joy; to evoke some empathy.

This has been a particularly emotional couple of weeks for me, and instead of talking about it, instead of being right up front here on the blog, I've chosen the other form. Upon advice given to me by others, I've joined the realm of clams. Honestly, it's almost physically painful to keep it in. I'm a born blabbermouth when it comes to my discomfort. So, until I can talk about it, until I'm ready to divulge the form my emotions have molded into, I'll just have to blog about my distress in a general, angsty sort of way. I'm feeling it.

Crunch Time

I'll tell you, life is so busy. All of the time, busy busy busy. I'm back at home and trying to catch up on my work for the book review class, with accounting for my husband's company, with the housework, and all those appointments you put off month after month that finally catch up with you (dentist, doctor, tune-up for the car). Add into the mix unexpected visits from friends and you've got yourself a booked calendar when all you really want to do is sit down and write a story or two. I'm looking forward to things settling down again soon, but I think perhaps I'm just fooling myself. They may never calm down. How will I ever fit in my bike rides?

Dirty Work

I've spent enough time this week winging about my work, so I don't want to go on and on, but there is something that happened yesterday that came very close to throwing me into a rage, which is something I try hard not to let work do to me. After all, what's the point? It is only hurting me.

Because I have spent many years in this business and have worked extremely hard to get where I am, gigs like this throw me for a loop. The position I accepted for this one is Master Electrician. That means I figure out the circuiting and power for instruments. I do it on paper and when we get to the venue, I have a crew to put it up. I explain to them where we want it. Simple enough.

But on this show, they didn't hire enough crew for me. So I have spent 12 hours a day for the last 4 days lifting heavy cable, pushing boxes around, climbing ladders & driving lifts. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind working. I don't even mind that much getting dirty, but there's always someone who will try to make you feel bad for just the things you should be proud of (i.e. hard work)

Yesterday, around my tenth hour of work (with no breaks, by the way, someone bringing me food) I was pushing a case out of the tent-- yes, the fashion show is in a tent-- there was a young man, I would guess around twenty, with a tailored shirt, designer jeans, and some product in his hair smoking a cigarette just where I needed to put the case. I think he was there setting up some display. Remember, this is a high-publicity fashion show, so every wanna be in the city is hanging around. I politely asked him if he would step aside, and the little shit wouldn't even look at me. He refused to budge. And I was 2 feet away from him. I know he heard me. Finally, his friend who was near pulled him over a step. I thanked him for moving. He still wouldn't acknowledge me.

This exchange took the wind out of me. All of a sudden because of this little prick I lost any sense of dignity I might have had about the job I was doing. I felt like a dirty, thirty-something low life. What a shame that somebody could hold that power. Class systems are a big point of contention with me, and I always make a point of treating all types of people equally. Now I need to work on not being so sensitive to those that don't.

Check out this post on one of my favorite's blog. We were feeling sympatico today.

Middle of the Night

I’ve spent most of the day alone, finishing up the last details of putting the rig together, doing paperwork and keeping my thoughts to myself. It’s now 2 am and I have to get up at 5 to fly to Houston and start the load in. I can never sleep the night before I travel (afraid of oversleeping) or the night before a load-in (afraid I forgot a piece of equipment), so I’m doubly cursed tonight. I’m alternating between reading and writing, tossing and turning, and trying to discern what the noisy people next door are saying. I haven’t understood a word. My room is scorched from the forced air heater and my throat feels like Mexican sand. Water has never tasted so sweet. When I lay my head back on my pillow once again I’m going to count my blessings instead of sheep. I’m going to remember all of the good things in my life.

I may not be with you all for a few days, but I’ll be back soon.

Somebody Help Me

This morning I am no longer apologizing for my condescending attitude towards my coworkers. I’ll give you an example, a piece of a conversation that took place after leaving a Thai restaurant (Yes, unbelievably they agreed to Thai food after grudgingly giving up the bar-b-que restaurant because I’m veggie):

The scene: Thai restaurant in a strip mall in Dallas, 3 male technicians, 1 female. At the next table, 4 obviously gay men having an excellent time. Technicians are talking loudly about the famous people they have worked with. Female coworker staring longingly at the other table, wishing she was with them.

Action: Technicians finish meal and leave restaurant.

Coworker #1: I think we weren’t gay enough for that restaurant.

Coworker #2: No kidding, man. [ Laughter]

Coworker #3: [sidelong glance at female coworker] At least we know its good food if the gays are going to it.

Coworker #1: So where are we going now?

Coworker #3: Anywhere they have beer.

Coworker #2: I saw a sportsbar on our way here.

Coworker #1: There’s a liquor store right there. We could just open a sixpack and sit on the floor & drink it. [Laughter]

Coworker #2: [They pile in the car] The bar’s just a couple of blocks.

Coworker #3: [Addresses female coworker] Are you in?

Female Coworker: I’ll just take a cab back to the hotel.

Already Bitter?

Here I find myself in the Lone Star State once again, feeling indeed a little bit lonely, a little forlorn driving around a town where I know about six people that I met last time I was here. People with lives of their own, people who want me to go have a drink with them after work but, to be truthful, we have so very little in common that I’m glad to have my schoolwork as an excuse to bail out. I may be missing an opportunity here to find that spark of human interest (perhaps a character study?) but the fact is I’ve known these guys. I’ve known hundreds of stagehands and industry workers and it is the rare fellow indeed who makes a comment of interest to me. Oh, there have been a few: the pot-smoking guitar tech that would find literary quotes and post them on his work box. After the tour was over I’d send him postcards with definitions of rarely used words. There was the electrician who was also a photographer and met each day with such joy, I couldn’t help but be elated by his contagious smile—and he liked to play Scrabble. We were immediate friends. Unfortunately, those fellows are few and far between here. I don’t like to be a snob, but I like even less wasting my time. I don’t want to go to the bar, to see a game, read industry mags about the latest technology or play video games. I don’t like being backstage at concerts and I don’t think this is the coolest job ever. I’m not interested in who you’ve worked for. If that’s all you’ve got to say to me, I’d rather not here it. Uh oh. I told myself I’d have a good attitude this week if I took this job. I better get moving on this writing thing.