Seven o'Clock News--literary aspirations
Well.
I certainly haven't written the paper for my workshop in June. And I haven't rewritten all of my lesson plans from the year. There's also very little chance of my having completed my 15 minute presentation on my Victorian rhetoric paper.
But I did watch three episodes of My Name is Earl, which is really a darn sweet show. Also, I wrote a three-page story about a dream I had a few weeks back. As I can't figure out how to embed vast amounts of text in a post, here's a teaser couple of paragraphs:
Gretta Kronquist lay on her new orange-and-pink spotted bedspread, her head covered by a pillow. She might have been trying to smother herself to escape this dark, heartless world, but she might have just been trying to dampen the sound of fists pounding on her bedroom door. She removed the pillow momentarily just to shout, “I’m not going!” Then she stuffed the pillow down again and turned towards the wall.
“Honey, we won’t make you.” There was a pause. “I’m coming in, okay, dear?”
Gretta said nothing.
The door tentatively opened and a beautiful auburn-haired woman walked in. She was maybe in her mid-thirties, stately, like what people used to think of royalty, but with those arched eyebrows that betrayed a tart intelligence and lips that spent more time pursed in thought than pouting in flirt. The whole effect of her being was enhanced by the floor-length gold evening gown that draped from her slender shoulders. She made her way over to the bed, negotiating the piles of books and notebooks, heaps of shoes, sidestepping an open can of Diet Coke. “Gretta, hon, we won’t make you go to this party if you don’t want,” she sat lightly on the edge of the bed and placed a pink-nailed hand on Gretta’s shoulder. “Just tell me why you don’t want to go, okay?”
This woman was not Gretta’s mother. For starters, Gretta’s hair and skin were pale, like the inside of a tart lemon and the redhead was warm and honey. Further, she spoke with a soft Southern accent and had that grace that a fifteen-year-old girl would kill for...but Gretta had no hope of inheriting. Gretta was a nine-foot-tall, 140-pound supermonster freak. Also, she was Swedish.
I certainly haven't written the paper for my workshop in June. And I haven't rewritten all of my lesson plans from the year. There's also very little chance of my having completed my 15 minute presentation on my Victorian rhetoric paper.
But I did watch three episodes of My Name is Earl, which is really a darn sweet show. Also, I wrote a three-page story about a dream I had a few weeks back. As I can't figure out how to embed vast amounts of text in a post, here's a teaser couple of paragraphs:
Gretta Kronquist lay on her new orange-and-pink spotted bedspread, her head covered by a pillow. She might have been trying to smother herself to escape this dark, heartless world, but she might have just been trying to dampen the sound of fists pounding on her bedroom door. She removed the pillow momentarily just to shout, “I’m not going!” Then she stuffed the pillow down again and turned towards the wall.
“Honey, we won’t make you.” There was a pause. “I’m coming in, okay, dear?”
Gretta said nothing.
The door tentatively opened and a beautiful auburn-haired woman walked in. She was maybe in her mid-thirties, stately, like what people used to think of royalty, but with those arched eyebrows that betrayed a tart intelligence and lips that spent more time pursed in thought than pouting in flirt. The whole effect of her being was enhanced by the floor-length gold evening gown that draped from her slender shoulders. She made her way over to the bed, negotiating the piles of books and notebooks, heaps of shoes, sidestepping an open can of Diet Coke. “Gretta, hon, we won’t make you go to this party if you don’t want,” she sat lightly on the edge of the bed and placed a pink-nailed hand on Gretta’s shoulder. “Just tell me why you don’t want to go, okay?”
This woman was not Gretta’s mother. For starters, Gretta’s hair and skin were pale, like the inside of a tart lemon and the redhead was warm and honey. Further, she spoke with a soft Southern accent and had that grace that a fifteen-year-old girl would kill for...but Gretta had no hope of inheriting. Gretta was a nine-foot-tall, 140-pound supermonster freak. Also, she was Swedish.
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