I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.
I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I’m writing.
It’s as though I’ve been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here.
What else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.
At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.
We traveled for two weeks with a pickled hippo.
Being the survivor stinks.
Although there are times I’d give anything to have her back, I’m glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn’t have wanted her to go through that.
Jacob: I’ve never seen so much manure. Wade: Baggage stock horses. They pack’em in 27 a car. Jacob: how do you stand the smell? Wade: what smell?
Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
Do you have any idea how much an elephant drinks?
Hey! Shouts Camel. There ain’t no woman in the world worth two bottles of whiskey!
Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can’t find myself any more. When did I stop being me?
Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I’d choose the corn.
I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I’m lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky – same as it always was.
I just can’t. I’m married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
I’m truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and – when I am really lazy – feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
When did I stop being me?
The thought has cheered me, and I’d like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.