Old writer-lady creaks toward her armchair, sighs down, fixes the audience with a glittery stare. Google wants 1000 words for this to be legit. Oh well.
OWL: In my day. In my day…(coughing fit, followed by ironic, husky laughter, hard-won) I blogged before it was called blogging. Or, it was a blog but blogging was not yet a casual verb tossed out at urban shindigs. (Is shindig still a word, a thing? Pickling is back, so who knows?) After a spell of blog-nausea, I’ve decided that I miss the form. Ironically, I have been blogging for two car dealerships for over a year. It’s work I love. Writing about cars—seriously, someone call up the ghost of my dad! My inner boi, my feminist mojo, working. Next to writing about tacos and roller coasters, with cars, I’m pretty much home. Google Marnie Woodrow Jeep, see my other brain-lobe at work…
This has been a Landslide (go ahead, I know you’re reaching for your YouTube pipe right now) spring-summer. I went to the beach/with three different Taurus women/they love the beach/them Taurus women. Aretha Franklin, wrapping her arms around George Michael, hitting farewell notes nobody down here/over here understands. Or maybe you also had the same kind of summer. The one that starts with an IV and ends with you clamping your fangs down on a buttertart muttering how you earned this #$%*.
I dreamt of going to the Grand Canyon for my 30th birthday. Instead, I paid for an expensive dinner and got dumped. Writers: cold enough to dump you AFTER dinner. But you know what, later in life, God invented and introduced my comedy-hungry spirit to Tiffany Haddish, Melissa Leo, Octavia Spencer and Allison Janney and all the fine women who refuse to let me hyperlink them for security reasons. The Grand Canyon is no longer a fantasy trek. Nineteen years later, the South Rim (Kanye and Kim are going to call their next kid that, I bet!) beckons. And then Ramona, California, which I pray to God is named after Ramona Quimby. Probably not. Up in the hills with Joe/knowing what we know, hey Joe/Hendrix winds on the radio/Hey, Joe/when you get down to Mexico.
Kids! Publishing is not writing. Writers write all day and night, in their rooms and vacuums and sanctuaries. A book is a book is a book, right? The book goes out of print, not you. You are always a limited edition. Cue the fromage. Living in a park model trailer, you get a l’il sentimental, eh? I’m going to pin it on this.
If you feel blue sometimes, take heart. Eight out of ten people are a$$holes, but not you or your BFF. Never! You’re the only two sane people left. And if you have decided to sell everything and live in a van, we’re not here to question.
Ahead: Painting nudes in Oaxaca, reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving A F%$# by Mark Manson. Process over product, savoury over sicky-sweet, the devil you don’t know over the angel you swore you did.
And, as the Labour Day rocks on, this one’s for you. Lucie Silvas, Queen. This will become more specific with each entry. Toe in water, etc.
She waddles toward the shore of Lake Huron and laughs, humming Guadelupe de la Cruz Rios while the rain spackles down. You need this.