November 14, 2002
Wanda, my Only Love
Coffee and a visit to the library were more than in order today. And, after a peppermint mocha drank while walking the ashy November streets of uptown Oxford, I feel better. After browsing the fantasy and science fiction and limiting myself to three books, after checking out Through the Looking Glass and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for some strange reason inspired by you, after riding the shuttle back and listening to my trance cd, after snuggling deeper inside the black and gray voluminous sweater, I feel better.
After speaking with him, after resolving the words that had been in my head into his ears, after realizing he wasn't near so angry as I thought him to be, after chattering, I feel warm and wondrous and wise.
Well, maybe not wise, but an idle thought of Maria and words that start with the letter 'W' and out it comes.
I bought him the mug at Starbucks that he has been ogling for three weeks. I am going to give it to him tomorrow. Now we can take tea and coffee on the road in style.
Not that it has stopped us before.
I pulled my videos back out of the closet and draped a shawl over my dresser, and now it is no longer wanting the turtle tank that so briefly graced it. Pepe is eating shrimp and frolicking in turtle heaven, likely without a thought for his temporary, big faced owner.
I still miss him, though.
I read one of my stories in Art 182 today. This one, if you're interested. Was delighted by the reaction I recieved, most notably that of a barely known girl in my dorm who stopped me to praise me:
"You just don't think of people our age of being genuinely good writers."
The heat spread from my stomach and out, and I thanked her graciously. It's comments like that that keep me going, that allow me to ignore the professional criticism I may recieve. Real people: that's who writers work for, anyway. Not agents. Not publishers. Readers.
So, fuck you, rejection letters. When In Another's Footsteps is finished, I'm not going to give up on it. I'm madly in love with Gannet. I cannot abandon him to the shelflife that Robin has sort of resigned himself to. The liquor is helping, though, or so he says. It could just be Will talking.
You're the only one that is laughing. Everyone else is wondering what the hell I am talking about.
Mike is allegedly calling me back tonight. I'll cradle the phone against my ear and curl up in my bed. If Meghan is here, I'll sit in the hallway and draw my knees up to my chest.
But I can't be truly warm without my human space heater. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.
astera at 5:32 p.m.