It’s like I was psychic or something.

Organizing today, since the husb isn’t around, and I can drag boxes around and root through them without having to hear suggestions like, “Just throw it all away!” (Which makes me want to throw NONE of it away, naturally.)

Came across this little ditty, which I wrote when I was about eight or nine. I remember, for some reason, taking it to Sunday school and singing it for everyone, which in retrospect might not have been the ideal setting.

Nobody tells me what I do!

Swinging on the sailboat sails
Hanging on the monkey tails
Nobody tells me what I do!
Refrain: Nobody does, Nobody does
Nobody tells me what I do!
Climing up the telephone poles
Throwing apples into holes
Nobody tells me what I do!
Refrain

Sort of odd that I thought throwing apples into holes was a type of rebellion. The other offenses seem more serious.

Add comment July 11th, 2010

Seasons and people change.

Well, I’m pleased to report that the crape myrtle finally grew some leaves. Thank you for joining us, crape myrtle.

Last night we watched The Hurt Locker. It was good–I guess because of all the hype, I kind of expected it to blow my mind. It didn’t, exactly, but I must say that it has stayed with me. Especially the ending. I feel like I have so many good movies to catch up on.

I did indeed spend the whole weekend writing, except when I was watching a movie and ordering a pair of boots online. I have to tell you, the worst thing I ever did was memorize my debit card number. Now there is absolutely nothing standing between me, my poor impulse control, and the enticing world of internet shopping. I also bought some earrings this weekend. Because of the poor impulse control thing. The way I justify it is thusly: if I had lots of free time, I would go either/both to Target and to the fabric store, where I would surely end up spending three times what I spend by sitting at home and shopping online. Plus, free shipping on the boots! That makes them practically free.

Kind of.

Anyway, happy Monday! Guess what I’m doing today? Did you say writing? You’re so right!

But very quickly, before all that starts up, I want to mention something that has caught my attention lately.

See, I grew up in South Florida. Not only that, but I grew up sort of emo in South Florida. (Only sort of–I was like the really happy emo girl.) And I was very pale, which in the early 1990s meant you were either (1) sick, (2) a vampire (and this was well before they were cool), or (3) a hopeless dork. In middle school, I was already considered a hopeless dork, so no biggie. But when I got to high school, where people were nice, I decided to make the slight transition toward vampire. I dressed as if being touched by the sun would scar me for life–long-sleeved turtlenecks, jeans, long peasant dresses with long-sleeved flannel shirts over them, black tights, etc. For a period of time, I was actually too self-conscious about my pallor to let people see my arms.

(I eventually got over that, but it was years–probably close to a decade–before I let my legs be seen in public.)

I distinctly remember making the 1.5 mile trek home from the bus stop in the middle of a July day (like all good vampires, I volunteered at the summer school program), wearing jeans and a turtleneck.

My point is, I can’t stand hot weather. Ever since then, I have this weird conception of the year–like that it starts in October and ends in late May, and everything from June to September is wasteland. It’s a revulsion on a gut level. And when October does arrive, I get this feeling of overwhelming relief, like, “I made it!”

This is not an entirely desirable way to be. First off, I live in the desert, where summer can start in late April and last into November. Second off, life is too short to dread half of it. What can be done?

I’ll give you a little spoiler: I’m not dreading the warm weather this year.

We live in a house built into the downslope of a north-facing hill. This means that from November through March, our entire backyard and much of the house itself get very little sunshine. I don’t remember ever in my life noticing the change of seasons, the change in the position of the sun, until I moved to this house. Now I feel the seasons and the sunlight all tied up together, like a rhythm–like the rhythm that they are.

Anyway, if there is sun to be had, the upstairs of the house gets it. The downstairs does not. As a result, the downstairs is consistently 10-15 degrees cooler than the upper floor. This is wonderful in the summer, but in the winter it can get a little extreme.

My office is downstairs. What this means is that I spend several months a year freezing my patootie off. To avoid this, I use a space heater and wear socks and a sweater and often wear a blanket on my lap like a granny (or a baby).

Well guess what?

I’m sick of it!

I’m sick of bundling up every day and then taking the dog outside to find it’s 82 degrees. I’m sick of not being able to wear my cute dresses and skirts without fear of freezing to death. I’m sick of running multiple space heaters at once, risking overloading the circuit and losing all my unsaved work.

So this year, as the sun creeps back northward, I watch it set first in the kitchen window, then behind the wall, then in the dining room window, knowing that this means that the temps are rising and soon it will be a dusty, hot, southern California summer. Where a day that tops out at 95 degrees will be a cool treat. Where I will switch my space heaters for fans.

Where I can work downstairs in comfort! Where I can wear my cute clothes and not worry about layering!

Spring is here! Summer is coming! And for the first time I can remember, I’m glad of it.

Happy Monday.

k.

6 comments March 29th, 2010

In memory of an old friend.

Last night, I got a voicemail from my dad saying that my old kitty, Tigger, had passed on. I got Tigs in June of 1991, just before my freshman year of high school. We were constant companions until I went away to college.

He was one of those super mellow cats who loves to be carried around. He would literally stay in your arms as long as you felt like holding him. He slept in my room and woke up with me in the mornings. He would follow me into the bathroom and yowl and try to check on me when I was in the shower. Then, when I put my makeup on, he would sit on the counter and drink out of his cup of water.

After I went away to college, my dormant cat allergies emerged with a vengeance. The first time the husb and my dad ever met was when we visited my family for spring break, and I immediately picked up Tigs and started snuggling with him, and my eye turned bright red and swollen. My dad, an eye doctor, was at work, so the husb drove me there. And that’s how they were introduced to each other.

When I was 17 (he was 3), Tigger had liver flukes and a very high fever (from slipping out the back door and crouching under the bushes eating lizards). I suspect that might have slowed him down a little, if you know what I mean (although there are those, my older sister included, who maintain that he was never actually quick). His litterbox habits went south and he became an outside cat. He ruled the backyard, never roaming, always staying close to home in the little house my dad built for him.

Because of his need to be an outside cat, he was never able to join me in California. It’s too dangerous here for outside kitties.

But he led a long, happy life. He could make me laugh, comfort me when I was sad, and express his appreciation by purring like a motorboat. I’m so grateful to my parents for caring for him for such a long time and then seeing him into a more comfortable place.

Rest in peace, Tigger. A good old cat.

11 comments November 2nd, 2009

A look back: The Nancy Drew Files

When I was in middle school, there was a modernization of the classic Nancy Drew series. These were similar in format–there were still Nancy; her boyfriend, Ned; her girlfriends, Bess and George (George was a tomboy! Get it? I don’t blame you if you don’t. It’s pretty subtle.); Nancy’s single father; frequent references to Interpol, which went just a wee bit over my head; and of course, most importantly, a cliffhanger at the end of every single solitary chapter.

The modern versions were much edgier, though–instead of the cliffhanger being four flat tires on Nancy’s red sports car, as in the classics, in the new version, Nancy would find a body in the broom closet (and yes, that’s the example I’m always going to use).

Anyway, for all their ridiculousness (starting with the fact that Carolyn Keene is a MAN, which floored me–never mind that he didn’t actually write the books), they were among my favorite 6th and 7th grade reads, and I thought I’d share some of the genius with you all. Specifically, the awesomely terrible covers.

We’ll begin with Case 2: Deadly Intent
Oh man, I just noticed the Twin Towers in this cover. And I was going to make fun of Nancy’s rock-scissors-paper martial artistry, but I guess I’d better not. I won’t even remark on the amazingly perceptive mixture of disdain and disbelief on the face of the male covermate, who seems to understand on some subconscious level that Nancy should not be doing what she is doing… but why are they in New Jersey?

Case 3: Murder On Ice
Ignoring for a moment the tragedy of the flesh-toned ski pants, I’m pretty offended that they went to the trouble of finding a title that includes the word “ice” and used a ski scene on the front. But I guess “Murder on Snow” doesn’t sound as cool. In the end it’s for the best, because if Nancy wears nude pants and the guy is decked out in purple, and that’s just for skiing, heaven only knows what they’d wear in the ice rink, and the book would probably have been banned in 46 or 47 states.

Case 4: Smile and Say Murder
Wow, look at all this action! Nancy, who has apparently taken a job in the medical office reception field, is sitting cluelessly on a desk making what must be a very important phone call while a creepy photographer lurks nearby. Not only that, but there’s a creepy masked intruder running in with his gun drawn. Clearly Nancy should pay more attention to her immediate surroundings. Although if the masked guy shoots, the photographer is the one who’s going to take the bullet… if geography means anything anymore in this crazy mixed-up world.

Case 13: Wings of Fear
You know, for a girl with a boyfriend, Nancy sure has a lot of ominous-looking guys hanging out a few feet away from her. Maybe she went looking for adventure with strange boys because sensible Ned wouldn’t take her to all these dangerous settings, such as… a commercial airport runway…? As you can see, despite the gigantic fireball behind her, Nancy is shivering in her fashion-forward fuchsia sweater and herringbone pants (or is she doing the Macarena?)… And then there’s our friend in the blazer, who you can just TELL is going to be bad, because he tucks his tie into his pants.

Case 18: Circle of Evil
Now pay attention, folks! This is what we call SUBTEXT. We call it that because it’s SUBTLE, meaning PEOPLE WON’T NOTICE IT. This is such a valuable tool for designers trying to HINT AT SOME SORT OF ASSOCIATION BETWEEN THE TITULAR EVIL AND THE LURKING GENTLEMAN WITH THE CIRCLE ON HIS SHIRT.

And what’s with the position of the diver in the background? Can you really be at that angle and your feet still be over the board? Four hundredths of a second later, the diver is flailing around in the water because both of her ankles are broken when they slam into the board. And who could possible be responsible for such evil? Gee, could it possibly be THE GUY WITH THE CIRCLE OF EVIL ON HIS SHIRT?

Case 26: Playing With Fire
Ooh la la! Look who got herself a man (a mite thin about the hips though he may be). You just know they took one look at each other’s pleated pants and knew they were soulmates. Too bad their good times are about to be spoiled by that careless bridesmaid who goes around setting herself on fire. Maybe while Nancy’s off fretting in the background, the boyfriend will realize that he forgot to button his shirt that day.

Did that really happen in the 80s? Did even the bad boys wear pleated pants?

9 comments September 15th, 2008

Have another girl cheese sandwich!

The other day I came across this absolute gem of a website: I Used to Believe. It’s a website where users submit beliefs from their childhood. Looking over the highest-rated submissions had me literally crying and shaking with laughter at work the other day.

I also learned something from the Common Beliefs page. I am not the only person who thought that:

I also thought that bathing suits were called “baby suits” and grilled cheese was “girl cheese” and boys weren’t allowed to eat it.

Ah, youth.

On a totally unrelated note, we went shopping yesterday for a birthday card, and Hallmark has an entire section now devoted to cards that play sounds! They have tons of them, everything from music to dialogue from movies and TV shows. The husb wouldn’t let me listen to many of them because he thought it was embarrassing to stand in the store and make all that noise. So we moved on to Shoebox, the old standby. But apparently some people ARE allowed to listen to cards in the store, because two of the cards at the party we went to were of that variety.

I never get to have any fun.

We went to the beach prior to joining the party, and Winston had a marvelous time. He started out digging for a giant rock and barking at it, then moved on to chasing the tennis ball down the beach, then keeping the tennis balls out of the water (which involves barking at the water), then chased tennis balls into the water.

For such a little dog, he’s a pretty good athlete. He is majorly addicted to playing at the beach. In fact, when it was time to go, the husb said, “Let’s try letting him walk without the leash,” which we’ve done before (it’s not near any roads or cars or anything), and it’s usually fine because he’s so tired. But this time he just kept running back down to the beach and making all the people down there catch him and bring him back up to us, which was embarrassing. So I put him on the leash.

Today he has major play hangover. I think we all do. I’m so sore. But I’m going to the fabric store and Sue is coming over and we’re going to try to sew a skirt.

I want to know what you used to believe when you were a child. Bonus points if it makes me snort coffee out my nose.

12 comments July 15th, 2007

This one is for you, M.E.

I have a “how I got my agent” story that I’m sort of afraid to tell, especially after reading some of the tales of woe on the more popular publishing blogs.

I knew my agent in high school. We were in a lot of the same classes, with the same crazy classmates and crazy teachers. I will tell you this: he drove me insane. But he was also hilarious and smart and no matter how self-righteous I was (answer: very extremely), I at least had the sense to exploit those qualities. So we worked on a lot of projects together, projects which went on to be hilarious. To us, at least. At the time.

Years pass. In short, I emailed him because I saw his listing at the alumni website. I sent him my book, and he liked it. The whole process took about five days. Then he sold it. (I pride myself on my continuing ability to exploit his talents.)

I don’t know a ton about the literary world (clearly), but I do know this: my agent knows me. He’s passionate about my book and put it in the hands of an editor who felt the same way. He tells me I’m not a bother when I ramble on the phone about my dog and the weather and my family.

(He inserts the correct chapter first-pages in several copies of the manuscript when I have discovered the morning the submissions are going out that I’ve mislabeled, oh, 27 chapters, and convincingly hides his horror at my suggestion that maybe nobody would notice if there were two each of chapter 11 and chapter 14 — a shameful example of our weak morals here in Hollywood.)

In short, he’s pretty awesome and I think that deserves to be acknowledged publicly.

Besides, if someone can carry off the following exchange in 10th grade AP European History, you always want them in your corner:

MS. M_____: And furthermore, I hate you ALL and you’re never going to amount to anything if you don’t start acting like grown-ups instead of preschoolers. Sit up straight! Don’t give me those sad faces! I can’t stand being part of this farce — (she notices M’s hand up) — what is it, M?

M: I just wanted to tell you that you look very nice today, Ms. M_____.

MS. M_____: Thank you, sweetheart. You know I’m not addressing any of this to you.

M: I know.

MS. M_____: But the rest of you are useless vermin and just looking at you and thinking the future of our nation rests on your sad shoulders is enough to make me etc. etc. etc. …

And so on.

Excuse me for rambling, I just got to reminiscing about high school and thought I’d indulge myself (my elf — everyone needs an elf to blame things on).

January 23rd, 2007

The leap.

Lucky for me, I’m obsessive compulsive. Or maybe obsessive impulsive. I don’t have to open and close the door four times, but if I eat one of the truffles, chances are I will eat all of the truffles, and too bad for you if you didn’t show up early enough to get one.

Similarly, when my brain made the transition from writing casually to writing full length, completed novels, suddenly there was no question that I was going to write full length, completed novels. There was the question of whether anyone would like them or want to read them (that question still remains, of course), but there was no longer doubt that the rambling story would find a conclusion and then be revised into something resembling a book.

But how, I wonder, did that decision come about? I don’t remember making it. And yet, at some point, between the 50,000 aimless words of “The Ashley Incident” and the first draft of “The Girl Least Likely”, I made the leap.

And now, like people who never wanted kids and then had one, or people who do an exotic liver cleanse, or Scientologists, I want this for everyone I know and love, especially my writer friends. I want them to write a full-length, completed book. And I know they have it in them, is the thing. But I remember what it looked like from the other side of the canyon (figuratively, although from my dining room, I can see the other side of the actual canyon), and part of me is paralyzed by the same fear that gripped me during “Ashley Incident” (and won, considering that Ashley & pals have been relegated to the Longform – Back Burner folder).

When I was a senior in high school, I worked on a short “film” called “Count Milkula”. It was the story of a vampire who ignites a revolution because of his milk-drinking ways. He is imprisoned and ultimately poisoned, and his vampire BFF takes up the cause for him. I planned the everloving daylights out of that project. I have a notebook of shot lists, prop lists, set diagrams, etc. The day I shot it, things went slowly. We didn’t get everything we needed. One of the actors got in big trouble for missing class.

The end result being that I never finished the damn thing. The set was too complicated to recreate. The actors couldn’t miss class anymore. I lost the will to go on, so to speak. And I’m not exaggerating when I say that the unfinished business took an enormous dent out of my self-confidence that I’m probably still repairing to this day — or at least compensating for, with my manic determination to finish my books, to get through the process and begin again. By God, I’m going to start something and then I’m going to finish it!

That story makes it sound like I need to find peace with Count Milkula, to soothe that delicate teenager who was suddenly confronted by the sad fact that, no, not everything turns out right, no matter how much you plan it all out. Part of me is convinced that, if the tape were still lurking in my parents’ house, I would edit the damn thing just to get it off my lifelong to-do list.

But… maybe not. After all, every writer needs a neurosis, yes? And maybe what drives every word I write is the unfinished business of a milk-drinking vampire.

I don’t know. What I meant was for this post to be encouragement to people on the verge of going for the longform writing project (*cough* you know who you are).

How do I tie this up neatly?

January 21st, 2007

Kayli wants more pony stories.

Further adventures from the ice cream notebook.

Untitled
the Blaton family children camp and are yelled at for being noisy

“Even Barllet their Husky sheep dog who was a Colly”
this might only be funny to dog experts

“The only reason that the house was quiet was that the kids were outside pretending to be cops and some robbers and once in a while a banker or something like that.”
that’s it, Katie, sell it

“Like cool man that’s so cool”
at least my dialogue flows

My last day as a turkey
this promises to be upbeat

“They call me Linky the sweet turkey but I’ll be sour with all that lemon juice though.”

“Oh! My 30 feathers gone to that stupid place called waste.”

his friend Sam the horse helps him escape by tossing him over the fence and then foiling the farmer’s wife’s attempts to ride after him
“I dashed off I could only go a half a mile an hour I’m just naturely slow, so what.”

The flying catfish
blah blah flying catfish, a secret note explaining they only fly once every 100 years

Notable for the use of the abbreviation “T.E.” instead of the words “The End”.

Bigger Than Life
who doesn’t love a giant hamster?

“Once there was a little family of hamsters but one isn’t so ‘little’ because its as big as a dog!”

“Whenever a cat or small dog chased them he scared the cat or small dog away, but if it was a big dog or another big animal all but him ran through the hole in the fence but he couldn’t because he was to big.”
see, now things are looking pretty dark for this hamster, but it turns out he just climbs over the fence

Let Me Tell You About My Dad
this one is in cursive

“He sits around reading the newspaper for an hour and doesn’t wear green on St. Patricks day!”

Make my day!
a story about a girl gang who like to shout the titular phrase at people

“Rebecca, who was very ill tempered automatically shouted make my day so she joined the club. For example [actually "erample", because I had not yet mastered the cursive letter "x"], when she got -11 on a test paper and the teacher said, ‘I’m going to call your home!’ she shouts: ‘Make my day!’ in the teachers facinated face! Then the dumb teacher shouted ‘I’m going to call your house two times now!’”
you have to admit, that’s a pretty dumb teacher

but Amy is the true rebel:
“So she said ‘Make My Day!’ when they wanted her to join there club and kicked everyone in the club. Suzi was stunned.”
Suzi can apparently dish it but not take it.

And that, as the saying goes, is all she wrote.

Comments from original posting:

MrsDubois said…
I love going back through and reading my old writing. It’s hilarious and heartwarming at the same time.
I will admit that you were far better than I at that age. Far, far. ALTHOUGH. I did write a story in 6th grade that was impressive in that it was 90 wahbillion pages long. OK, not that many, but close.
1:39 AM

Katie said…
It is kind of heartwarming — I feel a strange affection for the snotty little brat I obviously was.
1:50 PM

January 5th, 2007

The ones that got away.

How strong does a gust of wind have to be to knock over a metal chair with mesh seats? Thankfully, not strong enough to push said chair through our sliding glass doors — just strong enough to knock it into them and give us a nice midnight scare.

I’ve never experienced anything like this wind. Certainly not last year, when we first moved into the house. It’s a strange, lonely kind of wind. It cuts right through what you might have assumed were warm clothes and knocks the neighbor’s wicker reindeer all atumble. I don’t like it.

In writing news, as the internet access is out again at home, I’m blogging from the office. Which is a great opportunity to depart from the Relics series and write about things I don’t have anymore.

Two things, in particular:

First, yesterday’s idea.

I’m not a big writer-downer. I tend to think that if an idea is worth writing about, it’ll stick with me. I have one “what-if” scenario that’s been bopping around my head for a few months. It’s just the faintest germ of an idea, and it might not be the kind of thing I could write, but to my knowledge, it’s a new take on a current issue. And that one has stuck. But yesterday’s new idea, which, when I thought it up, seemed equally as sticky AND new AND worthwhile… Well, that’s one’s gone. And I’m trying to give myself the chance to get it back — gently but persistently suggesting possibilities, which so far have all been rejected.

So wish me luck. I’m going to keep poking around for it. If I can’t find it, I’ll just chalk it up as a bad idea.

Second, going back to the idea of relics —

I was in fifth grade when my father’s mother died of lung cancer. The wake took place during a school trip to Sea Camp, or whatever they called it. My parents determined that I should go to Sea Camp and not to the wake. One of our assignments at Sea Camp was to keep a journal of our time there.

Let’s get one thing straight: I am not an adventurous person. I don’t WANT to swim with sharks — even nurse sharks (or “nursing sharks” as Chris accidentally said last night, which is gross and hilarious). I don’t WANT to play tag in the swamp (although I had a good time). I did enjoy the thing where we started with a piece of coral that looked like a plain old piece of coral and ended up finding bazillions of awesome sea creatures on it. That was cool.

But overall, it’s not my kind of thing. Add to that the fact that the kids from my school actually started a full-on, boy vs. girl RIOT, complete with brooms in the air and rocks being thrown, etc., and it was an interesting weekend.

I’m sure I documented all of that just fine in my green journal, which I turned in as instructed.

My teacher’s note, after reviewing it, was some dour observation that I didn’t seem to have a very good time at Sea Camp. Looking back now, I don’t know if it was an actual criticism (knowing this teacher, it was) or just an impression. This is the teacher who marked down my Pioneer Game journal a few points because I named the pioneers’ donkey “Jonny” and “that’s not the correct spelling of Johnny”, and also because one of the character’s brothers went back to Ireland to care for their dying mother and “people didn’t go BACK to Europe.”

Flash forward to 6th grade, safety patrol trip to Washington, DC. Another journal is assigned. This time, I am determined to please the teacher. So despite all of the actual, real emotions and spats and drama and boredom, etc., I experience, I make sure my journal is jam-packed with sunshine and roses. The whole thing is a sham, which I know as I write it. It’s full of vapid praise for Our Nation’s Capital and whitewashed accounts of sharing a room with three other girls, who fought the entire time. It’s a lie.

The teacher loved it, and was so glad I enjoyed this trip more than Sea Camp.

The green journal is gone. I’m sure I destroyed it, feeling ashamed of my honest accounts of a trip I didn’t want to take taken two days after the death of my grandmother. Probably the first really true-to-myself thing I ever wrote — struggling to fit in, struggling to live up to expectations under which I struggle to this day — tossed away because a teacher told me it was too honest.

I kept the Washington DC journal, but I didn’t pack it up and bring it to California. I didn’t even crack it open and read it.

Why should I? It’s just a big fat lie, and I even knew it when I was 11 years old.

January 5th, 2007

Relics, Part 2: The Ice Cream Notebook

Two quick bits of Other News:

1. Winston ate an entire sample of eye cream last night.

2. I’m about to start a scrappy quilt… Only 320 more scraps before I can start piecing.

* * * * *

Continuing the series about my childhood home and the few items left behind… Probably the one thing I was most excited to find (because The Play has been safely with me in California for years now) was my third grade creative writing notebook.

That was the first year anyone encouraged us to write narrative pieces. You might say I jumped right in. Reading back through these is an exercise in bewilderment, humility, and wonder. There is also a little compassion for the class and teacher who had to hear me read these out loud.

The notebook itself is a simple wirebound notebook with a pink border surrounding a surreal field of ice cream cones in a sea of ice water (I don’t know who would do this to an ice cream cone, but that’s neither here nor there). Shiny cherries fall from the sky, unbound by the geography of the pink border. Across the bottom, in fuschia, are the words “Fantasy Freeze (TM)”. The price tag indicates that it was purchased at SuperX for $1.39. The back cover has a diagram of how a computer network is configured, which I’m sure was on the minds of all the girls lining up to buy Fantasy Freeze (TM) notebooks. At the top of the cover, someone wrote katie [sic] in permanent ink.

Inside, the stories start small and pick up steam. Reading them, I get the strangest sense about this third-grade child who felt compelled to create sprawling epic stories, most involving ponies (???), carefully using all of her friends’ names (an important political move, considering these were read aloud in class — like calling the radio station in 7th grade and saying good night to your loser friends AND the popular kids who don’t even know who you are), and a striking affinity for naming streets. Anytime someone goes anywhere, the entire route is documented.

Third grade was one of the last years of real, unpredictable transition in my early life; my divorced parents were asset-swapping and I don’t really remember where I lived that year or the years before. But in my stories, everyone has a home. And usually five or six siblings, a whole mess of friends, and loving parents who say the darnedest things.

And at least one pony.

Selected Excerpts

Me Myself and I
an autobiographical piece
“And I can’t forget to say my brother and sister are brats.”

Fee Fi Fo Fum
a fairy tale about a pretty girl who apparently has short-term memory problems
“One day on her walk she heard Jim the faithful paper boy anybody could count on. She walked right on past until she hear the words Jason Olen missing! Oh help she screamed running bloody murder!”

“My are you beautiful darling. I was born with it she said in a dazed voice.”

Ribbons the Pony
searching for a new home for a retiring circus pony
“The auction was all day and everyone was sweating by the time it was over. But Ribbons had not been sold so they went door to door but no one had room for a pony.”

“She already met the girl that helped her up because she fell on the pebbely road she couldn’t help laughing at herself she didn’t ballance good on her bike.” <-- ripped from the headlines is that right there

What I love about this one is that it’s three pages of a little girl named Nancy scheming and scheming to get her dad to buy Ribbons, and at the end I throw in the fact that they also bought another pony.

The Show Pony
a theme we’ve seen before
“Maybe said his little girl that hated the horse maybe the leather maker will take her [the farmer says] I don’t want to see her go but we cannot offord to keep her. or the other horses but I won’t sell them.”

I want to know what’s so great about the other horses. In the end, the leather maker does not take Sparkle; another farmer takes her, renames her Rebal, and trains her to work with wild animals.

A Most Unusual Pet
This story is five pages of talking about my friends and naming streets in a quest to find a Halloween costume. In the last paragraph, when the main character has decided to be a rock star, the mop she is planning to use as a wig comes to life and she is left with a MOST UNUSUAL PET.

Okay, that’s probably enough self-indulgent blogging for today.

Next in the series: My seventh grade I-Search paper.

January 4th, 2007