Don't go, I'm here! But what do you want me to say?

I find myself surrounded by people who seem to far surpass me in literary ability and general amazingness, and it's rather fun. I mean, to listen to people like me with all these new ideas and poems and sentences that make me step back and say, "Wow, that was amazing," is pretty amazing in and of itself.

And me?

Well, it's like Robert Frost said: "Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things." I do have my moments-- sometimes I write something and I love it so much that I tack it on the wall-turned-bulletin-board in the attic. In fact,just last week I sent something on a trip through the mail and to an editor's hands, hoping that maybe they'll like it as much as I do. But then, like always, there are the intervals. The times when nothing comes out and it seems like nothing will for forever. No words, no ideas, nada nada limonada. A drought.

Right now it's raining both words and real rain, so I'm happy. There was an enormously loud thunderclap a few hours ago (the one that spawned the million Facebook statuses that read "OMG the thunder is sooo scary did u hear ittt?") and lightning that reminded me of an old-fashioned flash camera. It didn't really scare me, but because I was high up in the attic I decided to sit under my desk. I'm not exactly sure what I thought it would do for me if any celestial electricity were to get inside, but it was a good idea in the end. I sat there long after I finished my homework and typed up a few pages of a story, all thanks to thunder.

Ta da!

So it looks like I did have something to say after all. And later on, when real things happen to me and real thoughts pop into my head like a five-year-old munchkin pops their finger into a cake, I'll post it.

Stay tuned, people.

P.S. I know you're reading this Nellie-- you made my day twice in one day, which has got to be some kind of record. Long live paper!

You Are Cordially Invited to the Puddle's Grand Reopening

Don't complain about the small words-- the typed version is at the end of this post!

In the tradition of an especially ol NaNoWriMo pep talk, I'm going retro and hand writing this post instead of typing it. I've been wrting again-- real poems-- and they've all been hand written. Ther's something intensely gratifing about writing something down, rereading it fifteen times, taking a red pen to it, and putting it in neat, perfect type only when the words are perfect themselves. Make sense?

I was reading Time magazine yesterday, adn there was this article about Kindle vs. nook, and it ended by sayng both e-readers are going to be obsolete soon anyways, so it doesn't matter. YES! I cheer, but my exultation is waaay premature. The only reason for this extinction: Apple's new Tablet, the all-in-one e-reader/notebook/laptop thng that will revolutionize LIFE.

So now Apple is taking over the world. Great. (*Side note: yes, I have and iPhone. Apple is ok in small doses.)

Anyways. WE've redecorated the upstairs, so now it has actual working lights and a little sofa, plus a corner that I've turned into my writing "office". It's really just my magnetic poetry board and a wall I've turned into a bulletin board, but it's till my space-- my corner, my Little Women-esque garret. It's nice.

It's night time, but I feel pretty sunny. Things are still going right-- for now, at least. Usually i'm always thinking about two years from now, about Boston and snow and people who say stuff like "wicked good chowdah", (which is seriously what one of the waitresses told us about the clam chowder when I was last in Boston). But surprisingly, I'm ok where I am. No fast-forward button required.