Today it rained. We went to the bookstore, a recurring (and possibly our only) vice. If one has to have an addiction, let this be it. Although it would help to have more bookshelves, walls and walls of them, empty and waiting to be filled, like earth before rain. I bought a collection of novellas by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Outside the air smells faintly of autumn. An odor of moistness and leaf-mold. Squelchy, drippy pattering sounds, and cars splashing through small lakes on the road's edge. I am writing a story about claustrophobia, the illusory nature of reality, a supercomputer engaged in the grandmother of all calculations and a woman with voices in her head. Good stuff, but like wet clay it needs to be shaped and molded so that it transcends mere lumpiness and becomes art. I hope I shall succeed in this endeavor.
posted by Vandana 9:29 PM
. . .