I should be transcribing and writing stories. I should be taking Arnold to the vet and for a walk after (or before). I should be trying to make some sense of this swirling mass of entropy that is my room.
Instead I am reading Jane Vandenburgh's Architecture of the Novel. With an introduction by Anne Lamott. Who says:
Jane is brilliant, lovely, difficult, dark, aglow and dangerous, rascally and sad, hilarious, spontaneous and talkative, with deep curiosity and lots of attitude. She might and almost certainly will say anything that crosses her mind. Maybe you have always dreamt that one day you, too, might capture your own version of this, on paper, both to help you figure out what your version even is, and in order to give it away.
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