When short on words...meme!

Honestly, people, where HAS my blogging voice gone? I couldn't even find a way to work through the Sunday Scribbling post this week...and the word was wicked. WICKED, people. I love that word. I can use it as a noun, an adjective, and possibly even a verb. I am steeped in wicked. And yet...nothing.

Even though Madam fills my days with profound love and occasionally aching frustration, I seem to lack that gift that turns those events into charming, bloggable stories.

I would love to say that my thoughts are tumbling ever forth, like a rushing river, but powering movement towards my novel instead of my happy blog. And actually, that's not entirely far from the truth. While I am not exactly writing, per se, I am plotting again--immersing myself in the world of my novel to such an extent that I am beginning, slowly, to hear their voices again. And to have more of a sense of what they are doing, and why I care about what they are doing.

Now, I just need to tell myself the story of how it ends, and then I can go back to the work of putting one word after another. For some reason, I can't write anything until I have a pretty clear idea about the ending. Anyone else have this problem? Have you discovered a workaround?

Thanks to the lovely Kate, I can pretend I have something to say.

Eight things about me:

1) I hear music in my head ALL DAY LONG. It's my radio. I just finished a book that referred to it as the "jingle channel" and mentioned that no psychologist has really bothered to study it.

2) So now, of course, I want to study it.

3) Unfortunately, I also have a "horror channel"--where I see all sorts of Gothic horrors surprising me in dark closets, narrow hallways, etc. Sometimes I think my true talent must lie in horror writing, but then I am afraid that I'll be MORE afraid all of the time.

4) Since starting this blog, I have completely changed my mind about one thing--I no longer believe that our present lives need to be negatively impacted by our upbringing. I still write about my childhood and my parents, but more in the service of the stories themselves, instead of looking at them as some sort of a Master Key that will "fix" my life.

5) That being said, I am still looking for that "Master Key" that will fix my life.

6) I take out entirely too many books from the library, and then feel guilty and stressed that I can't finish them. Then, I return a bunch unread, feel virtuous for a bit, and repeat the whole cycle again.

7) I came very very close to working for a literary erotica publisher in New York--the same publisher who put out Henry Miller's novels. I actually got to have a long talk with the man himself. The publisher. Not Henry Miller.

8) At the height of the breakdancing craze, I hired a friend of the family to teach the rudiments. I was all about 10 years old.

Bonus! 9) As of today, alas, I cannot break dance. But I can do a mean Worm, if you get me drunk enough.

Tagging: Jessie, Emmie, Heather, and, uh, YOU, if you want to play!