According to the Tao of Pooh, the book writes itself. Okie dokie.
In the meantime, let me stew in the toxic juices of envy and jealousy as I continuously come across the names of people who were either on my birthday party invite lists or in the school attendance register in large print, fine print - just in print.
I seriously doubt there's a book inside of me. Frustrated and sadistic people end up being editors. Correction - motivated and frustrated and et. al.
I probably won't publish this post. Only Coleridge could get away with being high on bhung and getting his work published and deemed readable.
My mum and I were recalling the daffodils and roses in Morden today. Almost springtime. Easter. Cadbury's creme eggs (I romanticize, I never really liked the taste of them, give me a Kinder egg any day). I was thinking of daisy chains the other day. It always goes back to that. I can sum up my entire memories of my childhood (at least in the spring/summer) under the headings of
the wooden fort and wooden chips
daisy chains
the iced bun I had to share with someone to whom I wasn't even related because her own cousins were too damned selfish
ladybugs
talking to the tree in the back garden. Because I was just that bored.
Now if only my mum had been a 'soccer mom'. Instead, she was a Madressah mum and look how I turned out. I don't even recite nawhas! The measure of any genuine Shi'a, right? Rambling here.
Now if I could only remember the damned title of that novel. It was such a good one. And I just didn't write down the damned title. It was about this man who wakes up blind and doesn't know how it happened. But he gets along with things and figures his way round and why he was beaten up and the lack of money and it was so good, a proper internal monologue type of a novel (before I knew what that was) and my A level college had three copies of it and now I can't remember the damned title. It was a British author though - well, that narrows it down a bit, don't it? Gah. It would be fun to write something like that.
All I am capable of is: the world is going to hell. Gah.
I am definitely not a writer. I'd have written something already, had I been one. I keep getting emails or naseehatein from well meaning people that i should join one of those essay writing services. Yeah, right.
In the meantime, let me stew in the toxic juices of envy and jealousy as I continuously come across the names of people who were either on my birthday party invite lists or in the school attendance register in large print, fine print - just in print.
I seriously doubt there's a book inside of me. Frustrated and sadistic people end up being editors. Correction - motivated and frustrated and et. al.
I probably won't publish this post. Only Coleridge could get away with being high on bhung and getting his work published and deemed readable.
My mum and I were recalling the daffodils and roses in Morden today. Almost springtime. Easter. Cadbury's creme eggs (I romanticize, I never really liked the taste of them, give me a Kinder egg any day). I was thinking of daisy chains the other day. It always goes back to that. I can sum up my entire memories of my childhood (at least in the spring/summer) under the headings of
the wooden fort and wooden chips
daisy chains
the iced bun I had to share with someone to whom I wasn't even related because her own cousins were too damned selfish
ladybugs
talking to the tree in the back garden. Because I was just that bored.
Now if only my mum had been a 'soccer mom'. Instead, she was a Madressah mum and look how I turned out. I don't even recite nawhas! The measure of any genuine Shi'a, right? Rambling here.
Now if I could only remember the damned title of that novel. It was such a good one. And I just didn't write down the damned title. It was about this man who wakes up blind and doesn't know how it happened. But he gets along with things and figures his way round and why he was beaten up and the lack of money and it was so good, a proper internal monologue type of a novel (before I knew what that was) and my A level college had three copies of it and now I can't remember the damned title. It was a British author though - well, that narrows it down a bit, don't it? Gah. It would be fun to write something like that.
All I am capable of is: the world is going to hell. Gah.
I am definitely not a writer. I'd have written something already, had I been one. I keep getting emails or naseehatein from well meaning people that i should join one of those essay writing services. Yeah, right.
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