Last night, while I was working–aka playing Bookworm–William jumped into my lap. Fortunately, the camera was within reach, so I was able to document the adjustments he made searching for the perfect position of repose.
Note on Position #1: What looks like a spot of mange near his tail is merely the result of being rubbed too hard, too often, in the same place. He approves mightily of the petting, but I’m afraid to withstand even a Texas winter, he will require a pair of pantaloons.
How could The New Yorker reject the writer who coined the word concubineapple? And who had the nerve to use that word in her letter of application?
See what other qualifications Ms Welty offered her potential employer at Letters of Note: “How I Would Like to Work for You!”
Image by Billy Hathorn (National Portrait Gallery, public domain.) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons
“Do you remember when you learned to read, or like me, can you not even remember a time when you didn’t know how?” ~ Harper Lee, in a letter to Oprah Winfrey
Letters of Note
I am at a writing retreat with two critique friends, deep in the heart of Texas. Have been here since 11:30 this morning. Two other writers arrive tomorrow.
Have written some fiction for me, some nonfiction for my friend Em. Before e-mailing Em’s to her, I read over it, as every conscientious writer knows she should, and discovered the nonfiction may be more fictional than the fiction.
Em will just have to deal with that.
I am tired. Fatigued. Exhausted.
And the phone will ring at 8:00 in the morning.
I shall retreat to my bed, where I shall dream about sweaters.
Sunday’s expected high–66 F.
Things are finally looking up.