Snow White, Marianne Stokes
Where are my words? Why aren’t they golden? Silver? Brass? Why are they clay? But clay can be shaped, baked, glazed and painted. Clay can have strength and symmetry and tell a story as subtle as light. I know that Loose Daddy will require several rewrites. I can feel it in the voiceless words that are not good enough, in the words that ought to be said, the words that wait to be written, but are still lost in the silence of thought.
Met with Janet yesterday. We reviewed our progress over shrimp fajitas. I had my usual Cadillac margarita. Afterward, made a stop at Patricia’s, chin wagged for a while, and she loaned me Cocaine Chronicles, an anthology of narcotic-themed tales, edited by Gary Phillips and Jervey Tervalon. Read it last night, and the only story I disliked was Nina Revoyr’s Golden Pacific. Well written, but the awfulness of human perversity contained in the story disgusted me and made me sad. I didn’t enjoy it with the same open-minded sensibility as I did the others. The most beautifully written and poignant story in the book is Susan Straight’s Poinciana.
Have my spa appointment at 11 this morning and I am looking forward to hours of pampering, to sending the mind on a little vacation.