myrtle

I'm working on a book that talks about sex and destruction and magic. Isn't that what the world is made of? Maybe I'll finish it, maybe I won't. That seems like how things go lately and I like it.
I work with a hilarious older man writing his novel as well. I'm editing my grandfathers book as well.
Busy.

When I'm not doing those things, I volunteer with a middle school that is full of these beautiful and terrible children who I work to teach how to write and express themselves. Some of them love it, one in particular who raises her hand and answers all my questions and asks intelligent questions and writes sweet poetry about toy buffaloes. Some of the boys are sweet and intelligent, but I wonder if their questions are more about writing and creativity, or if they're more a ploy to bring me over to their little desks to smell my grown up teacher perfume.

Whatever the case, it's fun. I'm having fun. I get to spend almost all my time with my baby face and I get to write and I get to take long walks in the sunshine. Life seems to be working out well.

This is what I looked like on Valentines day before teaching my excited little kiddins and making them make each other friendship bracelets. Sometimes I think that I've looked the same since the day I was born.