A few hours ago I sat down to write... wait, holy cats, is that the time? Well then. Quite a few hours ago I sat down to write and thought to myself, this is the day. The day I will speak of on junkets; the day I will exaggerate in my memoir; the day Ms. Atwood will praise, weeping, as the single most important day in Canadian lit-rit-choor. Today is the day I begin the greatest novel ever written.
But first I'll just open these innocent emails from treasured friends and instead spend an age and a half joyfully reading about pasteurization and grammar and extinct letters of the English alphabet. I will completely lose track of that whispering voice in the back of my mind that has followed me for weeks, teasing me with a cast of characters who have haunted my dreams and clouded my waking moments but who for now take a back seat to the knowledge that we used to have a letter pronounced "thorn" and that the European Union produces nearly 9 million metric tonnes of cheese annually. Such knowledge gives me shivers of enjoyment despite the fact that I have gone yet another entire day without writing a single word worthy of Dame Atwood's sobbing accolades.
Bugger.
So to these distant and treasured friends I will say thank you here on this blog and not, as it turns out, in the dedication to my soon (or possibly never at this rate) to be written novel.
For M.C. and Tara. Who really should know better.
