It's raining, and I don't feel like walking to the libary to return my overdue books. I'm also procratinating on working on my novel's final rewrite. I know I need more plot points, but putting in all these fake obstacles for the heroine to have to overcome feels so fake and artificial to me. I'm of the opinion that art should mirror life. Life isn't a series of plot points. YET, if you don't have a million of them in there, agents and editors turn their back to you. So I'm making myself read a book on plot IF I can find a good one, amongst the millions out there.
In the meantime, I'm a fountain of useless information. Like, did you know Shirley Maclain is Warren Beatty's sister? OR, my Birkenstocks are about ready to turn 19 years old.
Here's some scribbles from my journal last night:
"Write Lauren Bacall before she biffs it," "Was Andy Kaufmann making fun of Ukranians in his role on Taxi?" "I'd be a perfect wife for a closeted gay man," and "Why are they always mad-looking and fighting in the middle east but never in Norway?"
Pretty damn facinating, I am.
Bennie had a bad day yesterday. He fell asleep on the couch, wearing his hoodie, had an apparently aggressive dream, then fell off, hitting the hard wood floor. He's OK, but he's barred from sleeping up there.
What else? Well, another dude is writing me. He lives in the Black Hills and is very interesting. I can't say more than that because the minute I do, it gets jinxed and he disappears.
But I've got my fingers crossed.
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