Well, Jenny, that more than anything I could ever tell myself convinces me that getting something accepted has very little to do with whether what I write is good or crap, it has more to do with whether the person in charge of accepting is a moron. You obviously got a rejection meant for some other poor schlub and they're still waiting to hear. In. Sane. Congrats on your acceptance, tho. Is it print or online?
I'm feeling very smug this morning because I scraped, primed, and painted the trim and both garage doors over the past 2 days all by myself. I enjoyed it, which was a surprise, and I didn't get tired or sore, which proves that I really am benefiting from working out, also a surprise. (I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I'm a slow learner.) I didn't replace any of the fuzzy, driveway-salt-eaten wood or fix the places that Mom drove into and busted the (fake) wood, but at least it's all one color and looks good from a distance. Yesterday before I painted Durwood and I drove up the peninsula to Duvall and had some of the best burgers in captivity. Joe Rouer's is a little corner bar with legendary burgers, has been for decades, before and after a fire, even after Joe and Mrs. Joe are gone, so we moseyed up and got us a couple. It was worth every mile. Yum.
This hasn't been a very write-y weekend (I've been busy painting) so what's below is all you get. Sorry.
September 5--Andaman Islands, India. The beach went on forever. It was the soft powdery kind of sand that felt so good on your feet. Dale sat with her knees tucked up and her arms wrapped around them watching the dark shadows of sharks patrolling along the beach. No one was swimming. It would have been suicide to plunge splashing and thrashing into the warm salt water. Yes, it was hot but it was infinitely better to be hot than to be chewed up into bits and end up as a shark's lunch.
See? Not anywhere near my best. Try to forgive me.
--Barbara
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