For the three of you out there who read my Editors notes; stand by for a confession. I can’t spell. This simple fact astonishes people when I announce it at reading engagements. Brain damage at an early age caused memory damage. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. As a matter of fact, I discuss it in my third book, The Lost Journal of my Second Trips to Purgatory. Which was also read by three people.
Not only am I, a bad speller, but I am pure rubbish at punctuation. My husband calls me the Comma Queen. I will go along not using any commas, suddenly realize my lack, and throw sixteen of them into the next sentence to catch up. But you see I am aware of theses short comings and I am judicious about copy editing by an innocent third party. Usually my husband or the college educated daughter. I stress college educated as it cost me so much money, to get a back up copy-editor.
I’ve always been extremely embarrassed by this lack of ability especially, given my chosen career, writing. But I no longer hang my head, draped in shame, as the highest home in the land, our beloved White House has embraced the linguistic ability of a third grader. Suddenly my failings are the celebrated topic of hundreds of Facebook memes. Finally, at the advanced age of sixty-two, I’ve arrived. I’m part of the in-crowd.
Wow, don’t we have something to be proud of! At least I seem to. So, to all my beloved English Teachers out there, who don’t read this anyway, I stand unrepentant in all my ignorant glory. (BTW hubby was at work and couldn’t edit this so it’s going up raw as the kids say). (Well, I did make the little red words go away.)
Loving this new era!
Things must be in this order then: Opinion, size, age, shape, color, noun. And so on. It is an easy enough thing to remember. Sweet small young round brown bear. The mnemonics of our lives. Don’t say it another way. You will be made…
To be distrustful of questions is the best way to translate three ravens clustered in front of a house I was considering buying. Even just a few months ago I would have steeped the moment with symbolism. The sheen of wing. Their beaded eyes…
It is a cave we can only see at low-tide, the moss drifting like the hair of drowned mermaids, the sea-stars clinging futilely to the rocks.