Nothing beats going into the world, and how many of us really do? I have friends and fellow writers who had no clue what a so-called "wife beater" undershirt was. I have friends who don't know anyone who is black or gay or poor.
So Friday night we take the MBTA into town for a concert. Left with plenty of time to spare which was quickly eaten up by a wreck on I-95, where someone had been rear-ended. A long wait for the subway. Lots of people going to the Celtics game. We are quite obviously the only couple headed for Symphony Hall.
At Park Street a young Chinese man asks which train goes to Symphony Hall. We must look like we know, which, of course, we do. Train takes forever, too. Hustle up three flights of stairs from the MBTA station, and are shown to our seats with about one minute to spare. Glad I work out.
Nice all Mozart-Beethoven concert. The orchestra really has to break a sweat on the Prometheus Overture and the 8th Symphony. Mozart more sprightly. Good crowd. Nowadays, one worries about the arts.
During intermission I eavesdrop shamelessly on the tales of the woman behind me who also went to New Hampshire (and Ohio) to ring doorbells for Obama. There was an army of unlikely types to went forth and canvassed.
We have dessert at Brasserie Jo, still crowded at 10:00 p.m. Economy has not totally tanked, and lots of young people are in the restaurant. S.O. orders the bread pudding and I take a slice of lemon tart with fresh berries. Delicous. Berries salve conscience.
Back on the T. We wait forever at Park Street. The game is over and the Celtics won. Crowd in a good mood. A group of young ladies (teenagers) en route back to Quincy. They remind us of some of the girls in Quinceneara, the movie we watched last night. A group of eight, all very different, and they are having fun.
So Friday night we take the MBTA into town for a concert. Left with plenty of time to spare which was quickly eaten up by a wreck on I-95, where someone had been rear-ended. A long wait for the subway. Lots of people going to the Celtics game. We are quite obviously the only couple headed for Symphony Hall.
At Park Street a young Chinese man asks which train goes to Symphony Hall. We must look like we know, which, of course, we do. Train takes forever, too. Hustle up three flights of stairs from the MBTA station, and are shown to our seats with about one minute to spare. Glad I work out.
Nice all Mozart-Beethoven concert. The orchestra really has to break a sweat on the Prometheus Overture and the 8th Symphony. Mozart more sprightly. Good crowd. Nowadays, one worries about the arts.
During intermission I eavesdrop shamelessly on the tales of the woman behind me who also went to New Hampshire (and Ohio) to ring doorbells for Obama. There was an army of unlikely types to went forth and canvassed.
We have dessert at Brasserie Jo, still crowded at 10:00 p.m. Economy has not totally tanked, and lots of young people are in the restaurant. S.O. orders the bread pudding and I take a slice of lemon tart with fresh berries. Delicous. Berries salve conscience.
Back on the T. We wait forever at Park Street. The game is over and the Celtics won. Crowd in a good mood. A group of young ladies (teenagers) en route back to Quincy. They remind us of some of the girls in Quinceneara, the movie we watched last night. A group of eight, all very different, and they are having fun.
Friday we watched Rabbit Proof Fence. Both good movies. No explosions. We do not always have to go out into the World to go into the world.
Yesterday I went to a meeting, and I'll preserve the anonymity, because there was a panel about self-publishing and unfortunately, I knew more than most of the panellists. Two of them had spent a combined amount of $50,000 to self-publish, which is beyond most writer's budgets. This was all non-fiction, and some of the advice was so bad. They did not even mention Print On Demand.
Yesterday I went to a meeting, and I'll preserve the anonymity, because there was a panel about self-publishing and unfortunately, I knew more than most of the panellists. Two of them had spent a combined amount of $50,000 to self-publish, which is beyond most writer's budgets. This was all non-fiction, and some of the advice was so bad. They did not even mention Print On Demand.
Some comments:
"I didn't hire an editor because I didn't want anyone changing my words." "Just get it out there, and you can fix it in the next edition." "I only found out what a literary agent is this morning."
Oh my god. The panels at Crimebake, which eschews the mere mention of self-publishing as being beyond the pale, are more entertaining and certainly better-informed about whatever the topic may be.
Came home to the rest of the Garbure, wherein the cabbage had disappeared, but the potatoes seemed to come to the fore. Tonight I'm roasting a chicken and we have fresh cranberries and acorn squash. Baked apples for dessert. See photos. These are dynamite apples, and a) don't break the bank and b) may even be good for you. What ho!
Grapeshot
"I didn't hire an editor because I didn't want anyone changing my words." "Just get it out there, and you can fix it in the next edition." "I only found out what a literary agent is this morning."
Oh my god. The panels at Crimebake, which eschews the mere mention of self-publishing as being beyond the pale, are more entertaining and certainly better-informed about whatever the topic may be.
Came home to the rest of the Garbure, wherein the cabbage had disappeared, but the potatoes seemed to come to the fore. Tonight I'm roasting a chicken and we have fresh cranberries and acorn squash. Baked apples for dessert. See photos. These are dynamite apples, and a) don't break the bank and b) may even be good for you. What ho!
Grapeshot
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