Subdued Intrinsic

Personal Notes: My husband fell in love with me when we were both thirteen. I used to pace between the aisles of desk every morning in our homeroom. I've always paced/wandered around while talking on the phone, too. We're thirty now. Today, I realized pacing is contagious, because he was totally strolling around our yard on his cell phone.

Husbands: I paces them.

I had at least three subjects to bring up earlier. And they were helpful, great subjects. I got zip, now. Can't remember jack. It's like somewhere between then and now I put my brain back into the jar of ichor on my bedside table. Why is that? How come I only come up with the good stuff when my body is too occupied with the mundane to allow the writerly part of my brain access to a keyboard? I personally think it has something to do with circulation. I bet I'd be in trouble during channel surfing if I were a boy.

I vaguely remember having a new take on the whole, "Why Do I Write YA?" subject, but wouldn't you know it, in a completely unknowing kind of way, the awesome Mrs. Susan Adrian beat me to it. I can picture what I was doing when I thought if it, even, but that's about it. I need a push pin to stick into my cranial site map.

So, until I figure out what it what I wanted to say, this is what you're getting. I promise to be more interesting, just as soon as I figure out how to get all that literary blood out of my toes and back into my finger tips where it belongs.

Also? I think the letter "P" may be involved.

What? Sesame Street was an important part of my childhood.