Writing Wrongs

October 24, 2004

Andrew, Kyra, and I hit the grocery store when Bob is away on business. We need our survival food. Andrew needs snacks for school. We need dessert.

Since it’s also autumn, we also need one of those “fresh from the harvest” paper bags of apples. As we wandered the aisles looking for such necessities as Pokemon Mac and Cheese and square pizza, Kyra reached into the back of the cart, grabbed an apple, and took a bite.

When we got home, I asked Andrew to share the desecrated apple with Kyra before it went bad. Without being told, he got out a butter knife, pulled out a cutting board, and sliced the apple so she could eat it. He even cleaned up after himself.

I was so proud. Kyra was thrilled her brother had fixed her an apple.

Later, they were playing quietly together and Andrew called me over.

“Look, Mommy! Look how I fixed her hair.”

He had, very nicely, too, with it all swept back from her face.

“I’m going to try another,” he said.

(Don’t read further if you’ve just eaten and/or have a weak stomach.)

He hauled off and spat into his hands.

He was fixing her hair with his own spit.

And I’m supposed to write deathless prose after something like that.

Yeah. Right.

I won’t even mention how thanks to the chocolate ice cream sundaes, our Dalmatian now has liver spots in addition to the black ones.

Writing Progress: See the part about the spit. Actually, I ended up judging an extra entry for the Stiletto contest, so my reading and writing time went to that today. I did do some work on an article for my web site on creating “soundtracks” for novels. As “research” Kyra and I spent time surfing LAUNCHcast. Her favorite songs so far? Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones, and Thank God I’m a Country Boy by John Denver.

Charity Tahmaseb wrote at 8:24 p.m.