I found out a few minutes ago that my application to Rogers was accepted. I'd go enroll right now if the roads weren't so damned scary. Someone called into the news a while ago to say that they were driving behind a sand truck -- because, you know, the safest place to be on icy roads, if you can't be in a sand truck or a snow plow, would be behind either of the two, right? -- when said sand truck lost control and plowed into a semi. Yeesh.

So instead I'm staying put, eating my mom's fresh baked gingerbread cookies, which are quite excellent with tea, and trying to resist the urge to go lose myself in tasteless daytime television. I'm trying to do writerly things, because, after all, I do claim to be a writer, even though I haven't felt much like one lately.

Miscellaneous poetic entries found in an old journal (first in a series):

The subtlety of who I am hides behind the flamboyance of what I want to be.

Yeah, I don't know what that means either.

And a couple of poems...

A promise is broken,
A vow is shattered,
Forgiveness
Cannot be found.

Faith is lost,
Love is battered,
Hope is not around.

Rings mean nothing,
Merely trinkets;
Dreams are crushed on the ground.

Forever means nothing.
The circle is broken;
It's no longer perfectly round.

Geez. Uplifting much? No? How 'bout this one then?

Why, Father,
Do you make things so hard,
Giving me only inches
When I give you yards?
Springing like a steel trap
Each time I try
To find my own way--
Won't you cut the tie
That keeps me in the nest?
I'm doing my best,
But you must give me
Freedom to fly.

I remember when I wrote that last one. I was twenty years old, it was about a week or two before I would move to Norman to attend OU, so I still lived at home. It was around midnight, and I was up, doing whatever it is that twenty-year-olds do around midnight in their parents' house, when my dad came home from work. The first thing he did upon arriving home was storm back to my room, pound on the door until I opened it, then curse me out for still being up at that hour. Reminding him that I was twenty years old, hadn't had a bed time for at least three years, and had no reason to get up in the morning only made him angrier. He shouted something about his house, his rules, he'd be g-damned if I didn't respect them, or I'd be out on my ass, yada yada, then he stood there and watched until I got into bed and turned out my light. I remember laying there, afraid to move or make a sound, until he I could hear the sound of him snoring over the television, then I got up and locked my door, lit a candle to write by, and wrote a frantic journal entry about running away from home, then became indignant over the thought that I was twenty years old and considering running away from home. I scribbled that poem after I'd calmed down considerably.

I loved my dad. Really.

Anyway.

I had the best intentions of trying to finish (or get real close to finishing) my manuscript re-writes today, but when I saved those chapters off of my work PC I forgot to put them in a format that my crap-top could handle, so that's a no go. Then I tried to work on a few of my many other works-in-progress, but the words just wouldn't come. Now I think I have the glimmerings of a new story floating around my brain, but I think this one prefers to be handwritten. I think I'll go work on that now. Right after I go get some more cookies and tea.