I wish I had my scribble book, I'd write some more on my story. I need to develop my main character somehow. This is something I have very little experience with. For all the years that I wrote poetry, characters were not an issue. It was ideas, emotions, impressions, longings, all very nebulous as far as plot and person. I was the character! How am I supposed to get inside someone else's head?
One can only guess.
I am beginning to be filled with admiration for anyone who writes a novel. And at the moment am ashamed I criticized J. K. Rowling’s writing style to a friend the other day. Hey, at least she got that thing down on paper! That's certainly more than I can say. So you think you can write a novel? Well maybe you can, but trust me, it's hard going. Oops! I said the “n” word. I should be like Harry Potter who goes around saying Voldemort’s name out loud. I should just say, "I'm working on a novel.” As if it wasn't one of the scariest things I've ever tried.
Anyway I'm still stuck here in the back room having been deposed by a visiting superior. But the good news is I'm helping my friend R. who is trying to decipher and transcribe doctor’s FUBAR’ed handwriting. I just looked up something in the dictionary for her called canthitis. Which means inflammation of the canthus and the canthus is the corner of your eyelid. Now aren’t you happy you read this today? You learned a new word! Where else on deardiary do you get such an opportunity? You have obviously landed in the right place. Lucky you !
I am going now to see if my desk is free. I sure hope they stayed out of my tootsie roll stash. . .
Later. . .