One of my classmates, the one I suddenly discovered is actually kind of hilarious to tease, was telling me yestereve that he was going to spend his summer "finishing my novel." And my impulse at that moment was to pull all his hair out from his nostrils and rub his sternum with sand paper and bark in his ears THAT'S WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO GET TO DO WITH MY SUMMER! I SAID MY SUMMER! DO YOU HEAR ME? MY NOVEL MY SUMMER MY TURRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN. But instead I just gave him a high-five, like a white girl does, meaning I kind of missed his hand.
I've been getting up at 6 a.m. to write my thesis. Meaning I've done it once, on Monday, and it was beautiful. The birds were twittering their motivational thesis fight song, and my head was so clear I could write a symphony with my eyes closed and I can't wait to do it again tomorrow.
After I put this thesis to bed, I'm dying to work on my novel. Meaning the one in my head, about all those multi-faceted characters that I've been inventing throughout my life who are going to intersect in a way that is masterfully orchestrated by my brilliant machinations. I can practically read the acclaims that will cascade across the hardcover stock: "Stanton Lee writes with sensitivity and charm; her words are like nymphs alighting their scattered flight in a deep rich forest of plot...she is the Frank McCourt of her generation...." ***
But for the rest of the day, what I really want to do stock my freezer with Fla-vor-ICE and find some girlish flip flops and summer skirts online. Hang with my two favorite people and pursue literary narcissism another day.