November is a month without a rep. The Great Pumpkin has forsaken us again, and left us drunk, wet, and cold, shivering in the pumpkin patch to welcome All Saints' Day alone. Kris Kringle is still many weeks away, with his thin reeded pipe, his coal-black boots, his snowy evenings, and his merry freaking self.
What does November have? The broad-breasted white turkey? Perhaps one of the stupidest birds around, bred only for the bodaciousness of its white meat? The hand? That which we all, as children, transmogrified into a rainbow colored version of the aforementioned whitey?
Really, it's not much.
So, as I spend most of this month making up sentences to turn into a novel that many people don't believe is possible, I won't be posting much. After all, what is there to say in November?
2 comments:
Trudging along with you...6700 words down. Or as I like to think, over 10% of the goal.
It's real, real bad, but that's OK.
I'll let you be bitter, as you are slogging away on the novel.
However, let's remember that November has pie, stuffing, a bird that can run really really fast, perhaps holiday shopping if it suits you, and, um, a HOLIDAY FOR GIVING THANKS. Crikey, it's getting dark earlier and I have a little one to provide enriching experiences for on these colder and darker days so can we get a little optimism here?!
Admit it: It's really that you're upset that baseball is over. And that it ended in the way that it did. That drama that I don't have an appreciation for ended up cliche this time around. Tired and old, that ending.
Anon AMVB
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