and in every home
Lovely dream last night about making salsa. Grinding up chiles, chopping onions, pressing garlic, pouring in the tomato puree. I could have done it for hours.
Let me talk, briefly, about National Novel Writing Month. I apologize to those readers who read a lot of weblogs, since I know this is old hat by now, but then the Workshop has a right to know. Everyone on the Web, it seems, is writing a novel right now. The idea is to get 50,000 words by the end of November. Participants include Toadex Hobogrammathon at dagmar_chili, whose novel is already completed here (it will perplex you); Geegaw's enigmatic A. (just hit five figures, looks like); and Lauren/Proleptic who, like me, will disclose nothing about her current project except that she doesn't like it. The idea is that when the novel is done nobody even reads it unless you want them to; they verify word count and delete it. Kind of like our MFA theses. Onward! Onward, all!
Marlowe is coming over for soup. That's what he said, anyway. I had better shower.
