(Note (8/30/2011): When I publish new posts, I find myself unable to resist tinkering with the old ones. Do you do this, too? Just changing words here or there, reshaping the sentences? This is why a lot of writers hate blogging, I think. Because nothing ever has to be "finished." I've always wanted to create a writer character who breaks into libraries late at night, rips pages from his books, slashes out sentences, never able to let the story stand still. This is sort of what it feels like for me as a blogger, this constant revision, without all the hassle excitement of breaking and entering. And the worst part is I'm pretty sure I don't make anything better. But anyway, I've decided that if I'm going to come snooping around with my little flashlight after the fact, I'll at least leave some record of what I've changed, with slashes or different colored text. I'm not sure why, other than it might be interesting to observe over time. Hopefully it's not distracting. Now onto the story. Sorry.)
Fun little story. On my original Spaces tour I met a woman named Lynda Barry. You may’ve heard of her. She’s a famous writer & artist. I met her in Eugene, Oregon, where by fate or coincidence we both happened to be on the same day.
The specifics are relevant; I met her for (I would estimate) six seconds. So really, I “met” her. I encountered her. I was crossing the street. A Honda pulled up. She was in the passenger seat. I recognized her (I’d just seen a poster advertising her event) and, in a frantic whir, passed a postcard into her car.
End of scene.
I drove south to California, and across the rest of the country.
Now flash forward 18 months.
Problem: all my extra postcards are in my car...which is in the shop.
Solution: I hastily Scotch tape two quarters to a bookmark. I and draw a quote bubble from George Washington’s mouth explaining the project. “And here’s money for postage,” he says.
