Attempting to attempt

For a while there it was the trend for young couples to become "pre-engaged". It involved a generally one way gift presentation, he to she, almost always in the form of a ring. Said ring would have a modest diamond mounted on it, and if the she were lucky enough to be pre-pre-wed to a man with money in the family, or if the admirer of the ring had an electron microscope, then it was probably quite a charming piece of jewellery. More often, though, any precious stone fixed to a pre-engagement ring was too modest, in the sense of being shy, to be seen. It hid just beyond the normal focal limits of the healthy human eye to protect itself from the glare of harsh judgement.

"What do you mean pre-engaged? Like you are planning to plan to get married? What is that? Let me see the rock. Oh. there's nothing to see, really. So that's what that is: nothing".

I only tell you people I am Attempting a Novel. It is My Attempted Novel. Sometimes, when I am driving one of my kids to work or school or picking grubs or washing my little dog, I have moments of brilliance. And I've learned the hard way they are not still there when your hands are otherwise unoccupied. So I also have a stack of receipts, lunch napkins (sadly no cocktail napkins) FYI's from the school and mutilated envelopes from bills, all now stained with coffee and suds shaken off a dog, upon which I have scribbled my genius.

And then -- when Jo is watching TV, the laundry is hung, the sky is clear, two teens are on the trampoline, one is on the phone, hunny husband is doing the Vulcan mind Meld with the main computer -- I tip toe to my corner, remember Virginia Wolfe and settle into A corner of My Own, because I don't have a whole room.

I redo yesterday's work, then 65 words, 115 if I am really lucky then

"WaaaaaaaaaaaHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Someone just bounced over the net and into the neighbours shrubs, or the dog filled one shoe with pee and chewed its mate to bits, or hunny wants to know if he should cook a roast yak for supper because its almost six o'clock (he had to pass the chilli bubbling on the stove to ask me this) or finally, as I predicted so many times, the phone has become fused to my 15 year old's ear and she needs to have it surgically removed.

Thus endeth the brilliance, the attempt at My Attempt.

Right now I am just a bit blocked. I need a literary laxative. Maybe a chocolate popsicle and a cuddle with my dog.

Except she has shoe breath.

Yuck.