I just read the first couple of posts on my niece's new blog. She is spending a semester in Costa Rica, and she is writing about her experiences in Latin American. She, at the moment, is still adjusting to her new life. She's living with a parrot that speaks Spanish. She's not quite sure what the parrot is saying. It could be swearing at her, or making lewd comments. She isn't quite sure.
Since it is Monday, it is time for another Carol dip. You know, I can't believe that I've been writing about A Christmas Carol for almost nine months now. I never thought I'd make it this far. But, I did vow last December to keep Christmas alive every day of the year, and I try to stay true to my word. Usually. Any how, I have a few things on my mind today. I'm just going to pick the one that has been preoccupying me for a good portion of this past week:
Will I find a publisher for my new collection of poems soon?
And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:
Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind , not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.
OK, so Scroobe is weeping in this paragraph. He's looking at the school he used to attend as a child, and the description is not very pleasant at all. Mice. Despondent poplar. Leafless boughs. Freer passage to his tears. It doesn't look like I'm going to be getting a publisher for my manuscript any time soon.
Excuse Saint Marty while he slips out the back door to cry by the empty store-house.
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| I know how George feels |
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