Klowns in my Koffee

This evening's class was taught by an writer associated with The Loft Literary Center, the local writer's brain trust. The topic was "how to get published." I recognize the alchemy needed in that brave new world but felt let down when the secret room held this recipe: 1) Read a lot of your selected genre to understand what is publishable, 2) Now that you know what is considered publishable, write like that, and 3) Send it to publishers whose other published writing is similar to what you wrote.

This is eminently practical and profoundly uninspiring. I came across an Oscar Wilde quote today that was the antithesis: "The world was my oyster but I used the wrong fork." I can't imagine Oscar Wilde following the three-step formula. Or Norman Mailer, for that matter.

In unrelated developments, carrying bags of raccoon feces down a ladder from the roof and pitchers of boiling water up the ladder has all the makings of a Japanese game show. This was followed by hanging over the rooftop and lopping off overhanging limbs ... the tree's, not mine, though it was close. Finally, I dredged an overflowing gutter that was blooming with tree seedlings and a congealed substance that my husband described as smelling like a baby's diaper. I can't seem to get the aroma off my hands; I want to find an old dog and roll in it.