Well, it has been a very long year. Very long.
This morning is the wake up call to finish projects even if I can barely make this machine function. Yesterday I tried to put in a new cartridge of black ink. It didn’t work — however if I choose a darkish cyan, at least it prints.
I prefer the lives people led at the turn of the century. The arts and letters, and the candles.
I really want to have control over my own life again, soon.
I want to do another Room of my own. Marriage is such a difficult state. It is.
I just want my own house and I want to be free of plans that are made for me.
I have a book. I also have a potential screenplay — but I can’t be the one who writes it.
The last story in my book is about that. About Love. All I have to do is tell that story to the proper screenwriter. I still have all the love letters — and it would be a very simple film to make. It’s a character study kind of a film. Very intimate and from a female POV for a change. I know the screenwriter I love best. The way you can tell is by what the films they have made are. He knows how.
Somehow I have to package up all these things and send them to my favorite agent.
Today it is all fogged in and freezing after days of sun.
I’m going to start doing some abstract pastels — landscapes.
What I want are those fab Senneliers and Rembrandts.
I don’t want to have to justify what I need to anyone. Nor do I want to argue about the horse I want.
Wives are chattel. They are.
Since I refused to be that — and since I am really ready to escape from here, I just have to ACT on things.
I already know those are good stories — they have all run already. They are lyrical, poetic and scorching a la literary erotica. The target market is the Boomster set. Like any writer, we worry. Whether or not we have adequately expressed whatever it was on the page.
Those two I was talking about? They have power rolling off of them. Aesthetic power.
It is hard to have confidence and a big enough EGO for me. I’m not looking for stardom, I’m like Carver. I just want to get it in print and then have a swanky cocktail — alone. In the house I want to design.
Parties! All the parties in the world — like the parties my mother used to throw.
He keeps me from doing those things.
Increasingly I am more certain of who I am as each day goes by. On my birthday I bought things for myself that were entirely me. It was a big first. I want my old house back. The house I lived in when I was 13.
I could write there, easily.
In this market, that house could be had I bet.
But I want to buy it with my own money.
I just want out of this controlling situation I’m in.
So, did I ever by all my fave scented candles and a new Mason Pearson and a bunch of fab little cards and paper books and I hunted out French antiques I like like my grandmother had.
My house on the hill looks out over the city and the lights twinkle like little stars.
A carpet of stars.
I want to drink coffee instead of English tea. In the morning.
I wrote my whole MA thesis on the split in women and the two types of men there are. That thespian tribe?
They are like Baines. And Baines is Baines, always. That screenwriter I admire?
He is Baines. He even lives in a forest in a tiny Tudorish place. And he plays the guitar.
It’s easy to fall in love with things that are full of anima.
I have one hundred love letters I want to unpack. It has been 8 years.
That relationship was one of the most beautiful things I have ever experienced in my life.
Valdez would want the world to see, I’m quite sure.
When I look out to sea, I always think of him and what transpired between the two of us.
I want a private place to take those letters to, so I can look at them in peace and finish off that book.
So, I hope that agent understands.
I hope so.
Only a Baines can understand another Baines. How to depict that character. They have enormous hearts in the Baines tribe. All you have to do is watch that movie “The Piano” and you will understand.