I broke down and got another writing book.

Naming the World: and other exercises for the creative writer is edited by Bret Anthony Johnston, who is practically my BFF because we sat next to each other for like four hours at the National Book Awards reading, which he hosted. He doesn’t know this, but he’s already inspired a short story (or start of a YA novel, according to those who have read it) based on my imaginings of his teenaged self.

I haven’t delved too far into the book yet, but the introduction is promising. Also, the final chapter is a compilation of over 300 writing prompts, the first of which is “spend five minutes describing an eighth dwarf to go along with Snow White’s seven.” Thus was born Frosty the outsider dwarf, who is nearly Spock-like in his inability to feel. Or so the other seven think. I  wound up writing about him for 15 minutes; he might end up with a whole story. Alas, the prompts are supposed be for warming up and should probably not be used as a delay tactic.

In other news, last night we caught about 7/8 of Missy Higgins. I’ve known all week that I was not in the ideal frame of mind or health for a club show featuring three different artists, but we gave it the old college try. It didn’t take long for me to hit sensory overload. With the smoke and everyone chattering I just felt old and tired and found myself thinking it would be really nice to see Higgins in a small, quiet jazz club or something. It was around the time I overheard this conversation between two guys behind me that I decided to make it a short night:

tool #1: [craning to see the stage] Is she hot?

tool #2: She looks okay from here. (She is absolutely beautiful, by the way.)

tool #1: Probably a dyke.

tool #2: [loud belch]

I gave my best reproachful look, but apparently the reproach of a 37-year-old non-halter-wearing stranger means nothing to beery twenty-something dudes. Oh well. After having my shoes nearly puked on at the last concert I attended, I am not feeling optimistic about trying to see the Old 97′s in June.

Finally: I have this weird burning sensation in my side. It comes and goes. It’s not on the skin or under the skin or in the muscle or in my organs. That only leaves one thing: stigmata! I’ll keep an eye on it.

Tomorrow I’ll be back with an interview with Tara Altebrando, so don’t touch that dial.