After a house showing and an unexpected trip to the vet this evening, here are six slightly belated sentences for Sunday, June 29:
I am so sorry. Really and heartily, I am.
I’m sorry that my wretched life was ever twined with his. I’m sorry he clambered into my house under the pretense of friendship and I’m sorry that my husband trusted him and I’m sorry that he crept into the dark yearning garden that night and held me down until my lungs ached, until my legs stopped thrashing and I lay still.
Is that right?
Is that what I was supposed to say?
I am the first to acknowledge, often with no small amount of righteous indignation, that Microsoft Word’s spelling and grammar checker often doesn’t know what the hell it’s doing. But recently, I’ve been having a fight with Word that is so perplexing to me that I’ve actually begun to doubt myself.
Below is a list of sentences from something I’m working on. Word tells me they’re all fragments, and politely suggests I consider revising them. They may not be perfect sentences, but none of them, as far as I can tell, is actually a fragment. At first I thought the problem was that I’m using made up names the dictionary doesn’t recognize as nouns, but I changed each instance of “Wyn” to “Jane” and that didn’t make any difference. I know I’m not the number one grammar guru in the world, but this has become a persistent issue in this document, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what the grammar checker is seeing that I’m not. Any thoughts?
Only a couple of hours late, six sentences for Sunday, June 22:
We ride in a van with its windows blacked out. Every judder over every pothole is magnified. Time seems to stretch out, though the journey is not far. Nobody quite looks anybody in the eye. We are not competitors, quite, but neither are we friends.
There are twelve of us this year.
I’m a bit late in announcing this, but The Golden Key recently released its fourth issue, and it’s full of amazing writing about hungry things! Go check it out!
Six sentences for Sunday, June 8:
I spend my first night back in a motel just off the highway, the room is crisp with recycled air. I shove the nylon coverlet onto the floor and watch TV with the volume on mute until I can sleep. It takes a long time. My body’s still vibrating from the road—eight hours with hardly any stops. This is why people get married, to have someone to spell them on long drives, to have another body in the bed. It must be almost morning by the time I finally drop off.