Wake of Echoes

Source: jasna.org I hold the page and smile. I touch the face I loved. It’s become famous, this image, and called like and unlike by those who knew her. And I gaze at it and see what they see and see what they do not. I’ve tried to draw too, though not skilled in the art, and hold this example, that like my own attempts, has captured the cheek and the hair that wisped against it, the brow and the eyes that enjoy its shelter. They are orbs of beauty, glistening just as I remember, looking at me, as I always wanted, windows to the soul that I loved more dearly than I loved cheek, eye, brow or hair.  It is the nose and the mouth with which the artist has failed.  I do not fault her – she loved, perhaps if not better than I, at least longer, as sisters always will. But the nose cannot be drawn to capture the way it looked at this angle or that, once pert, then smart, Grecian and then curled like a tulip’s petal, in all its dimension impossible to accurately portray in this medium

I'm a failure. A big fat failure. I'm so sick about my failure, I write this post distracted. Don't expect pithy sentences or clever metaphors. Expect cliches, danging participles and archaic expressions. I'm too upset to even try to impress you. Yes, it's a real thing. Why am I a failure and what are my excuses? Read on, dear reader. It's all because November is over, which means National Novel Writing Month, otherwise known as NaNoWRiMo , (the silliest acronym ever created by people who are supposed to be good at this stuff), is also over. And I have failed to reach any NaNoWriMo victories. Any! I know I shouldn't take it so hard. Failing at NaNoWriMo doesn't mean I'm a failure at writing. I wrote two novels before I had ever heard of NaNoWriMo. I wrote my third manuscript (currently being shopped to publishing houses by my hardworking agent ... stay tuned!) without participating. And yeah, "participating" is a