Real writers work even on Sundays. Raymond Carver made no mention of church when he said that. If one thinks of steeples, is she sufficed for the night? I am trying to decide on a theme for my new and selected poems, because as of yet I have not written or selected any. We all hate the library and cooking on Sunday. I made corn bread like my mother never would with peppers and the hot sun of my skipping church to go walking.
On Sundays, working writers become real. They do not leave their houses or apartments and eat day-old bagels. If only I did not have this passion for cream cheese. My mother would not serve me the lox until I clasped my hands. If one thinks of stained glass, can she drink like father? I am trying to write my provocative memoir, except that I have been living life backwards, so I don’t have a beginning. Cutting my finger while cutting the pepper. My mother would have made me throw them away, like she did the novels I read in church. We all hate public radio and getting our periods before Monday. I am the only one in class who has read Raymond Carver.
Real working Sundays are hard for writers. They must type memos on ancient computers. No one would think they studied literature older than that. For the two years, I studied Latin and did not pray. If one reads out loud rhythmically, has she found God? I am trying to write the next great American novel, but I find the first. My mother always knew the books were too sad. We all hate ad inserts and unknotting our hair. I wrote my first story after Raymond Carver.