What sort of diary should I like mine to be?

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

(via Even*Cleveland)


I love you.

Currently listening to: 81 Words


Promises, promises

I've been absolutely horrid at this blog thing lately. And at writing in general. I have much correspondence to attend to! (my favorite sentence to say) and I have neglected it. I'm promising myself I will have one short story written by the end of April. And - written on my typewriter! I finally ordered replacement ribbon, so I am ready to get down with that little machine. Below is what she looks like.

Other than much-neglected writing and laundry, this weekend's plans include a Saturday working at Homegirl Cafe, babysitting sweet P, and a trip to the American Apparel warehouse downtown for some hopefully discounted goods.

Cheers to your weekend being beautiful!