A Way With Words
The Mister knows of my dream to some day become a published author. Before bed last night, I was reading "Accordion Crimes" by the Pulitzer Prize winning author, E. Annie Proulx.
"This is why I could never get published," I remarked. "Just listen to this one sentence, 'The smell of kerosene, bilge, metal, marine paint, the stink of anxious men, of dirty clothes and human grease, mixed with the briny flavor of the sea, etched Silvano's sensibilities, a familiar effluvia later on the Texas shrimp boats, and not even the rank stench of crude oil and gas in his roustabout days in the early decades of the new century erased it.' "
To which, my dear husband calmly replied, "Well, I wouldn't have said it quite that way but..."
We are quite a pair.
"This is why I could never get published," I remarked. "Just listen to this one sentence, 'The smell of kerosene, bilge, metal, marine paint, the stink of anxious men, of dirty clothes and human grease, mixed with the briny flavor of the sea, etched Silvano's sensibilities, a familiar effluvia later on the Texas shrimp boats, and not even the rank stench of crude oil and gas in his roustabout days in the early decades of the new century erased it.' "
To which, my dear husband calmly replied, "Well, I wouldn't have said it quite that way but..."
We are quite a pair.
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