My Oates book on writing has me thinking: what are my passions?

Sexual identity crisis, loving passionately the unlovable and unacceptable, your identity surrendered to something much greater and darker than yourself.

I am only just starting to realize the reasons I write, and her book won't help me improve my style, but realizing why I keep putting myself through this is the most important thing after all.

What I have read of Windflowers so far surprises me. The changes I need to make are surface-based only. I can find no flaws in the logistics. It is joyous to find over a hundred intact pages of mine that require no more than minimal correction. And to think I wrote them six years ago. It's most fortuitous.

I am reading Robert Louis Stevenson's Essays in the Art of Writing. It is so boring, but I will do whatever I can to improve my work. The Oates book isn't much better. I should be grateful that any writer is willing to reveal the inner workings of his craft. I wouldn't want to write a book on it.

I have been sending multimedia messages all over the place, and I'm afraid the extra charges on my phone bill will be ghastly.

Why is it? When I was poor and went through various phases of hand-me-downs, my mother's old clothes, and in college graduated to Wal-mart, it was one thing, but as this well-to-do young scientist I am still spending all my money on books and hobby supplies. I'm such a dork.

I've got to get some cuter clothes, argh, I do feel so shabby when I see my threadbare lingerie and faded blacks. I love fashion in theory but I never have had time to keep up with it. I have a failure rate of 45-50% on every purchase, too, but I'm improving.

I need new black pants and dark skirts. I think buying white skirts or hose is a mistake: it never looks good. I want the new white summer dress from Delia's and the puffy bloomer shorts from Alloy. I also want a light-colored lingerie-style swimsuit, but those can be tricky. My current suits are dark and dowdy, and I want something new for Las Vegas.

I must repair my peach dress. It is the best piece of clothing I have. I want more vintage clothes, but they are so hit or miss.

I have tried some new makeup products lately. Maybelline's Dream Mousse was wonderful at first, but something is amiss: the bottle sweats around the seal, and every time I open it there's sticky moisture coming down the sides: I really hate that. For now I am staying with powder: I can't find a foundation white enough anyway.

Last night I realized it was utterly misinformed to stitch my daffodils two-stranded. It is taking longer to line up my stitches, and it looks messy when the strands are twisted. If I pursue this single-stranded work, I'm going to have to rip out what I've already done. Impossible: possibly eight hours of work. Needlework really is cruel.

I thought this flower looked just like a scoop of ice cream. It's making me hungry just thinking about it.

Everywhere there is the scent of honeysuckle, but I still haven't seen it. I want to have so many things: a rose garden, and a tea room. My small court of flowers is sufficient, but I am capable of maintaing so much more. For now I am very happy with the porch and dining room, but I dream of the kind of rooms I write about in "Windflowers."

I think I can improve my story a great deal. It is a really unusual one, but it is clearer than ever to me what to say. Dante is a fey scientist: he uses magic and science together to create living dolls, copies of other people to fill his lonely existence.

This evening I wrote a long entry on what I thought of "The Glass House"-- formerly, Love Among the Shadows, and Love's Shadow. I realized what I need to focus about the story, what I should omit, and discussed what needs to be said in the story. I have a better perspective about it. At Coffee Haus today I started revisions on it, and did work on Hildegarde: geocities.com/ladyhildegarde. All the links work now, and I am getting better at writing a nonlinear story. The more I write, the clearer it becomes what more I should do. I see it as a prequel to "The Glass House."

Okay, I am a little tired of being a good girl and doing productive things for my future. Look at this angel: theorientdoll.us. I need to stop visiting the forum, because I do not have a need for another doll. I feel like acquiring them is a vice: it should have been enough for me to have one, and I already have three.

But this one is an angel. He is really small, but my doll collection is already a misfit anyway. Dollmore Calvin is an eight-year old boy, yet he towers over Dream of Doll Tender Too like a giant: Tender Too, my Shelley, is sixteen. All I need is a boy that looks like an eighteen-year-old and is dwarfed by my eight-year-old giant. OrientDoll Tae is 15.7 inches tall: one inch shorter than Shelley.

He takes a 6 wig-- that's really small, and 8 mm eyes. He's basically the size of a porcelain doll. Did you see the site? Look at him. He's adorable. I love him, after seeing these austure, mature Dollshe Hounds and Bermanns. After seeing big dolls in person, I decided I didn't like them a bit. Also, I'm not sure how to approach those mature male dolls. They are really well-equipped, and it's hard to imagine being their mommy. It would be like being the caretaker of an incapacitated man.

I could be this boy's mommy though.

Well, I've gone on enough. After seeing his clothes I feel so inspired to sew. I love his outfit. Shelley is too perfect to wear something rag-tag, and Johnny is too delicate. I'll have to think about it.