12:50 AM Sun 20 Sept 81
Hard day in NYC with Mom & Dad – when they heard my agent wants me to write a romantic novel they immediately began arguing on her side!!! If I had said I was GOING to do it they would have attacked me! “How long would it take?” “Wouldn’t it be worth it to get out from under?” Then it was T’s turn to be grilled about his & Lois’ newly incorporated Faircross: “it can’t work.” Our unborn baby referred to as “another mouth in line for the swag.” Then they invited us to the Bahamas. T. was polite but handled it well. I could see he was offended. Afterwards he told me he didn’t WANT to go to the Bahamas but I DO. What other chance will I get? MY SISTERS ARE GOING! T wants me to promise him never to ask my Dad for money again. (That would suit my Dad!) But there’s a problem. At least SOME OF IT is my money – they keep laying it aside in my name “for tax reasons” but they don’t give it to me to manage because I would spend it. (Which I would.) Toss gets to manage his own money and Faircross is what he’s doing with it. Deciding how to spend it is the whole point. Till then it’s Poor Little Rich Girl. According to their own statements they have 2 months to give me $4000. 1:10 PM– T leaves with our housework half done – has to go to Phila to tell Iphigenia she can’t be part of Faircross. She has the track record but not the cash. I’m going to finish and then hit my new, entirely cynical romance Tarnished Vows. I’ve got a whole series planned in my head called The Double Standard elucidating – guess what? If I wrote 5 of them I could make $40,000. Can always use a pseudonym. Last night’s Lamaze made me feel ebullient – confident – ready to go at any moment. Wash Weasel & brush Dixie. 22 Sept 81 Black depression. Hasn’t been this bad since summer – maybe I should schedule an apt with Dr James. Silhouette & Harlequin sending me such bad books and unrealistic editorial demands I can’t make myself go to the mailbox. Paradise Postponed made every mistake there is and they are offering it up as a model. So – anybody rather than them. Can’t wait to be my own publisher! The hell with all of them! T missed the 6:30 and isn’t coming till 9 PM and I need the comfort of his presence. Suffering through the letters of Hemingway won’t help. I need Trollope to cheer me up. StormFall Farm, Fri 25 Sept 81 Sitting before a sluggish fire – T off on a tractor buying expedition with his Dad. Gives him a feeling of belonging. Sutton not accepting the Faircross idea – thinks T should go with a firm. Calls Lois a “terrorist.” Let’s hope she’s that way only with her husband. Finished Symons’sPoeand tackling M Gordon’s Final Payments. Uncle Avery drunk dialed T twice last night – kept calling Sutton “Your brother.” “No, he’s your brother.” “Well, who am I?” Who indeed? Bad Ionesco play. He tortures himself both for having inherited money and for being too poor! There’s more than one double standard. T expects to feel completely different when he’s a father himself. Got a new poem Heloise & Abelard: from the Flame to the Flame. From the Flame to the Flame Heloise to Abelard Master my Brother; Father Confessor; my all You see before you a nun An abbess in fact Silent antiphon of grace that closing Octaves of silence. I had rather be your whore. Slut, jade, poule What sweets! Relish those words as I relished Blows you struck like kisses. Five, like Christ I counted them. You sir, my midwife failed To cut the cord yet You delivered me. Satan wormed your root; left Me whole but empty. Today I’m cinque-cut You’re a smooth stockade. I took the veil Mistook it Impetuous as you took me Masquerading like the time We stole from uncle’s house In holy guise. Took the veil as Jason’s wife donned A wedding dress She never could remove; it burned Her flesh as cerements cremate me. You denied me thrice, False Peter Though I would crawl to Bethany to earn A word. The grave Is not so silent as you are. Yes, I’ve chatted up the dead These many times. Master, cousin, lover Slave – we are bound. Closer to you than that holy tattoo you wear As if it became you. When you die I’m the blood that courses From your veins The centime on your eyes The empty scabbard left Between your thighs The last escaping sigh I. I was struggling with Miss Foulke and came across an earlier version. Suddenly it all came together. A great reason to never throw anything out.
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Alysse Aallyn
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