I asked Tucker what I should write about, and he said, “SQUEAKYSQUEAKYSQUEAKYSQUEAKY!!!”… well, the squeaky toy in his mouth said that. Had his mouth been empty, he probably would have said “PLAYPLAYPLAYPLAYPLAYPLAYPLAY!!!”  This is why dogs are not good writers. That, and they’re never offered typing class in obedience school. A grave error in judgment, I’d say.

Speaking of writers, (as I do from time to time), I started a new book last night. It was lent to me by The Cheerleader I Live With‘s brother, and it’s about sailing. Sort of. I guess… it’s more about some guy not knowing a damn thing about sailing, yet buying a boat and attempting to sail to Tahiti to cure his heartbreak. Women. Pffft.

It’s called The Water In Between, and it’s penned by Canadian Kevin Patterson. The only thing I was expecting from this book was to be completely drowned in sailing terminology, and so far I haven’t been disappointed (“I hoisted a reefed mizzen sail and sheeted in tightly“… I’m sure you did).  However, I’m actually finding it to be far more entertaining than I thought it might be, especially considering he had no idea what he was getting himself into, much like how I tackled climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro last year (his packing of a couple dozen ice cream bars and a block of ice for a 2-month ocean voyage made me feel so much better about my own ridiculous Kili packing decisions).

Funny, the book starts out with him describing how he was a doctor at a camp for cadets, and it’s the same camp I attended for two years (albeit 5 years before he got there). I wasn’t expecting that! What I also wasn’t expecting, however, was to be feeling so fully inadequate when I compare my writing style to his. I keep thinking, “I’m not nearly as good a writer as this guy!” and it’s totally bumming me out. *sigh* I’m such an idiot sometimes.

The Cheerleader I Live With has asked me to stop reading the book if I can’t get my act together and realize that this author and I have totally different styles, and totally different stories to tell. He’s right. I need to just read the book and enjoy it for what it is: not mine.

And so, while this landlubber is swimming through Patterson’s tale, I think I’ll stop off and brush up on my nautical terminology so that I don’t get stopped dead by sentences such as, “...he ran the free end of the line through the shackle and tied it tightly to the bottom of the shredded genoa on the port forestay. Finally, he attached the jib halyard and another loose line to the shackle, so that he could raise and lower it along the starboard forestay.” I’m not sure, but I think he just made a cake or something. Arrrrrr…

*limps away on a peg leg*

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