So, this word was sent to me via one of the two word-a-day services I subscribe to:
liminal \LIM-uh-nl\, adjective: relating to the point beyond which a sensation becomes too faint to be experienced.
Funny; spell-check has it underlined, hmmmmm. Anyway, it’s probably me, but this word—at least the definition—gives me the creeps. In a good way, but still…
Why is it that everyone that drops in—and there are way too many people dropping in these days, none of which or whom (Chess, Emmy?) have autism and breasts—wants to suggest what I should be doing to make money, as opposed to what I already do, which clearly is a labor of love.
For example: I should be carving gunstocks. There’s big money in carving gunstocks.
Hey, it still involves wood.
Yes and gun owners make me nervous, and for that matter I could be carving ten thousand, semi-duplicate Santa Clauses every Christmas. There’s big money in monotony. Just ask the Industrial revolution.
Working with wood is not necessarily woodworking, and, in general, is a far stretch from furniture building and design.
Oh, and then…
“You need to write 50 word children’s books. Not Children’s novels. There’s big money in those little books.”
Yes, and they are a dime a dozen and how many of them are ever made in to movies? Which, really, is where the BIG money is and the only place large enough to contain my ego.
Maybe it’s a vicarious thing. Maybe I need to put a chain across the drive.
That would be my luck. I’d string a log chain across the drive the day the G.R.A.S.P. bus was overheating and looking for a quaint farm to refresh its reservoirs.
Oh the burdens I bare.