I’m in a weird non-reading kind of mood these days. It just seems like so much work to arrange the blanket as I sit on the couch and hold up the book and creep a couple of fingers out to turn the pages. Also, the whole latitudinal early darkness is getting to me. Last night I thought it must be like 10 at night when it was 6:20. One would think I’d get used to this place some time.
Tonight I’m putting that aside. It doesn’t matter if it feels like the sun is just about to come up at 10pm, I’ll be heading down to the 1234V Issue 3 launch party. Woo zines!
Also, a story I tentatively sold to Broken Pencil magazine almost a year ago is finally going to be seeing print in the next issue. That’s good. The story seems far shorter than I remember it but whatever. I will be paid for my tale of hobo-molestation. (Yeah, mom, you probably wouldn’t like this story.)
I despair at how shitty my writing output has been this year. I was telling Holly how I feel like 2009 will go down in my books as “The year the condo ate my life.” It’s just that all this stuff gnaws away at your brain all the time, preventing the good cool things inside from working themselves out. I realize there’s a bit of “Oh, when things are perfect I’ll write more” to that statement, which is generally bullshit. A writer doesn’t give a shit. A writer just writes. But I’m just not that strong I guess.
