You know what question I hate? "What do you write?" I always want to answer smart-alecky, like, "Oh, words mostly. Sometimes single letters, often including various forms of punctuation. Like commas, I write a lot of commas."
I never do, though. I say, "Essays." [blank look] "Like, personal essays?" [right now that person thinks I am hoping to make a living off of book reports, what I did over summer vacation pieces, and world geography themes] "Like memoirs, only about places, and birds or rocks. Sort of. It's called creative nonfiction." [the last bit is sort of mumbley trailed off]
I wrote a half page on the new theme for 52/250, but likely won't submit it. I have a couple of other ideas, both better than this one--but at least I forced myself to write something. I also spoke more with the guy who might need a tech writer. I am worried that he is running a dotcom, not a viable business, so we shall see.
Still tired, still uninspired, still too beat to soldier on anyway. Some nights there are comforting sounds of domesticity in my apartment complex, other nights the sounds are eerie, furtive--I lie awake trying to work them out.
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