Never Open Your Trap

pexels-photo (1)

Fuuuck.  Have I used this photo before?  Recently?  If so, sorry.  If not, disregard, please, and continue.  You and I both know that life is way too short.

It is strange to me that given where the moon sits and how it spins me on its string that I am fine with a clementine for dessert, and not all the chocolate and but I gotta do a few things and I don’t want to do them.

…did them.  Am doing them.  It is remarkable how little time exists between 5:30p.m. and midnight.  I have exercised to the bare minimum, but I did not give up despite the shit it rains on my relaxation parade.  I have eaten too much garlic bread, but that’s about all I’ve eaten.  Oh, and some quiche.  And some popcorn.  And some salad, and that clementine.  It doesn’t seem wildly better as far as a diet goes, but it is.   It actually is.  And I am not tearing my hair out that yesterday I ate a lava cake and today, the news is yes, we have no lava cakes (nor bananas) and nothing that even has a hot liquid core of any kind.  I am feeling physically okay aside from nausea and headaches and generally feeling like a bitch.  Have not resorted to laying my head on an anvil and striking my temples to get the goddess out. Still oddly red in the face which I kinda remember having around this time last year so…hmm.  We are investigating that.

Novel.  Continuing to read through it and see the different strata of life this thing has had over the millennia and so it’s a little bit unnerving to dive right in and start throwing another layer on the old fictional lasagna.  It’s not all noodles, sauce and cheese.   I’ve talked about this a lot recently and am not 1oo% sure I have anything mentally to either add to it or not tonight.  Suffice it to say that it has not been set aside in favor of other things, I just am processing a lot of work reality and life changes and sister is being very good at earnestly helping us progress with this, but I am feeling like a stabby grump.  I want to be able to blast past this barrier, but I am taking the fact that I am still enjoying resituating myself and not looking to stop as a good sign.  I am also reading things I did not write and liking them so that’s good.

“Real” writers do have to write when they’re grumpy.  I am a real writer and I am writing to you, but I do recognize that I might have to delete what I just wrote as far as my new attempt on the novel.  I just have to gather myself up and do it and don’t want to.  This is my future, damnit.

Okay, decompress.  Breathe in through the nose, out through the nose, never speak.  Never open your…okay.  Shush.

Tomorrow: blasting through.

 

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