Cold gray day in the city. A gray cat sits on my lap. Ruby dog is beside me on the floor, laying with her face next to a pile of chewed up stick, which she has slowly been destroying since her morning walk. While Mary Ann is gone from the apartment, so the rules are basically out the window. The animals bank on this. They know I will feed them whatever I am eating, let them out on the M. banned balcony (who are we to keep animals from laying in the sun on the balcony's? Our landlords ban this but none of our neighbors seem to care).
I am trying to write myself into some kind of conclusion about where to focus my energies. I am trying to get this new book off the ground and the words just don't excite me much. I feel like I am still laying out the story, and that I am unhappy with the results. I spend way more time worrying about this shit than I should... a buddy told me yesterday, "You're a writer, it doesn't matter what you write, " as we spoke about blogs with a pioneer in the field and a kid who just heard of them when he came to the big city a couple months ago. I argued with him, saying that novels at present are the best way that I can see of making a living at writing... not that I know whether I am right of not? Now that I am going to be sending all my readers to this site, rather than the old one, I think I will qualify for advertising if I can get enough people interested in staring into my cranium.