Last night, I was blogging in my head. Not that it does me a lot of good being in my head and all, but there you have it. I’ve decided to take it as a good sign that I may be falling back into the habit. Now all I have to do is translate that habit into something electronic and printed, and it’ll become more than just yet another way my mind likes to keep me up at night.
Naturally, I couldn’t remember a thing I wanted to write about when I woke up this morning. I don’t remember anything other than at one point thinking to myself about a specific line, “Hey, that’s pretty good.” I even keep pen and paper in my nightstand drawer but did I bother to pull it out? Noooo… You’d think I’d have learned by now.
Ah well. What’s life without a few quirks? Besides, it’s those same idiosyncrasies that make characters stand out, so in a way I could consider my own personality ticks a form of research, albeit a vague, meandering, and unhelpful one. *Grins* The ultimate goal in life: to define the world in such a way that it’s able to fit neatly and with finality into a set of personal parameters constructed over time by evolving patterns of experience, environment, and genetics. In other words, to come up with reasons for why we do what we do without having to wonder why we wonder about why we do what we do. Or more succinctly, to find ways to believe our own excuses.
Of course, that’s my take on it, relevant only for as long as I feel the need to grumble about why I don’t want to work on the manuscript I think I should work on.


