I feel like this woman knows my soul:
“My relationship with writing today is neither glamorous nor exciting. We will not get each other into fancy places; we will not make anyone rich. We have fallen instead into a pattern much closer to the comfortable grooves of love: two homebodies shuffling around the same desk, battling frustration and disappointment, witnessing failure and choosing, against all odds, to stay.”
Really. I don't understand myself. I've been working on the same novel for two years. I thought it was actually done once and then overhauled the whole thing.
I'm 4 chapters away from being done.
And I cant. write. a. damn. thing.
I don't know if it's that I'm just so tired of this book and ready to write the second one, if the lack of collaborating with my Sissy has left me uninspired, or if my engaging in more than one artistic outlet at a time is just maxing out my creative spirit. But I'm just really struggling to finish the damn thing.
Okay it's a little more than 4 chapters. It's 4 chapters + some continuity issues that need to be smoothed out.
There's still no excuse for this kind of willful laziness.
JUST FINISH THE DAMN THING! START BOOK 2!
Anyway, the ride home tonight was glorious. Go ahead, just try to one-up my commute. Not many people get to work in the heart of a huge city and then get this view on the way home:
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| Click to enlarge this shit. |
Lucky lady, me.
In other news, Erin and I finally locked in accommodations for my birthday trip:
They even give us a maid!
So. Wait. I'm saying we can get drunk on the beach and stumble into the pool and pass out in the grass and get eaten alive by crazy-ass Caribbean bugs and a nice little old lady will come along and pick up our mess?
Yes. That is what I'm saying.
There's a security guard too. Like, a nice man with weapons who stays on guard at the house for us. Previous tenants give him rave reviews. So, when we're all passed out in the yard with BBQ smeared all over our faces and potentially lethal red ants are quietly gnawing our faces off, there'll be someone there to make sure we don't get sold into slavery or prostitution or anything.
That's thinkin' ahead! That's bein' considerate! That's good planning!
Okay, so, every time I write a post I always go back and minimize the profanity. It's like I write something, feel guilty for using the word "fuck," get paranoid that you'll all judge me for it, and go through and remove it. I've already done it once in this post.
But then I saw this great graphic that I think justifies it well:
I feel like that sums it up well. I figure, I don't use profane language in the work place. I try hard to avoid it in public, and I refrain entirely around the elderly. And I NEVER use profanities as adverbs. I try hard to avoid their use as conjunctions. I occasionally use them as prepositions (but that's almost exclusively when I'm tipsy). Mostly, I just use them as interjections, because they're fucking awesome!
<<see that? I used "fuck" as an interjection right there!
Oooh hey! Read this and be angry.
And now I'm going to watch more Game of Thrones (have I told you it's my new obsession?!?! I know...late to the game...again) and eat yogurt for dinner...because I'm too lazy to cook tonight.
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