It’s been a while since I’ve written.
I’m pretty sure that sentence comes up in every third post, but it’s usually true. And I mean, REALLY written, not just a one-liner scribbled down on scratch paper during work. (SIGH)
So let us begin now. Past my (work) bedtime. What are you writing about? Oh nothing of great importance, really, said the man in the top hat and leatherbound journal.
Steam of consciousness, just the way we like it.
I’ve just returned from Carolyn’s blog. She’s so cute. Full of whimsy and wit and spectacularly illustrated stories. I loved the bulging manga eyes.
Divulging stories about your past is a really weird feeling. Especially those stories that [are supposed to] mean something. You don’t want it to take that moral-y tone though, so you try to keep it unbiased, with much justifying of feelings and speculation on the other side, and then it falls flat. Like a great giant pancake with wispy syrup tails as the pancake whizzes overhead onto the lumberjack’s plate. And your story is nothing but a wispy syrupy tale, and you’ve forgotten the point. Not that all great stories must have a point, but they must at least all have a voice.
You’ve lost it, and it feels diminishing.
Oh stop it, Alice, a great big girl like you crying puddles? For shame.