I Don’t Live Here Anymore
Wow, after ten years, it really seems like I’ve run out of words here.
I lost my idea notebook the other day and, while I’d like to use that as an excuse for being out of words, that’s not really it. Actually, I’ve probably written more in the two or three days since losing it than in the more than eighteen months of recording stray thoughts in it. Thoughts, incidentally that never made it out of that notebook and into any other form. Sort of was defeating the purpose of keeping a notebook, wasn’t it?
So, now, the question is, what to do next?
I don’t seem to be doing too well writing here, do I? And I’m certainly not writing anywhere else, so, what to do? I suppose, out of habit, I’ll keep trying to write here, though God only knows about what. After ten years, it’s almost impossible to stop writing here altogether. Maybe if I can get back in the habit of it, the words won’t seem so hollow and shallow and wrong. Maybe something will eventually ring true.
Or not.
Sweet Jesus, I thought I’d outgrown all this angst as a teen-ager.
Well, maybe next year.
Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"Man is the only kind of varmint that sets his own trap, baits it, and steps in it."
--John Steinbeck
