my horseshoe cut has become a healthy horseshoe scar. the liquid stitches are coming up at one end; i refuse to pick at it though it has begun to itch.
i hope it brings me luck. (it was certainly acquired through one of my dumbest moments.)
contrary to appearance, i have conquered the morning. i wake, i eat, i write, i tidy. i think, i think, i think, but feel no more about living.
husband is committed to working on writing a novel. out of curiousity, i googled some of my favorite modern authors on writing--pretty grim shit. more inspiring than anything else is philip k dick's preface to his collected short stories, in which he addresses what he believes is science fiction. it is jaw-droppingly awesome. moreover, it is concise, expressed in less than a page.
i must admit, i am quite the diaryland whore. i have authored, or co-authored four diaries. yesterday as i realized that i have to learn how to write good dialogue, i revisited those other diaries, hoping to repurpose my digital waste. after cannibalising someone's design (maybe reinterpreting would have been a better word), i got one up to suit my purpose. i do love it so, like those stiletto heels i can't part with.
i'm beginning to feel flighty again. like something i do matters, so i should do nothing that is less than perfect. i'm a deer in the headlights. yes i will ruin your car.