The heat is turning me into an absolute bitch. I'm always amazed that Michael will put up with me between the cussing and the frantic, flailing arms desperate to rid myself of whichever hornet, mosquito, moth, or fly happens to be buzzing around me at any given moment.
My entries lately have become very brief, not sure why. I've only been writing sporadically as well, which probably means I need to actually sit down and do something about that. I'm probably going to saunter downtown tomorrow morning and write in a coffee shop before I head off to work. It's not that I'm lacking ideas, as usual, but the motivation necessary to transform thought into deed is lacking. The heat. The exhaustion.
Maybe I need some sort of challenge for myself. Okay: one short story, every two days. Length is unimportant, but I must produce a finished product. Additionally, poetry. I haven't been poeting for a while and need those muscles to be full-strength again. I was on the phone with a friend of mine in Toronto and it felt, as usual, like nothing much was happening with my life -- have I become stalled in this current status quo? Well, obviously. What can I do to change? Productivity. I am a writer, hence: writing, must do, no choice, forward motion must be made.
The challenge is on.
Most of the way through The Ten Second Staircase by Christopher Fowler, because for some reason I've started to enjoy mystery novels. Then I'm going to crack the collected Non-Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges, because he's smarter than I am and I want to be as smart as he was. Or something.