When I Wake Up

I woke up with a gasp- the way people do on TV when they’ve almost drowned and are getting CPR.  I gasped.  The sun was shining outside and I looked around the room.  I was sitting at my desk, which was cluttered with papers and wires and eyeglasses and pens.  Everything was arranged the same as it was before I woke up, which was surprising.

Leaning back in my chair I could see my dog napping in a sliver of sunshine in the other room.  She sighed heavily as I watched her.  My eyes trailed slowly back to the surface of my desk, passing little balls of dust and dog hair that endlessly accumulate around the baseboards.  Being so awake felt like an ache, a too bright light.  I stood up and walked to the window.

The light of the springtime sun rinsed everything on the street below me.  Sparrows and robins flitted around bare branches and cars gleamed as they wooshed by.  I noticed for the first time in four months that my head was attached to a torso with arms and legs and hands and feet.  Inside my torso my guts and blood whirred along noisily.  I gulped air into my lungs, filling them and making my heart race.

As I dug my sneakers out of the closet I admitted that I recognized this feeling.  In the past it made me turn on music when I’m home alone, and buy new packets of my mechanical pencils so I can write on yellow legal pads and drive fast.  But there’s a restlessness that comes along with it too.  I’m uncomfortable being so awake.  Everything has edges, and all the edges are sharp.

I have to start running once I wake up.  I run until my lungs burn and my bones clatter and then I run around the block twice more.  Sleeping at night seems like an interesting concept, but one I’m far from being able to incorporate into my own life.  I think about something until I’ve figured how I feel about it, then I think it the opposite way.

Here’s the thing- I can’t stay awake very long.  Everything gets in the way.  Everybody pulls and calls and coughs and sits and rides and needs and blurs those sharp edges.  After a few hours or days or weeks or months the ache goes away.  It’s hard to notice unless something out of the ordinary happens, or you go to a museum in the middle of the day for no reason.  And blurred edges have a way of keeping you out of museums in the middle of the day.  Now I know though, after living for a little while, that I’ll wake up again.  With a gasp, the way people do on TV when they’ve almost drowned and are getting CPR.


I Was Just Thinking- Sunday March 30th

I spend a lot of time thinking about myself.  I think a lot about how my personality- my self- feels like an animal I am constantly trying to outsmart so it doesn’t eat me.  I have almost no control or insight into what going to happen next.  It is very easy to have a lot of personal insight when you feel like an observer of your self.  I don’t tell people that I think about myself a lot because that makes me sound like I’m a certain way.  I’m not that way though, I’m a different way.

I know for sure what happens to people after they die.  Your energy leaves your body and becomes whatever you wanted it to become.  You can go to a blue heaven with pearly gates, or become a new baby or a dog or a tree.  You can split yourself up and settle back in as your grandchildren’s eyebrows.  You can just be dead in the ground too, if that’s what you want.

Pretty frequently I get so sad that my heart actually hurts.  My stomach tightens and my heart aches.  Last week I went to the gym to try and run it out and I got chucked off the treadmill.  There were only about 72 people watching and gasping, but I keep thinking about how much worse it would have been if my pants had also fallen down.  When I do stuff like get dumped from the treadmill because I’m trying not to be so sad it makes me feel sort of proud of myself.  Because I know that not trying is easier.  Dulling the edges makes things hurt less.

Plus, the physical pain resulting from getting thrown off a treadmill really does distract from emotional pain- which I have less patience for the older I get.  I think some of my arm muscles got torn of the bone and that’s much more specific than swirling melancholia.  And two 98 year olds behind me who were power walking on the treadmill with walking poles will have that story to tell for the rest of their lives.  So all around, a productive day.


Just A Story – Monday February 10th

When I was 21 I took a rain from Rome to Zurich with my best (still) friend.  We had tickets in a couchette and were enthusiastically naive about the realities of sleeping on a moving train.  My traveling companion needed to be hoisted up after putting on her study abroad uniform: a three and a half foot tall backpack with more straps and clips than a bondage chamber.  We hustled to the train, fending off gypsies and oglers, skidding around the tracks in inappropriate shoes.

The train cars and sleeping compartments were marked with old stickers worn into hieroglyphics- obviously an Italian original.  Italian trains haughtily rejected the standard roman alphabet.  Even the unpretentious numerical order was snubbed.  An Italian train ticket had to be read, then interpreted by someone with native experience.  We had been in the country two weeks- exactly enough time to understand we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing.

I held my ticket in front of my face and read the markings next to the yawning train doors, hoping to find a match: “B, BB, 1D1, 2A…” Our assigned car was 56 and the crowds of people boarding had started to thin.  Uniformed attendants focused staunchly on our breasts to avoid eye contact and the potential to be asked to do something other than enjoy a cigarette.  We were determined though, having already missed a train because of a military time mix up.  ”There it is!” my friend cried.  A blue, paint flaked and rusted train car nestled between cars numbered GG and ^9.  We ran the last few steps on tiptoes in our high heels and took the stairs in bounds of two.

The interior of the train was more promising- shiny, long lines invited us down the hallway to the properly ordered sleeping compartments.  We were the first to arrive and claimed the top bunks.  It was exciting: I imagined the next eight hours would be a combination of my vague memories of  Dr. Zhivago and art directed like a Wes Anderson movie.  Crisp white sheets were folded neatly at the foot of the blue vinyl bunks.  I climbed up the gleaming ladder and heaved off my back pack.  Shoes were arranged by the ladder, then I grabbed my back pack and started to push it towards the dark space beyond the bunk meant for storage.  My friend and I continued chatting so it took me a few minutes to realize my pack had met with resistance.  I pushed again, the blockage gave slightly.  I pushed harder, thinking there was a little ledge I wasn’t clearing.

Then I heard “Oof”.

I pulled my pack towards me, scooting back on my knees down the bunk to peer into the storage area.  And from the darkness shined a pair of eyes.  As my vision got used to the darkness I saw a young man, curled up and flattened against the bulkhead of my couchette.  I screamed.  I swore and screamed and swore as he scrambled out of the tiny space, down the ladder and out the door.  Eventually someone in a uniform rushed in (Italian rushing ranges from 15 to 30 minutes) and tried to act interested in what had happened.  He nodded but left the his notebook and pencil in his pocket.  Eventually we ran out of Italian words and he left.

The rest of the journey was uneventful.  We slept in 40 minute increments, awoken when the train stopped or someone pounded on the door to check our tickets for the 15th time.  I can’t remember now if other people were in our couchette, although I do remember eating Toblerone and coffee for breakfast.  We arrived without further incident but I’ve never stopped checking the smallest spaces for stowaways.

When people think I’ve overly paranoid or neurotic (as if there’s such a thing) I tell them this story, because it’s easier to swallow than some of the other grown up shit I’ve gone through.  And it’s all the same story- Girl has high expectations; is brought down by something shocking or painful; survives.

The True Spirit of Christmas- December 30th 2013

There was a yawning gap between the years that Christmas was magical and the years that I wanted to write an essay in defense of Ebenizer Scrooge.  He, like me, probably experienced the rude awakening of adult Christmases- it’s really a time of year when work revs up to a frenetic pace and every spare moment that you are away from work, and not doing laundry or walking the dog who will only walk six minutes at a time which is not enough to find a proper poo spot so she has to go inside because her feet are cold and immediately starts whining to go out again and see if maybe she missed a really good poo spot and your two year old tells you in no uncertain terms that if she has to put her coat on one more time she will make your life a living hell and you are not mopping the kitchen floor again because it is forever covered in a depressing mixture of salty dried black snow and the coffee grounds that you spill every morning and your family members are not calling you every 11 minutes to know “The Plan” and you are not campaigning your friends and family to give to charities this year because “we” don’t need more stuff but really its because you don’t have any more time to order something from Amazon and have it delivered by Christmas Eve, and you are not wondering which dry cleaner you dropped off all your dress up clothes to and did you actually ask to have that dress hemmed and you know there is something drastically wrong with your car but if you had time to have it looked at you would have had time to get a manicure or at least paint your nails or at least, at the very least, bite your nails evenly so they’re all the same length and then there’s the dishes and the floor should get one more mopping before vacuuming up those goddamn Christmas tree needles and when you’re not doing that you have no fucking idea how you’re going to decorate and shop and plan and cook and then clean all over again and not bitch AT ALL in front of your darling little girl who just learned about Santa Claus which makes you feel uncomfortable because isn’t this like the introduction to how your parents lie to you to get them to do what they think constitutes good behavior or to arrest the part of your childhood where you WOULD stare at then, wide eyed, rosy cheeked, gulping down every detail of a fat man in a red suit with a sleigh (whatever THAT is) and a gang of reindeer who come down your non-exisistant chimney and leave gifts for you labeled in your mom’s handwriting, and then right in the middle of the 890,332 th chore (wrapping gifts) it hits you: The Sprit of Christmas.

It happens at an unexpected time, perhaps, but upon reflection you realize it’s exactly the kind of low, bare-bones expectations of adulthood that’s allowed you this beautiful, almost religious moment.

The True Spirit of Christmas is when you buy a loved one an awkwardly shaped gift that comes with no box and you wrap it with such creative precision that when you apply that last piece of tape you actually feel the sweet spot in your hands like a baseball player.  ”What could THIS be?”  they’ll exclaim with excitement and unbridled anticipation.  The voila! A carry-on suitcase!  A bonsai tree!  A pair of novelty socks! No box, no obvious wrappable structure already inherent in the object…just the magic of the Christmas Spirit!


Goodbye Grip – Tuesday October 17th 2013


Tom G – that long suffering, dear, ever hopeful, ever optimistic gem of a man- pointed out today that I hadn’t written a post here since July.  The truth is I write at least a few sentences everyday.  I come up with a great idea, sit down at the keyboard…and something serious comes out.  Something stressful and whiney, or something heavy and overly-explained.  So I don’t press “publish”.

I also noticed today that I am stressed out.  STRESSED OUT.  It’s probably the normal mom-around-the-holidays stressed out with the new steroid of owning my own business.  I bet even hippies who start local food co-ops or grill cheese stands in the parking lots at Phish shows get stressed the hell out if they really believe in their ability to succeed.  I wasn’t the sweetest, most even tempered woman before my partner and I opened for business in May…but I was old enough to have a pretty decent Grip.

That Grip has been substantially loosened.

It’s not just stress’s fault.  Comcast is at least 50% to blame.  I spent my 20′s learning how to remain calm to befriend and defeat the customer service person.  I was famous (in certain circles) for getting discounts by being nice and just asking.  Fees were waived and reversed, I used expired coupons, I got the personal phone numbers of tech support people.  I had defeated Comcast several times in the early and mid-aughts.

Everyone is now aware, however, that almost all customer service has gone to hell in a hand basket.  After spending hours and hours on the phone, repeating my address and last four digits of my social security and taking deep breathes and explaining again that I had been charged for something in error…one day I felt my palms getting sweaty.  One by one, my fingers uncurled until I was just hanging by my littlest digit and praying that the Grip would hold me.  Then I heard some one screaming.  It was a woman, she was screaming and stomping her foot.  I heard her mock the customer service person she was on the phone with- mocking his pat answers and stupid voice and career decisions.

It was me of course.  I realized when my own voice was echoing off the dining room walls and the phone was covered in rage-spittle.  The Grip was gone.  I was entirely unhinged…a decade of therapy and self help books and meditating and exercise to reduce anxiety just erased with one too many pointless conversations pleading with a piss-faced (probably), dough-lidded, numbskull.

The worst part is that I got the erroneous charge reversed.  And I was refunded another $80 for various upsets and outrages.  Because that’s how I found out that sometimes screaming at people gets them to act right.  I was hoping that my maturity and the wisdom of my advancing age would confirm my other life philosophy: You Catch More Flies With Honey.  You Catch More Flies With Fly Poison is kind of a downer.

So there you have it.  I’m going to press publish this time, and hope that writing again will help even out my Gripless existence.  I really don’t want to be one of those stressed out dicks in a skirt suit screaming at the Starbucks barrista for forgetting the whip cream. I mean, I would never order a drink at Starbucks that came with whip cream because I’m a snob about ordering actual coffee- not liquid candy bars- but who knows where this is going to all lead?  It’s time to take back control of my life.  First I’ll press publish, then I’ll look up what other cable providers service my building, then I’ll go to bed.

And when Hazel gets up at 4 in the morning and says ” MAMA WHEWE AWE YOU?  COME HEWE!” I’m going thank the universe for the 1265th time for the privilege of being a stressed out mom with a successful business.

If I Could Write, I Would Write About This… Monday July 22nd


Life is moving too fast, and I’m constantly worried I’m not paying enough attention.  I should be writing this all down but then something else comes up and the moment slips away.  So today I’m going to stop being a blogging perfectionist.  I’m just going to make a list of things I wish I had written about.*

Here’s everything I can think of, in no particular order:

- Starting my own business

- Tom graduating from law school

- Tom starting bar review the next day.  Poor Lucky Me having to learn how to not be a total brat while he studies.

- Hazel’s trips to the beach

- My brother, sister-in-law and nephew’s 4th of July visit

- Hazel learning how to spin until she’s dizzy

- Hazel getting closer every day to talking by getting her animal sounds down pat (there was a lot of swooning by the adult crew when she “mooooo’ed”)

- Me worrying about a whole new set of disasters as a business owner

- Hazel starting daycare

- My renewed interest in running

- Tom getting closer and closer to the bar; my pride watching him study like he was born to pass this test; my continued struggle not to act like a brat

- The day I bought a potty and let it sit in the bag for two weeks while we contemplated how grown up Hazel was getting

- Hazel’s favorite hobbies: bashing her head and face into stuff, torturing the dog, kissing the dog, dancing, getting pushed on her vintage tricycle (only in the backyard until I find a helmet and attach the seatbelt), waking up at 5:45 and pointing at the TV for cartoons, dragging her bag of baby golf clubs around the house in search of the one baby golf ball that came with the set.

But the biggest thing I want to write about is how much of her own self Hazel is.  I thought when you had a baby they would be very much like you, almost like those plants that if you cut a piece off and put it in water a new plant grows.  I thought that’s why people put their children in beauty pageants and pushed them to play sports or whatever they didn’t get to do as children.  Our reality is that Hazel seems to have arrived on the planet as her very own person, with her own ideas and jokes and a passion for the most disgusting fruit on the planet (bananas) that genetics just can’t explain.

Sometimes I understand why people believe in God, or magic, or why I keep going to a psychic.  You watch this little person, this little Herself, and marvel at the mystery of our time on the planet.  So often I feel like a cave-lady, wondering how the natural world fits me in, wondering how the universe delivered this person into my arms.  And even when she’s biting me, or elbowing me in the throat while we nap together, or launching her face into the patio, I sigh with relief that she somehow found her way to me.



*and maybe I still will!

The Myth of Firsts- Friday March 22th

I had a lot of anxiety about missing all of Hazel’s “firsts” while I was at work.  It’s one of the many parenting misconceptions I got from watch TV and movies, and I was shocked to realize I had again been misled.

At first when I would see Hazel start to learn something new, I would become consumed with figuring out how to orchestrate it so I was there when she made her achievements. But while I was obsessing, I noticed that what I thought would be gigantic developmental milestones actually unfurled slowly.  A whole long process was made out of the art of crawling.  She spent days perfecting rocking back and forth on all fours.  I think it was two weeks before she was really motoring around the house, chasing the dog and laughing hysterically.

When Hazel first stood up on her own and looked around the room proudly, I thought I would faint with pride and love and fear.  My little hot potato was going to walk, and I was going to miss it.  After her first birthday party, I enlisted my Dad to stand two steps away and catch Hazel when I stood her up and launched her towards him.  ”She took a step!” I screamed and made a mental note of the date and time and that I was there, not at my desk in my office.

But the real walking happened in bits and pieces.  She would progress, then regress.  She would be reckless then cautious.  She wanted to hold our hand a lot to keep her balance so she could move faster.  Tom and I watched and applauded and took pictures and slapped each other on the back and in the midst of it all our baby because a little girl.  Just like that.

Obviously, this shattered myth makes me wonder about so many things I’ve avoided.  Swimming after eating, crossing my eyes while getting hit on the back of the head, riding my bike while I have my period, drinking alcohol while taking medication.

I think the one thing I’ve learned about being a parent is to have no expectations- not of yourself or your child or your spouse.  My family is our own little entity, and we are learning to function in our own way.  TV is great for so many things, but failed at predicting what it would be like to watch new people experience life (no offense TV, you know we’re cool right?).


Moody- Wednesday January 23rd

I used to think I was really moody.  I went to a shrink once who asked if my depression lasted two weeks or more.  I thought that was a stupid question.  My depression lasts two to three hours, then I’m deliriously happy, then I’m pensive, then I’m tired, then I’m crabby, then I’m worried, then I’m frantic, and this goes on and on and on.  If I was in one mood for two weeks I’d be incredibly relieved, even if the mood was depressed. At least I’d be able to rely on my reaction to things.

Then Hazel arrived, and I realized I didn’t even know what a mood swing was.  These past 34 years of moods are nothing compared to the wild brain heaving that has happened since I became a parent to a living child.  Here’s a typical day:

Begin drive to work: Happy, feel like it’s my free time to listen to This American Life and look at the city.

Mid-Drive to work: Hate every choice I’ve made except the lovely wonderful man I married, the children I’ve had, and going to Rome for my Junior year abroad.  Everything else sucks.  Wonder why I didn’t have the courage to have more adventures.  Hate self.  Hate life.  Feel fat.

Arrive at Work: Heart fills with love getting my old dog out of the car.  Grateful to get to bring her to work.  Laugh at her antics.

Actual Work: Miss Hazel so bad it hurts.  Feel proud of small accomplishments, then enraged by small infractions or things that don’t go my way.  Then feel neutral about things not going my way because, after all, I have Tom and Hazel and my old dog and I’m not a coal miner in China so things aren’t that bad.  Laugh, laugh, tell 12 stories hoping my co-workers will think two are funny.  Then get so pissed off by someone or something that I have to bitch at the top of my lungs until my co-workers (who were just laughing at my great stories) hide under their desks or pretend to get a phone call on their cell phones.  ”The ringer was off” they’ll mouth, to explain why it didn’t ring.  But I know it’s because of my exhausting but articulate vitriolic ranting. Try to calm down, but do not succeed because spell check can’t figure out what I’m trying to write, or because I can’t uninstall Adobe reader.  Then I’m tired. Eat food. Feel energized and grateful again for the things in my life that are lovely and sweet and fun.  Miss Hazel with a happy longing- I can’t wait to see her but it doesn’t makes me depressed, like it does early in the day.

End of day: Wild card.  Either fantasize about valium or feel like I’m experiencing a serotonin surge (“natural high”).  Either skip to my car or drag myself to car.  Either pull Ramona along with irritation or smile at her cuteness.

Drive Home: Get on Lake Shore Drive with an urgency that borders on mania.  Shake fist at cab drivers who honk at me.  Speed past the Belmont exit, then calm down.  Enjoy free time.  As I approach home, I have a new feeling; born of the prospect of seeing my daughter.  It’s a happiness that shouldn’t even count as happiness, because it’s so huge.  It’s so huge I could easily tow a train with my teeth like Jack Lalanne or swim the English channel.

Arrive Home: When I walk in the door, I can’t remember one thing that happened that day.  I leave my purse in the car so I’m unfettered and can’t stop to hang up my coat.  I run to Hazel and grab her and squeeze her and make her laugh and we dash around the house playing and reading books until bedtime.  I am often “shushed” by members of my household because my exuberance makes me talk like I’m on a crowded bus. Also, Hazel thinks my realistic animal noises are funnier if they’re loud.

Post-Hazel-Bedtime: Rehash the many annoyances and injustices of the day.  Worry that I’m failing.  Worry that Tom is sick of me worrying.  Get bored of worrying, work on the NYTimes Crossword (Mondays only).  Feel content….for a little while.

I tell myself that I’m excellent at appearing normal.  I have to tell myself that, or I’ll be in a bad mood.

Hazel’s Birthday Adventure! Friday December 14th

The author feigning bravery while her daughter remains vigilantly on watch

The celebrate the day that Hazel arrived on planet earth (aka The Best Day Of My Life), Tom and I decided it was time to enter into the overpriced, overstimulating world of children’s restaurantainment: we went to the Rain Forest Cafe.

Hazel is a big fan of animals and junk food, so we were confident that it’d be a hit.  Tom had been before with some younger cousins, but I had no idea what I was walking into.  In fact, Hazel and I clutched each other with equal desperation when we encountered the animatronic snake hanging above the hostess stand.  I tried to collect myself and be brave to show Hazel that giant burmese pythons were nothing to be afraid of as long as they were hanging from the ceiling of a restaurant franchise owned by Disney.

We followed the sign that told us “Your Adventure Starts Here!” and were delighted at every turn.  Huge saltwater fish tanks provided ambient light, a crashing waterfall added to the din of excited children, and a canopy of flowering vines opened briefly to reveal twinkling stars against an inky sky.  Occasionally it would thunder and lightening, and the gorillas and elephants were so lifelike that a person without her glasses on might be startled every time she caught a glimpse of one.

Hazel’s mind was completely blown.  She would demand to be taken over to the elephants, then gather up all her courage when they flapped their ears and waved their trunks.  She happily pointed out the monkeys and parrots and clapped when fish swam by.  When lunch arrived, Hazel had no interest in eating, but did manage to settle down long enough to snag a few fries off of her Dad’s plate.  She munched and pointed and munched and pointed.

After lunch I took her to visit my Dad at work, who had prepared by snagging three slices of cake from the annual Holiday party.  She crawled around his office, pulling herself up on the coffee table long enough to eat cake and bash breakable items together.


My Dad encouraged this behavior and provided her with her favorite toys to play with: fragile antiques and newspapers.

One poop and several yawns later, it was time to head home.  Hazel was asleep before I pulled the car out of the parking spot.  She napped like she was trying to qualify for the napping Olympics.  When she finally woke up, I think she was a little disappointed to find the house free of jungle animals and stacks of papers held together by binder clips.  But I made her feel better by letting her eat half her weight in chocolate chips.

That night when Tom got home from studying, we put Hazel to bed with extra kisses and snuggles.  This year went by so fast, just like everyone said it would.  It feels like in the next ten minutes, Hazel will be going to school, then driving, then living in her own apartment in Paris, then being her own grown up self, then driving me to get my hair fixed once a week when Tom and I live in a retirement community.

I’m excited to watch Hazel find her way through life, I just hope I can figure out a way to bend the time-space continuum in the meantime…I’d like a few more baby years with this darling.

F U NaNoWriMo- Friday November 16th

I gathered up all my courage and optimism again this year and joined National Novel Writing Month. The challenge is to write 50,000 words during the month of November.  You put the number of words you’ve written in a little box and hit “return” and then you see a graph of how much more you have to write to finish your novel!*

This year was very exciting because I finally had something.  I found that mental nugget I’ve been waiting for since I decided to become a writer when I was in the third grade.  I even had a few pages already written, so I’d have a head start.  After entering the words I had already written and finding out on November 1st that I’d “only” have to write about 1600 words a day to reach my goal, I pretended not to feel discouraged.  ”Slow and steady wins the race” I told myself.

The thing is, slow and steady actually doesn’t win the race.  I can’t think of a single race that could be won by going slowly but steadily, unless it takes place at a corporate picnic and dictates that your feet are tied to a co-worker’s feet.  The steady part makes sense…but slow?  Why would going slowly end up making you faster?  It just doesn’t make any sense.

I tried to put these thoughts out of my head, and just get to it.  Every spare moment I had I tried to bang out a few sentences.  My word count and my pride began to grow.  After a few days I checked my graph again.  Number of words I have to write every day to finish?  Only 2200.  My heart sank, but I pretended again not to be deterred.  More pretending; I didn’t even notice that impossible number, I’m not to beating myself up about my lack of focus and amount of time spent on the couch after Hazel goes to bed vs. writing my novel, I will achieve my goal!  These are complex pretending scenarios for an adult.

That was 10 days ago.  I haven’t written another word.  I’ve tinkered.  I’ve proof read and moved sentences and changed fonts.  I’ve given my computer screen the finger.  And I think it’s time to admit that I am not competitive, and cannot be motivated by racing.  In fact, competing tends to make me shut down and just give up.  If I were in the Olympics for figure skating, I’d probably forget my skate laces back at the room just so I wouldn’t have to try and then lose. If I were a runner, I’d probably eat a bagel and cream cheese and a sausage biscuit from McDonalds and a large orange juice and barf mid-way through the race.  It’s as if my brain is working against me.  It’s misfiring the synapses to my fingers so that I don’t press the keys.

3853 words per day to finish.

The stupidity of this number has finally cured my neurotic paralysis.   Before NaNoWriMo I was so proud of getting down a whole paragraph in a day.  My capacity to write 3853 words every day is equal to my capacity to fly. I will go back to my routine of writing when I want to.  That’s what works for me: doing what I want to do, and avoiding doing things that are annoying.  I’m not proud of this, I’m just telling you the truth.

I’m back to writing a little bit everyday.  I aim for a sentence and am so proud when I get out a paragraph.  I respect you NaNoWriMo, but I just don’t think it’s going to work out between us.  I would say we could stay friends, but we both know I’ve already started secretly hating you.



*The point is to just write write write, and edit later.



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