Harumph

My mother insists that I blog.  She's convinced that blogging will somehow magically alter me into The Writer I Am Destined To Be.  I - after a longish, errand-filled, rather dreary Saturday and a four-hour work shift - am decidedly NOT in the Blogging Mood.

So, it is with a grouchy spirit that I set about this task.

I've moved back home after two months cat-sitting in a hip downtown apartment.  So, I am once more beholden to someone else's chore-list, transportation needs, shower schedule and grocery preferences.  In return, I get regular human contact on a daily basis, which, I admit, is something I need for bare sanity's sake.  (You know you're not as much a loner as your thought you were when you start singing silly children's songs to cats...)

I got a job - a permanentish, more-than-part-time-ish job.  At a grocery store.  Bagging.  Three-cities over in Westminster - a 1.5 hour bus ride for my utterly car-less self.  I console myself with the fact that Mrs. Noe once worked at a MacDonalds, and Dr. Hake once worked as a chimney sweep.  I probably need to get over my pride for good and admit that I got _myself_ into this economic train-wreck.

I'm writing little eensy weensy bits and pieces of EVERYTHING, it seems.  The fantasy novel. The graphic novel. Poems. The play. The screenplay. The short story.  Occasionally, I stop typing and think: "Where the hell is this all going?  Where the hell am I going?  Why the hell am I doing this?"

And then I start typing again.