It is rather strange that a plan is evolving wherein I'll have more time to write. Strange because it's actually growing in a Petri dish right now, never expecting it to be able to sustain viability outside the lab, but who knows? Frankenstein was never expected to lead an agrarian life either. (Go read the real Frankenstein. By Mary Shelley. :-)
Still dealing with stupid things that require faxing of death certificates and taking time off work. And a lassitude that hampers a real good belly laugh. Its name is probably Guilt, which is normal but oh so heavy and unwelcome a visitor in my life right now. I need Atlas.
Also assessing the past year of "dwindling access to the community" as the geriatric shrinks like to phrase it... and how my dad wasn't all that tuned into what my life was really like and how I was spinning a tidy little fiction for him. And how I might write that novel, since I'm not really living it.
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