I know it’s been an extremely long time since last I wrote here, but things have gone all peculiar. My life has been swinging back and forth between boring morass and very-close-to-fascinating morass. I successfully completed my 50,000-word novel for National Novel-Writing month, and I’m now in the process of applying for a copyright for it, only because I’m hoping, within the next few months, to have it polished well enough to send to a publisher. Strangely, the biggest crisis that’s arisen on that front thus far is trying to decide whether or not to use a pseudonym. I don’t think I will. After all, nobody’s likely to bother me on my first book.
Another issue that’s been digging its claws into my life is the persistent need to move out. I’m starting to feel more and more like a dork for remaining at home for the first two semesters of college, and it seems increasingly important that I start making my own way in life.
Speaking of that, I’ve managed to get my midlife crisis out of the way. Better to have it at eighteen than forty, I say. I’ve realized — finally — that I have a finite amount of time on Earth, and I damned well better do something useful with it. Thus the sudden re-emergence of interest in working on my book.
And I’m sure I promised some updates on Charlie’s senior exit project. The thing is, I haven’t heard from him since early January. I hope he’s doing well, wherever the hell he is.
On a completely unrelated note, my quest to play the theremin has momentarily stalled; though I could have bought an amplifier at any time between now and Christmas, I haven’t gotten around to it. My schedule is very hectic and scattered, leaving my day chopped up into little useless islands that seem to work best as doorstops.
Why, oh why do I gravitate so much towards morass-ness (and why doesn’t English have a suitable word for morass-ness?)?