January 12, 2010


So suddenly, gazing at life's underbelly. Separate, compartmentalized from the constants: thankfulness, joy in the little things.

I don't so much feel sorry for myself anymore when these times roll around. I suppose, instead, I grow angry and impatient, willing the sore away with small bursts of positive thinking.

And writing.

I consider perhaps I write too much. There was a time when I thought letting often was a good thing, the healthy thing. But often, these days, it folds back on me when I look at the result -- words that are impotent, ineffective, purposeless.

I could be miserly about it and save up all the angst and weariness for something dramatic, at least fruitful. But then I run the risk of venting in other ways that hurt the people around me.

The novel is a catch-bin. I ought to collect the rain.


  1. Don't put pressure on yourself to be "profound" every time you write. Profundity will come just from telling people how you see things from where you're at. Some days it will all just come together, others it will not. Often those things that you think are trivial will be important to the one reading it.

  2. "Profound" thanks, Dan. Your advice comes at an uncannily appropriate time.