The Lapsed Writer's Lament With such potential
I lay my pen to paper
And I get nothing.
A good deal of my dream last night dealt with my struggle to write a short story, as an assignment for some high school class which had been neglected out of mounting frustration with my inability to write anything that didn't sound like utter shit. I don't remember what any of my aborted attempts were about, but I do remember that there was a lot of dialog. I've always been terrible at writing dialog that doesn't stick in the flow of writing like an eyesore. Even now, the
word dialog seems to be unwieldy, or perhaps misspelled in some way (it's not, I checked).
Anyway.
Mostly moved from old to new place, and am reveling in the difference that decent insulation and double-paned windows makes when attempting to cool a place to livable temperatures with minimal air conditioning. Have not really and truly begun unpacking, for two reasons: One is that Gill and Ian, though I love them dearly, left much of the house butt-ass filthy, and I really can't justify putting things into cupboards and drawers that will only have to be emptied and cleaned again, even with my tendency to laziness and ignoring dirt. The other is that I need a thing to put my clothes in, as my previous thing was a closet with shelves in the sides, and my new closet, though much more spacious, has no shelves in the sides (and that was a less than ideal solution anyway, as things kept falling down). Now that we have the room for one, I want a chest of drawers. All I have to do now is find one for the purchasing that doesn't break the bank.
Ikea seems promising. But since I went over to look at that in the middle of writing this, I've kind of lost momentum and interest... till later, internets.
Current Mood: 
awake 
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