Sometimes I wonder why I haven't gotten farther. That disease that every writer has. Then sometimes I feel shy about the things I have. The wondering of 'Should I have this when people I know who are just as good as I am don't have what I have?' In the past two days this has come up. To which one person replied 'I don't know anyone who works harder than you do.' And another replied 'All of getting anywhere is more about persistence than anything.' I do need to own up sometimes to how effing hard I work. I mean, when I work, of course. Today I hiked with the dog all morning and afternoon, talked to Sheri on the phone for two hours, then watched three episodes of Dexter. Now I am weighing the options of sleep and theory. Specifically many many many many pages of theory on small-print blurry pdf that I have to have read for Tuesday.
Tonight I wish my vortex worked. Or that I could fold the 5. I will take theory to bed instead. I was going to do a post on recent things read. Or about sadness of leaving planted things. About my dog's negative type and how I hold her collar and rub her chest until the bad men pass. I was going to post on changes and things staying the same. What does and doesn't. About the reading the other night. And conspiracies, conspiracies, conspiracies. And how everyone I talked to had something else I needed to read. And now people don't understand that this is like handing a junkie a needle. You tell me I should read something, I read something. It is a problem. I could have worse problems. But you can see the anxiety in this, right?