Some days I wonder where my words are.
I have all this time again, the headhunters have been callbacked, the jobsites are empty, I have an interview next week for something wonderful, and that job from October is still writing me once every two weeks to keep me appraised of their budget situation, that they're progressing, that they'll be needing me soon.
I haven't been singing this week, the humidifier gang agley and waking up with sore throats just hasn't left me motivated.
The humidifier has moved, been cleaned, is now a tim'rous beastie and tomorrow I'll head back to my morning routine of spending two hours on my abs whilst caressing my plants and spit-shining the kitchen and doing more errands than I thought I knew how.
This week I had a handful of new headhunters to call, and new letters to write, and so I had all the excuses to skip out on Ye Banks and Braes oh bonnie Doon. I even managed to reply to some of my birthday emails, so that I can start on the really hefty ones soon.
Soon.
This week I've been hitting the XML book a little harder, finding my old studying postures wondering how I did it with five courses at a time, working full time and hating everything.
This week I've been glowing from praise from a certain beautiful young lady who whispered in my ear on Saturday night that my prose is like poetry. That I write beautifully.
Seeing Dave agree so vehemently, with that sincere face that he wears some times when he says the most wonderful things
Remembering conversations with Marvamillion and Andromeda-- and Geeks, I've been wanting to write a story again.
Sitting down to face Livejournal and diaryland, with this weight of COME UP WITH A STORYLINE RIGHT NOW AND CHARACTERS AND A LOGICAL CONFLICT is somehow stuffing cotton in my verbal diarhea.
I have all these huge project that I want to write. Kim's story. My story. Stories that have seeds in a hundred of these diaryland entries.
But first I just want to write a story. I want to make people up and make wonders appear for them.
I can do the writing. The morals. The thinking. The lessons, the meandering in between.
But gods, the ideas, the forms, the serpentine continuum escapes me.