Not Bad

Photo by Neel

I know this doesn't hold much authority. Probably saying your mother likes your story is more impressive, but I have to mention--I don’t know why I have to mention, but you’ve got to fill these blog posts with something,--I just read one of the short stories I wrote: a flash fiction piece and I was able to get a little outside myself for once and just read it like I’d read a regular story, detached a bit and not analyzing every mistake or worried about whether it’s accepted or not. It was pretty good. I mean not a masterpiece, but decent. I’m rather impressed with myself.

In less sillily self-congratulating news, I’m into new thought books. I’m  unimpressed with Joe Suit blabbering on about his three hundred dollar law of attraction course "definitely a 2000 dollar value”, act now or be lost, but sometimes the classic books are written so nicely I get swept up in the language and excited. I’m talking mainly about As a Man Thinketh by James Allen and The Game of Life and How to Play it by Florence Scovel Shinn. There’s something very satisfying about  reading them whether they work or not or whether I want them to.

Slowly going through Hamnet, but now I have a junky horror novel,  so we’ll see if the former goes to shit. However, at this point, Maggie O'Farrell has my attention.

In these uncertain unprecedented times my reading patterns are weird. I’m just reading because I want to, when I want to, with no effort to improve my writing, or mind, or anything. It’s works for me now. I don’t know for how long though.

 

Photo by Jose Antonio Gallego Vázquez

Meanwhile Roe plays too much Bruce Springsteen. I like him too, but every songs so vivid and incredibly dramatic I can take him more in limited quantities. Like a small block of fudge is delicious, but ten blocks of fudge gives you a stomach ache. She enjoying him so much, however, I don’t want to say anything about it to her. I’m thinking of silently suffering  as long as she doesn't play Point Blank more then once.