Thought

I thought maybe I would be more likely to post on here more often if I didn't have huge expectations of writing brilliant in-depth essays studded with pictures with hilarious captions, and instead just wrote interesting (to me, anyway) text updates.

I've been letting so many things in my life slide lately, since I've been completely sequestered getting a bunch of books written -- I'm in the middle of a run of five back-to-back books, which of course are all bumping into each other because I'm so awful with deadlines. I shouldn't complain about having too much writing work -- so many other freelance writers I know are complaining about the exact opposite -- but man, I'm tired.

Reading my ancient (and neglected) journal last week, I noticed this post from November 8, 1997:

Circumscribed, limited, four walls and a cat. A boyfriend who visits occasionally, sends me electronic notes filled with semicolons, and sometimes calls on the phone. But mostly it's just me in here, dancing on the head of a pin.

Which is a notoriously slippery surface.

Damn, I thought, nothing has changed.

Except I have two cats now.