Oh, well, yes ... that ...

I don't know why I have a blog, I mean, a friend asked me once, and then she insisted that I wanted to be read, but I don't always want to be read, and I have a censor voice that tells me that other people would think I'm not honest here, or that I'm trying to be flashy there, or I'm being pretentious, or this, or maybe also that. But there's another part of me that wants people to explore with me, perhaps to explore me. I don't know.

I would like to be a morning writer, I would like to be a morning writer, I would like to be a morning writer. I used to be; now my late nights catch up past my bedtime into the morning.

Sometimes my early mornings feel so debased by the anxious feeling to do stuff that I do other things and don't write mornings. I feel I wouldn't get anything accomplished otherwise and perhaps because of the void or morning sickness I need to fill up the tank, make my morning action packed, travails ahead en route, get on with the program (whatever the program may be, which I don't always know, of course). And that's that for now, pretty much, I mean, I can't say. I know it's true I don't follow my writing chores and I feel I should not let myself down, I mean, sidetracking and all.

I don't drink, so I don't write drunk. I don't know if that's a disadvantage, but I do write in awful states of mind: confused, paranoid, blank, moody, empty, washed out, headachy, counter intuitively, almost not grammar correcting, spell checking a must, but not too thorough, don't want to break the spell (guilt is not enough to revise a brain that doens't tic tac). And spilling it all out (or some) makes me feel better somehow, that inner voice that lingers, ever so lightly or much so sternly. So often I think my writing is rubbish, but maybe it’s just that minute in time that’s rubbish, not the writing, and not the next minute after that. Or even then, doesn’t matter.