I wonder, in how many of my post, I have started by saying, “I have not written in a while.” I’m getting a little sick of repeating myself. I mean, who the hell am I talking to anyway? Mainly, me right? I didn’t know I hadn’t written in a while? I have been so unaware of me not writing that I have to point it out to me? “Hey me, did you notice you haven’t written or even posted?” Do you understand the madness?
I’m sick of the dreary weather. I say this every year. Funny thing is the winter has been somewhat mild, but it doesn’t matter, I’m sick of it. I guess, it may be the fact that the summer I spent in Canada was mostly grey and wet. Not to mention, I feel the effect of cloud cover and grey. Instinctively, I believe I should be hibernating, not moping around the planet.
Anyway, my reading time has been up. I finished a Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Night and I’m starting a new book called Dawn (the second book in the trilogy by Elie w) I’ve done plenty of writing for the store blog. I had my first interview or I guess I should write, I interviewed someone. I have another one coming up in February. Things will soon get busy again since I will start working with the kids again. I’m booked doing the writing workshops from the end of January till the end of March.
I’ve been research geeking out (oh if only people would pay me for that!) A friend gave me a copy of Knowledge Magazine and I read an article about real-life stories of the Holocaust. I went to the Holocaust website project: Voices of the Holocaust, last night, and read a few of the transcripts. Since, I am reading Elie Wiesel, I am emersed in stories from the Jewish Holocaust, and no matter how many I read, I never stop being shocked at the level of cruelty and the level of human survival. It is a constant fluctuation between loving and being wondrously amazed by human kind and abhorring it.
Right now I can say, novel schpovel. I have no idea if I’ll finish that son of a bitch. I swear. I need my own planet so I can stop comparing myself to the wunderkind writers that pop up and exist, because until I do I don’t think I’ll finish anything. Except one short story.