Bitten by what couldn't be chewed
Work for the year is finally done. Well, the work I perform in an attempt to make a living, at least. I have eight chapters to write before I return on the 3rd and somehow, looking back over things, I thought I'd be farther along than I am. That includes progress on this blog, as well.
In other news, I finally have some sort of concept for what I'm doing with my twitter account. I call it the 140 Characters Project, that is to say, 140 tweets of 140 different characters, each no more than 140 characters.
An example:
Going without made her go within:red walls,kinky carpet,locked doors.Looked fine to her.She wrote wish lists,put to music,asking why not her
I plan on celebrating my progress at each of the four quarters (at 35, 70, 105 and 140) , the first of which is a dozen or so tweets away. I realize even if I wrote one a week (which I'm not), it would still be a labor of some years. Somehow, though, I can't back off my initial statement. I think about conversations about goal setting. The reachable ones are laudable, granting one a feeling of accomplishment and what not, but the untenable ones create a more constant surge of energy, and on the off chance that one completes it... well, that's just magical.
I was north of the perimeter last night, and the acquaintance of a friend and I dueled with glances. I knew of him, and he of me, but we didn't really know each other. Eventually, he made his way over to where I had entrenched myself and asked if I was who I was. I replied in the affirmative. His next question stunned me a bit: "You wrote a book, right?" And it surprised me because the friend who linked us together didn't like the book. He's one of the few people I've spoken to who didn't, which I can live with, but I figured that sort of distaste would prevent him from telling people about my efforts. Nothing more was said, though; I was too busy with what I was doing and guffawing. Later that evening I called a different friend and he said, "Can I call you back, I'm on the other line with my brother. He's buying your book," and at that point, I began to maybe think I have some really good people behind me, willing me forward.
The weather outside is far from frightful, but it is Georgia. So it could turn for the worse any second. And that wouldn't necessarily be the most awful thing for me. My life has been unusually social of late. I want to blame that activity on my decreased writing pace. I want to blame someone. But whether or not things continue to proceed in this pattern, or if they taper off expectantly, the same work I've set for myself will still need doing. And so I will do it. At least, that's what we're going with today.
In other news, I finally have some sort of concept for what I'm doing with my twitter account. I call it the 140 Characters Project, that is to say, 140 tweets of 140 different characters, each no more than 140 characters.
An example:
Going without made her go within:red walls,kinky carpet,locked doors.Looked fine to her.She wrote wish lists,put to music,asking why not her
I plan on celebrating my progress at each of the four quarters (at 35, 70, 105 and 140) , the first of which is a dozen or so tweets away. I realize even if I wrote one a week (which I'm not), it would still be a labor of some years. Somehow, though, I can't back off my initial statement. I think about conversations about goal setting. The reachable ones are laudable, granting one a feeling of accomplishment and what not, but the untenable ones create a more constant surge of energy, and on the off chance that one completes it... well, that's just magical.
I was north of the perimeter last night, and the acquaintance of a friend and I dueled with glances. I knew of him, and he of me, but we didn't really know each other. Eventually, he made his way over to where I had entrenched myself and asked if I was who I was. I replied in the affirmative. His next question stunned me a bit: "You wrote a book, right?" And it surprised me because the friend who linked us together didn't like the book. He's one of the few people I've spoken to who didn't, which I can live with, but I figured that sort of distaste would prevent him from telling people about my efforts. Nothing more was said, though; I was too busy with what I was doing and guffawing. Later that evening I called a different friend and he said, "Can I call you back, I'm on the other line with my brother. He's buying your book," and at that point, I began to maybe think I have some really good people behind me, willing me forward.
The weather outside is far from frightful, but it is Georgia. So it could turn for the worse any second. And that wouldn't necessarily be the most awful thing for me. My life has been unusually social of late. I want to blame that activity on my decreased writing pace. I want to blame someone. But whether or not things continue to proceed in this pattern, or if they taper off expectantly, the same work I've set for myself will still need doing. And so I will do it. At least, that's what we're going with today.
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