Libran Indecision at work

Had a great day today! And that is all that will be said on that front. Plan to spend my free time this week figuring out which "story" to tackle first: the one tentatively titled, "He's a 12 year old pedophile. And he's my foster brother." Or the one about being in the idyllic Cheshire countryside, lying in wait in the boot (trunk) of the car, but don't worry because it's not locked and soon you can get out and have hot chocolate in the kitchen of a terminally ill and totally oblivious stranger, finish your homework and go to bed, and then get back into the boot of the car the next morning, after tea in the kitchen of totally oblivious, terminally ill patient (except for that one time when totally oblivious, terminally ill patient's daughter caught a glimpse of you...) (title pending). Or perhaps a different story entirely....

Look Ma: I can read!

So, as part of the renewed effort to get the writer in me to surface, have been revisiting my past a lot. Recently recalled that in England I was somehow taught to read using the initial teaching alphabet (I.T.A.) which probably means that reading Etruscan -- or at the very least Finnegan's Wake -- should be as easy as "A, B, C"...



Or perhaps exposure to I.T.A. forms the procrustean bed for my excuses for NOT writing: given the limitations of the qwerty keyboard, Cowboi Smaull is a pretty hard act to follow....

Dear Bloggie-thingie: I'll never abandon you (for so long) every again.

So I haven't written on this blog for two years...! It's gotten to the point where I occasionally get unsolicited messages asking me if I'd like to sell my blog space. Didn't know such a thing were possible. Was under the impression that this site allows you to put up a blog and then totally ignore it for years -- all for free.

Operating under the assumption that I can't sell this blog space for "big money" and then retire to a small, remote island in the Pacific, have decided that the years of writing procrastination have absolutely got to end. If I sometimes secretly compare unwritten stories to unborn children, at this point I've got great litter of long overdue pups that need liberating from the wound--I mean womb. But the real reason is that it's become increasingly clear that many of my untold tales are starting to rot and fester, turning into soul tumours and manifesting themselves as bad skin and bad attitude, consuming me. That is not such a good thing. It's gotta stop.

With that in mind, joined a couple of writers' groups in Tokyo today -- most seem to meet monthly or bimonthly, so I shall soon be showing up to writing salons, all nervous and tongue-tied, and with a total fear that there will be some sort of obligatory writing exercise. Writing on demand scares the crap out of me. As does having to critique or even review other writers' works. Must be the "I'm not worthy" subliminals which hum along uninterrupted day and night as the inaudible yet very effective soundtrack that accompanies my, er...life journey.

Anyway, perhaps meeting other writers will be just the fright I need to get writing. Now off to spend a couple of hours writing 1 paragraph plot summaries of the half dozen stories that need exorcising immediately, and then pulling hair while trying to figure out which one to actually get down and dirty with first. At the very least, I'll end up yanking out enough hair to comfortably wear "Whitney Houston" wig I bought recently!