Thursday, January 17, 2008


I finally changed my template. To hell with Yaser, PhD comics and the Dictionary of Canadian English. I'll put links up again someday.... I still don't know what possessed me to go with lime green in the first place. The only reason I could think of was that I went by the name, the template being called "Son of Moto", a name I found amusing even today. I think I've previously covered how I'm easily amused.

Remember how I was gloating about not being depressed anymore? Hah! So much for that! But I am better. Not suicidal. Usually able to get out of bed and function. Having serious trouble leaving the house though. I'm afraid really. Afraid to even ask my parents to go out. It's so very stressful and the slightest bit of extra stress seems likely to push me over the edge.

I was inspired to write today. I was reading through this blog:
and it reminded me of how good it felt to write. I dug out my "writing book", a lovely black leather thing that that best friend I have totally lost touch with gave me once. It has these long leather strings so that it can be tied up which allows me the illusion that my thoughts are safe inside. I know that the only things keeping my mother from going through it are a lack of interest and my legendary bad handwriting, (once on a road trip, people passed the time passing around my class notes and trying to decipher them). I scribbled down a hasty poem which needs work but is the sort of thing I write only for myself. Something meant to be cathartic and help me organize me thoughts that I don't see as being of a style that lends itself to sharing.

After I wrote my poem I took a look at the last thing I wrote. It was a few short paragraphs of what was going to be a short story and it ends very abruptly. I have very frustratingly not made any notes about where I was going with it; I guess at the time I was certain I get back to it soon. It's got characters from a story I no longer have, having left the disk with my only copy in a computer at Gerstein. The next day when I realized what I'd done it was too late. The disk was gone, no sign of it even in the lost and found. I was near tears since I'd worked on that story so long and it was a draining piece of work about a mutually abusive relationship. I didn't have the heart to try and rewrite it. Anyway, my paragraphs involved those same characters but was obviously set years before, when they were just getting to know each other. The writing is not the greatest; I think I was just trying to get down in words the atmosphere, the moment that had come to my mind at that moment. I don't know why the end is so abrupt and obviously incomplete, even if it was to be a vignette.

"...bent her head so he could feel her words warm and slightly moist against his jaw."

What words?? What the hell did she have to say? I annoy myself. Well, I've decided to make notes next time I write. I'd originally intended to extend that original now gone forever piece into a collection of short stories and actually had a second, (not missing), story already written.

As an end note, I've become somewhat better about back ups since that incident, but not much. This blog is certainly not backed up anywhere, not that I'm sure there's much here I'd want to save.


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