I don’t like snow skies. I don’t like grey air and grey skies. Not one bit. I look at the ground a lot when there’s sky-poop happening.
I don’t mind when the sky poop lands and it’s all pretty and sparkly and new and fresh and why the shit did I only wear sandals to this retreat because now it’s snowing and who does that? Who. Does. That.
Anyway, I think I’ve finished the second draft of a novel that, the more I think about it, the more it seems derivative, but then I squint my eyes a bit and it’s not so bad. I think it’ll be okay. I guess you could argue that everything since the very first novel is derivative. Maybe it’s not even all that bad of a thing. At least it’s identifiable.
Probably it isn’t at all. Derivative, I mean. It’s just that I’ve been sitting at this writing desk for three days and I’ve managed to get a novel completely rewritten and I think my eyes might be bleeding. I only sobbed twice. A day.
So I’ll look at the sky poop laying around on the ground and hope my bald tyres get me home today and I guess start on a new book. Maybe it’s time to try to compile a poetry manuscript.