Writing is a worm beneath a brick. Fits and bursts. List of things to do in a notepad, notes in a weight loss spreadsheet. Nothing left after that. No description. No caress. No care, as before, way before any of this.
There’s a Film & Literature class and a Screenwriting class next semester. That’s something. A test of the longevity of this interest. Not giving up, in my mind. Not exactly. More like moving on to the next thing. There’s always the next.
A mantra: Remember Pleasanton. Got stuck there. No money. Maxed credit cards. Sold my Kindle to a painter for $20. The following week, sold my television for another $20. Sold my bicycle. Sold my guitar and my banjo. Did buy drill bits, a used car seat. Prepping the Cherokee to live in it. No more rent. No more needless waste of money for walls and a roof. My Cherokee’s got walls and a roof. It doesn’t cost me absurd amounts of money. Money. Money. Never a concern until now.
Bought a harmonica. Cheap one. Plays like a harmonica. Makes noise. Breaks the silence when there’s need for it.
January’s coming up. A month that is not this one. That’s exciting.