It has been an odd couple weeks for me. Best laid plans, you know. I had expected to foist off my manuscript on the poor people who offered to look at it and then have a relaxing vacation, where I lay in the sun (there is no way to do that in Minnesota in November--I'm prone to delusions), reading novels while they toiled away, reading my broken one. Although, in my mind, reading it would be a breeze. I had fantasies that it would be an easy read, a few problems of course, but easy. And I would have a brief vacation from cruel manuscript, where, not only I would relax but I would whip my chaotic home life into shape and maybe write a few words on the next project.
The fazes since foisting off manuscript:
1. relief and illness = time to read (3 days)
2. dreaminess about the other projects I may start (3 to 5 days, still phleamy)
3. not actually starting said projects, just wandering around the house in a funk, sorting through piles of papers and making those past due phone calls (3 days)
4. finally cleaning the closets and delivering stuff to the thrift store (3 days)
5. insecurity (too much thinking makes Tina a dull girl)
Now, I've come to terms with the fact that I've tortured people that I really like with my inept attempt at fiction. Sorry folks. And my house is still chaotic, and perhaps even messier because the closets are empty and everything is piled all over the house.
So I have been thinking about blogging. Admiring other folks' blogs. I have a few things I want to do in my blog. Make a few friends. Have fun and keep track of things I like: videos, books, internet whatnot. Process some of my process (is that what I'm doing today?). It's time for me to inflict some kind of structure upon myself.
As always (you may ask yourself: does this girl think too much?),