Stories from a life in progress.


I've been away longer than I expected.

When I finished the 40-day writing game, I intended to take a week off from writing, and I did.

The next week required a ton of cleaning in order to prepare my apartment for giving back, which we did.  I had vague thoughts of writing, but they quickly gave way to the needs of reality.

My apartment is gone now.  It's not mine anymore.  That project was all-consuming for a week, but it's done.  It was weird for a couple of days to think that I didn't have any reason to go there anymore.  I'm past that now.  I never hold onto the past long.  It seems ages ago, not a few days ago.

I don't know what to do next.  What to do now.  I felt more pressure to write at the beginning of the week, but it's faded.  Which means I need to make some words happen, or I'll lose it entirely.

I really don't know what happens now.  What do I do?  What do I want to do?  Big old questions.  Uncomfortable ones.  The obvious answers are terrifying: find work.  Build a new life.  Terrifying and enormous, far too large to manage.

I don't know what to do.  I have a clear afternoon, and I have no idea what to do with it.