I went to the college library and unloaded some guilt along with the unfinished books for the term paper (I’ll have to accept never really understanding the Mexican American War), went to my father’s house, brought him wood and groceries, set up his 2nd new battery jumper, cut his hair, and got back home where I finally sat down and cried.
Something’s going on, and part of it is Spinning and the part of me I’ve let you see that I’ve not let anyone but the very close to me see before. This is something akin to the question raised by Ben in a previous post which I’ll go back to once I’m more organized with this whole thing. I’m a fiction writer, not a journalist nor a diary-keeper. It’s presenting problems.
I’m not quite over displaying what I’d like to call artistically natural dramatic tragic tendencies, but I believe it to be more a simple childish tantrum and would like to mature a bit more before I get back online.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology