I had a dream last night that I had a small child. Probably around four years old. We were on a road-trip with the Dear Boy and the Best Friend. I had to scold the child and give her a time-out because she kept chasing after doggies (which is dangerous if the doggy runs across a road, see). She was cherubic and I felt so too.
Today the sun can't decide whether it is shy or not again. No new news there, really. Today I stopped smoking cigarettes. Again. I am repeating in my mind, "First commute, no smoking. First workday, no smoking," etc. Again. Oi.
I wonder if having a deadline for writing this book is hurting or helping. All the great authors maintain a writing schedule, I guess, they say. The thing is, I can write any lil ol' thing any time, it's the floods of hard inspiration that are getting this thing written. They strike at all times. That's kind of how I've always operated. I am an amateur, though, after all. I do not know, I do not know. I printed it all out today on paper and it's a bit heavy! That was nice to feel. Stuffed it in my backpack; it's now a thing that exists. It can be held in hands! Yours! And mine!
Anyway.
Oh! I figured out the strength thing, y'all. Some people have this tendency to hide their hurt at all costs. When something goes wrong in their life people ask, "Are you okay?" And they will always answer, "Oh yeah. Just fine." It leads one to assume they never have any problems. So there's that. It's just a privacy thing, I think. Some people operate in a solitary way that way, and that's fine.
Isn't it interesting how people are or are not the product of how they were raised? I see traits in myself that were definitely caused by my family. I also see traits in my family that I did not inherit. We've all met those people, too, that were raised in a horrible way but grew up straight and fit. Are our characters random outcomes?
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