Sliding down the side track

A non-descript night but one well into the past category. It is cold and a little bit sunny out. I'm guessing in the 20's. The dogs are outside and loving it. They must have very hardy feet. They both love running around on the icy ground and chasing each other. There is something about the cold weather that dogs love. Maybe the smells are clearer for them. I can't believe that more animals come out in the cold to run around, which would definitely appeal to them. It must be that they can smell things more clearly. I should look that up.

Still no picture to work on. Maybe later. Yesterday I practiced my printing for a couple hours. I need to do that more often. It's actually a very enjoyable way to spend time. I should put on an audiobook and practice. It is one of the things you can do without much critical thinking.

I have been thinking about writing on the story and have even done a few paragraphs but something is keeping me from throwing myself into it. I think I know how I will end the book and it will involve me going back and enlarging some earlier parts to bring out more character in the protagonist and change his reaction to the stories of the others he encounters. I also need to rewrite the story of his father. It is a very deep and interesting story and it needs to draw the reader in and involve them. It just won't work if the back story of his family is boring.

I should go back and read Roberta's reaction to it to see what I can change to make the back story work better.

In the meantime, I am running out of things to amuse myself while at the same time making sure that I accomplish nothing. I'm a little hesitant to start writing in earnest, especially now that I have a plan, in case I get into it and then the pictures start rolling in to work on. Of course, that's probably just an excuse for me not to write. I'm good at those. It's unlikely that they will send me pictures on Friday the 13th to work on, especially as it is a three day weekend for academics.

All this leads me back to the conclusion that I should engage the mind to begin the writing and see if I can latch on to the thread again. If I can, it would benefit me in a number of ways. Better than going to a psychiatrist or priest.

Writing can carry me away or bring me home, bind me or set me free. It fills while it empties and drags me screaming and kicking to the mirror to confront my accuser and my worst enemy. It tricks me into confessing my sins and base motives by disguising them in the mask of a character I think I've created from nothing. It forces me to answer to a lifetime of charges before a jury of my most vindictive and understanding peers. It allows me to confess and receive judgment and be forgiven and, at least for a little while, take a rest from my lifetime of running and hiding.

The best time to work on the story is right after I've written on this blog. So here I go.

More later,