I write, therefore I am.

I’m currently full of phlegm, in my head and lungs. My back aches from constant coughing, and in the last 24 hours I have suffered the added indignity of explosive diarrhea.

I’m beginning to suspect that my body is trying to tell me something.

Should I write children’s books for kids with low literacy? It’s tempting, but is there a market besides schools? Maybe if I developed an online diagnostic tool (fuck that sounds like a lot of work) that put children on a scale and then said “Read books C,D, and E, then complete the workbooks for grammar and spelling.” That sounds like a money maker but I’d need a collaborator or two. It’s very tempting. I’m not into reinventing the wheel though, pictures are needed but I can’t draw, which means I need an artist to collaborate with. Comics are the way to go I think. I could do photos of models into a comic, but I don’t want it to look cheap.

The eternal quests of the capitalist, make it cheaply, but don’t make it look cheap.

Fuck my back aches.

I last posted a day before my 31^st birthday.

I turned 31, and some things have happened since then.

My relationship with Daniel has gone from strength to strength.

I’ve planted a little garden.

Time has slipped past me.

I’ve been responsible, and irresponsible.

I have read a lot (and not so much) for my book club.

I’ve stopped writing.

The last one worries me. I could give you any number of reasons why I haven’t written anything. I’m tired, I’m busy, I’m uninspired, I’m not enjoying it. All of those things are true to a degree, and also untrue to a degree.

I write because there is something inside me that needs release, an idea clawing for freedom. I have had ideas and they are building like a storm. Ideas that go beyond simple blog posts.

I think Doctor Who said it best when he said “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”.

Indeed it is not.