A Very Small Life

It's been a pretty quiet weekend. Yesterday my friends were out on excursions and I did some thinking.

Planning, actually, or maybe just what passes for it in my life. Left to my own devices I got bored. I started reading, checking on things, and knew one of the groups I wanted to see was playing at a bookstore as part of Rob's book announcement tour. Checked around, and ended up seeing if I wanted to go I'd have to ride the bus. Not so bad, and it would be possible to take a fairly direct route home (one of the troubles with LA mass transit is that it effectively dies after nine at night).

On the plus side, I'd be able to see some people, listen to the Violet Rays, and have a good time. On the down side, I'd be waiting for half an hour at eleven at night in a neighborhood I know nothing about except reputation. I would, no doubt, be the only middle aged white guy standing on a corner, trying to look nondescript.

That's not so bad, but the battery in my watch is dead. Having a working timepiece is helpful when you're catching buses. It's a long haul to the only place I know of to get my watch fixed, so I hopped on my bike and rode to this mall that has a jeweler guy working a cart on the floor.

I stopped on the way and looked for long-sleeved T-shirts (there was one, with a huge, disqualifying Fila logo) and tea kettles. Again, I don't *need* a tea kettle (I can boil water in a sauce pan) but I don't *have* a tea kettle so I've been oddly obsessed with buying one. They had a little cheap one, and I thought I'd pick it up on my way back.

Got to the mall and my ATM card didn't work in either of the machines I tried. Rode back home in a funk, realizing also that this hour a day of exercise as mandated by government is entirely too much exercise.

Without the watch it was easy to talk myself out of the bus rides, the book signing, and the concert.

Today I clipped some branches into small enough pieces to fit in the cans and wished, not for the first time, that I owned a chipper. On the bright side, it was warm enough for me to wear shorts and be stripped to the waist.

(writing musings in "more"...)



Got another chapter written.

I'm more convinced than ever that I've been a fool. It sounds ridiculous, but I think I've been laboring under this idea that I can write like the Dickens (if not Dickens, himself). My epiphany the other day that I can only write as well as Russell writes is at the same time both freeing and also humbling.

I can certainly make my writing better, can clear up obvious errors and smooth over rough patches, but I can't transform my writing into something other than, well, MY writing. I think I've kind of been trying that, hoping to write some great piece that will please everyone.

All I can do is write my damn story. It won't be earth-shattering, but I'd like for it to please some people. I'd like for it to be something someone would be pleasantly surprised to read, something they'd enjoy reading, and the time spent reading it as not a waste.

I also have decided I write far too lightly. I don't dig deep into scenes, into place, and just scratch the surface of everything that's going on. Part of that is because I've never worked in trophy shops, have never inherited a bookstore, nor had identical twin sisters. I could research more, and I'm hoping my light touch isn't fatal, but just my style. The biggest compliment I could receive is that I have so much story going on that my failure to explore in depth is understandable because of pace.

I tell myself that, a lot.