Jesus, look at that, I've already written a novel. A novel about me, hardly has a plot, pretty crummy writing and already 93 pages. What can I do with 200? or 1000? will it be just more of the same, or ever changing. I keep wondering who else will read this, other than me in later years. My parents, when I die, or surreptitiously before? My children? My teachers? My cousins, aunts, etc? does it make any difference? Of course! Because I am essentially writing for an audience, as yet unknown. Clap, ye knaves, clap! I want laurels and acclamations, sing ye forth with praise. It gives me an ego trip to think of people reading what I've written and going ooh, and aah. And it makes me laugh to think of them reading this section with knowing or analytical looks on their faces.
And now that fifteen year old has an audience (all three of you), and as embarassing as it is, it's also got ~ for me ~ the rubbernecking fascination of a roadside accident. It's all here just for you. No one in the Wayback Journal knows that it exists, or that it's online. It's a strange sensation for me, to be belatedly so visible.
10:59:01 PM
Common Pastimes
I said then:
Someday I'll have a nice stable relationship with some really neat guy.
All I can say is: bring it on. Better late than never.
They're always older and wiser and totally inaccessible.
Once I got older, they became younger and less wise, but the principle was the same. I aged at twice the rate of the men I was interested in. The lines crossed when I was 26 or so, and that was the beginning of a 7-year relationship (the scientist I mentioned yesterday). I would like to state for the record that I am soooo over this pattern it's not funny.
I had forgotten that I was making jewelry when I was fifteen. Today's edition of the Wayback Journal reminds me that in some ways I'm pretty consistent in my interests.
Write to me!
