. . . I washed all my dogs. All six of them, from smallest to biggest. They took it as a personal affront with sad doggy eyes, and the house smelled like wet dog for hours.
I am slowly percolating some thoughts in my head about this novel which, for better or worse, will have a rough draft out by end of summer. I say this despite having not written a word of it yet (not technically true, but it feels true). I say this because when one is a writer, one must embrace writerhooddom (word??) and say fuck it, and be brash and belligerent with the reticent piece of work. I say this because I am stubborn, and when one is stubborn, one must stick to what one has said until the very last minute when all options have been exhausted and then stubbornness gives way to impossibility and moderate accomplishment. I say this because someone said it was impossible, and so I must naturally prove them wrong.
But really, there are connections being made. This is exciting shit.
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