The other day I walked to work in the rain. The day before I had elected not to buy my monthly bus pass, which meant that if I wanted to get to work, I'd have to brave the elements. I didn't consider this when I made the decision. So. In a pathetic attempt to stave off the precipitation, I wore a heavy "rain jacket" which did little in retarding said rain. I got to work and my shirt was soaked. It looked like I had sweat something fierce. And I don't know, maybe it was sweat. The whole time I felt like I was wearing a fucking rain forest. This caused a lot of bitching on my part, but no one was listening. And then I thought about my novel.
But I didn't think about the normal: "this might be a good image" or "this might be something to ponder when in a character" ... Oh no. I thought about this: I have two blogs, and if I don't count the recurrences, I have a total of sixteen followers. Assuming they regularly read the entries, that is sixteen readers. If I do count the recurrences, that number considerably falls.
Somehow I think I will crash and burn when I try to get published. You can't fault me for being negative. This is sheer statistical logic. My blogs are free. Of course, the next time I sit in front of this computer with a bottle of wine or whiskey or cheap brandy, I will probably be more optimistic. My self perception, my deluded sense of grandeur only intensifies in a manner directly proportionate to my alcoholic intake. Who says alcohol is a depressant!
I spent a considerable amount of time that day in the men's room, fanning myself under, over, and INSIDE the automatic dryer. It could've been worse, it could've been my crotch that needed the drying. I can imagine myself, in a showing of zany futility, leaping into the air, pathetically trying to hump at the dryer-- like that scene in that Mr. Bean movie.
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