Anybody who has been reading this for more than a year knows I occasionally write snippets of fiction, but have never really been able to cobble together a story that really wants told. Most of the time I end up poking at my close-mouthed imagination and eventually going back to dishes and laundry. What bothers me now is that I thought I was quite finished writing scribbles that wanted written and am now being encouraged by those around me to write something they can read for fun, so that they see the world from my perspective a bit more. I BLOG, OKAY?!
But I don't write novels, and not a whole lot of people like reading blogs. My ability to write scholarly gibberish is not all that great, either; thanks for asking, though. I really must find a niche.
In other news, I had a dream last night that my hair grew all the way to the ground (it is at my knees, presently) and that it was a mahogany colour (rather than dead-leaf-coloured as it is now). I was walking around with it falling down my back, which I don't normally do since it gets caught on things and people like to touch it. And I was thinking about something else entirely.
Now, for a cup of tea. Tea makes everything better.