Way back when, whenever that was, I'd signed up for the 3-day novel writing contest, stocked my fridge with toaster streudels (pavlovian writer's technique to increase productivity), and created this blog so friends could check in on my progress. It was a fascinating process -- coffee-fueled, sleep-deprived, I ended up writing straight Id for two of the three days. It doesn't take much to get me in that state. An extra cup, a missed hour.
I'm half-way there now. Missed hours of sleep? Check. Coffee? On its way, post-gym. The hours last night were wiled away on the phone with the young lad, who's currently in Winnipeg facing down vices, skeletons, genetics, mosquitoes. The wide expanse of how his life could have kept circling the drain had he not made certain choices. That much sky is oppressive. That much horizon, paralyzing. There's nothing better than the cradle of here, tucked in on all sides by that which holds us. Mountains. Water. A grossly high cost of living. The stuff that keeps nose to grindstone, hands out of pockets, one foot continuously being placed in front of the other. Right, the gym. But first this:
