I must have mentioned this at least once before, but, given my memory capacity (1/4 tsp) and my refusal to look around all my previous posts, I’ll tell the audient void again: I write.

Only fiction, of course (non-fiction can jump off a cliff), and only when I am -antonym of lazy- enough to do so, but I do write.

I’m telling myself that, given that I have been “writing” (mostly generating an industrial supply of ideas) for a year or two, if I were less lazy I could have finished at the very least half a novel. And I’m going to believe that.

Contrary to popular belief (or popular with the people I’m around) writing isn’t so difficult. Well, unless you’re trying to beat Dante in poetry, in which case, yes, it is tremendously difficult. The hard part is finding ideas that are original and not a load of crap.

I was going to call my novel-to-be “An Echo of Peace” (main character’s name is Echo). I recently realized how horribly cheesy that was, thank Blank (blank sounds nicer here than “the good lord”), so it remains anonymous. And if I were the epitome of laziness I would call my book “The Book with No Name”. But guess what? Anonymous beat me to it. Damn him/her/them/it.

(I swear to Blank there is a book called “The Book With No Name” written by Anonymous. Here’s proof).

Oh, look, I’m rambling on again. The point of this post was to tell you that I will be posting my writing on this blog. Because I can. This blog is mine. MIIIINE, MWAHAHAHAHA!


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