So I've been struggling with my writing. Caught in a psychic wrestling match, ya might say. Or you might not say. But it's something my friend Bonnie does say. And Bonnie would say that because she knows me and she knows the writing I've been doing for the last year and a half. And I'd have to say that that's a pretty good assessment. A wrestling match.

I don't know why I agreed to the reading series. I hate the sound of my own voice. And I hate the sound of my own writing even more. Some days I don't know why I write. Or breathe. But I keep on breathing. So I might as well keep on writing, too.

I'm pretty sure one is dependent upon the other.

But I did agree to the reading series. Volunteered myself even. Ye olde rabbit to the slaughter, ya might say. Or you might not, but I definitely would because my writing is obsessed with my mother slaughtering rabbits of late.

And I read, and I didn't die. I was pretty sure I would. But I didn't.

I'm still breathing.

And I'll write again tomorrow.

Labels: writing

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