So too bad I’m not ambidextrous because my scooping hand is the same as my writing hand and yowza I’m going to need to build up some tougher tendons for 8 hours of continuous scooping.

In the meantime, I’ll start typing my journal I guess.


My belated New Year’s Resolution is to journal. I have historically been terrible about this: I would always rather watch sci-fi TV shows or read about other people’s lives. But I have regretted ignoring my own stories every single time I work on any piece of writing.

If I’m lucky, there was someone else there to call and ask about an event or moment. Usually, though, they don’t remember the details I’m interested in: smells and colors, rhythms and densities. You know, poet stuff. 

So far so good though. I’m trying to mesh all my existential musings with factoids: “Today Chett and I met our future cat Octavia Butler; she is the essence of the companion animal independence that I yearn for in partnering with creatures of any species.” 

That was a sample, not an actual excerpt. My journal is private!



A writing consultant just mentioned journaling. I admit that I have a terrible memory. I should journal, just like I should keep a dream diary and a biorhythmic chart. I know he’s right. I would journal on the computer since I am on the internet all day long, but I always want to talk about people that I know. Sometimes the commentary is innocuous, other times people trigger responses that should remain private. Another excuse to compulsively collect notebooks.