“is it that fucking hard to get fruit roll-ups?”

songs today: waves, folded light; brave day, tilly and the wall; how to survive a broken heart, ben lee; waist deep in the big muddy, richard shindell (pete seeger); the ocean, tegan and sara; this is why we fight, the decemberists.

I went to bed at 3 am and woke up at 7. I can tell I’ve had too much caffeine because my insides are quivering. I’ve made a list, and re-read a lot of notes. My new journal is slowly becoming a lived in mess. I keep staring at the clock, because I need to leave here at 6 to meet K for dinner. I’m filled with dread and with the realization that it has been a super long time since I’ve attempted to create fiction on purpose. I have literally thousands of scenes, of details, of lines, but I forgot how insanely hard it is to put that together into something that makes sense and is satisfying, especially when it feels so urgent, which right now, it does, but that doesn’t make writing it any easier. I feel a lot like there’s a window open, but only for now, and I’m jamming things under the sill to keep it from closing.

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