I’m happy to announce that my journal is now tagged from start to finish. Indeed it is. Nearly three years of entries are classified and catalogued and can be easily accessed via the tag function... and now my brain is officially dead. It turns out there’s only so much of re-reading one’s old entries a brain can take and I must have breached that barrier at some stage last night.
The scariest thing is, I really don't like the person who was writing in this journal in 2004. Wait, that sounds nasty and uncharitable... yet I can’t think of any other way to express it. I mean, the me who wrote in 2004 wasn’t awful. She had, after all, written an entire first draft of Black Fiddle and was working on various short stories. Alas for her, she was also catless and stuck in a tiny unit with a kitchen designed for stick-figures.
Luckily, she had a Timothy to cook for her and execute sundry chauffering duties.
But I don’t think I’d want to drop by and visit.
On the other hand, I wonder if the old me would want a visit in the first place?
Old me: So, how’s Black Fiddle going? Have you started submitting that?
Current me: Oh. Um. You mean that first draft you wrote two years ago that I still haven’t actually done anything with?
Old me: *gapes*
Current me: *looks embarrassed (mostly at the shocking grammatical structure of what I’ve just said...)*
Old me: Well, have you at least moved out of this box?
Current me: Oh yes. Of course, our air conditioner doesn’t work so we boil in Summer. But we have a cat!
Old me: Ooh, a cat!
Current me: Yeah, she likes to stop us from sleeping-in by scratching at the wardrobe doors around four thirty in the morning. Isn’t that nice?
Old me: Err...
All things considered, that would be a perilously boring conversation. And I could potentially jeapordise my own future existence, so I’d better not risk it, really.
Instead, I shall wave goodbye to my former self and make a vow to get my current month’s word-count over one thousand today. Since that will entail writing a mere one hundred and sixty-two words, I need to get started on some solid procrastinating right now.
The scariest thing is, I really don't like the person who was writing in this journal in 2004. Wait, that sounds nasty and uncharitable... yet I can’t think of any other way to express it. I mean, the me who wrote in 2004 wasn’t awful. She had, after all, written an entire first draft of Black Fiddle and was working on various short stories. Alas for her, she was also catless and stuck in a tiny unit with a kitchen designed for stick-figures.
Luckily, she had a Timothy to cook for her and execute sundry chauffering duties.
But I don’t think I’d want to drop by and visit.
On the other hand, I wonder if the old me would want a visit in the first place?
Old me: So, how’s Black Fiddle going? Have you started submitting that?
Current me: Oh. Um. You mean that first draft you wrote two years ago that I still haven’t actually done anything with?
Old me: *gapes*
Current me: *looks embarrassed (mostly at the shocking grammatical structure of what I’ve just said...)*
Old me: Well, have you at least moved out of this box?
Current me: Oh yes. Of course, our air conditioner doesn’t work so we boil in Summer. But we have a cat!
Old me: Ooh, a cat!
Current me: Yeah, she likes to stop us from sleeping-in by scratching at the wardrobe doors around four thirty in the morning. Isn’t that nice?
Old me: Err...
All things considered, that would be a perilously boring conversation. And I could potentially jeapordise my own future existence, so I’d better not risk it, really.
Instead, I shall wave goodbye to my former self and make a vow to get my current month’s word-count over one thousand today. Since that will entail writing a mere one hundred and sixty-two words, I need to get started on some solid procrastinating right now.
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