Wasted day

I’m struggling to channel Jamey (WWJD) and not say “I wasted my day,” but think of it in terms of “My day was spent in a way alternative to what I would have liked, but was likely productive in its own way.” Whatever. Jamey would say something much cooler and pithier than that.

I had the post epiphany crash, where you’re paralyzed by fear. But it was begun by a weird cleaning frenzy that began about 1 a.m. However, the positive is that I have now thrown away a lot of stuff and set aside stuff for the neighborhood porch sale coming up. I’d like to streamline my stuff. I have too much of it.

And I read a lot today. That’s never wasted. Realized something else about the book, when two of the characters come together. It was the end of the initial short story TCB started out as and it’s one of the few things that’s remained relatively intact. And it’s all wrong, I realize today. I’m excited about all these new things. I just feel like there’s soooo much to do, both with TCB and with life in general. I’d like to lose myself in thought a bit, like I have been doing, cause that’s important. But I’d also love to JUST WRITE. That thought circulates in my head a lot lately: “JUST WRITE, EMILIE.” That literally is the answer to all my worries and problems. It always has been.

Got some errands and correspondence tackled, too. So, not a wasted day. Just one where I didn’t do what I would’ve liked to have done. I walked over 5 miles yesterday, though, so that’s something I’m happy about, too.

So here’s something cool that Frank Warren, founder of PostSecret said that I saw on GalleyCat. I think he deals very well with the issue of honesty in memoir and confessional writing/art. I reminds me a bit of David Sedaris talking about the same issue in the post-Freyian memoir debate. I’ll try to find a link to that at a later date. Off to bond with SYTYCD and to



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