It feels as though I have been selectively reading books that target and attack my own issues. The last thing I need is some over dramatic romance novel egging my insecurities on. Although I enjoy reading, lately it seems that I would rather be lost on the pages of the books I read instead than among the minutes of the life I lead.
If it's not reading, it is writing. After weeks and weeks of writing my newest short story is nearly finished. I am not sure if it would be considered "short"considering that after revisions and editing it should stand at a steady 65 pages...
65... I've come a long way since my days of 30 page long short stories. I'm proud of myself.
However, my sleep, social life and eating habits have all been obliterated because of this. And now I'm keeping this blog... I swear if I associate my life with more words and more keyboards I will have letter babies...
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