One more month

in one month I get to see this again:

xoxo

I used to be _____ but I'm not anymore

Two people with whom I've reconnected in the past few days have commented that they always thought they'd read something of mine one day. It's kind of ... I suppose disconcerting to get this sort of feedback on the direction people thought your life would take. And, frankly, so did I.

I remember how in grade 12, my English teacher burst out laughing when I told him what undergrad program I'd selected. He thought it was a waste and that I belonged in English.

Post high school, writing as a hobby just got shoved aside and shelved like all my other hobbies ... and I just never picked them back up again. But I still think about writing all the time. In fact, I think in narration ... my inner dialogue is third person, and constantly being edited and revised. I'll mentally rehearse a dozen ways of describing scenes. I think in terms of characters and plot and mood and setting. There are so many unwritten novels in my head. But any sort of creative writing that I do now - a rarity, really - feels so awkward and stilted.

I would like to be read.

It's hard enough to be published if you're really talented. And, as much as I would like to be, I'm afraid I'm not.

dèjà l'hiver

Elle s'étonne, le temps passe si vite, déjà Noël, déjà l'hiver, déjà demain et rien ne bouge, voilà le problème, en effet, notre vie est immobile et la terre continue de tourner. -Delphine de Vigan


I can feel it in the air: winter. Here's to late nights in a courtyard with friends from all over the word. Wine, melon, crayfish & vodka. To random nights, with amazing people. To staying out until all hours without a coat. To sunburns & freckles. 


To summer.