See earlier post here.
The last time I read and read and read and read, more for something to do than for enjoyment, was grades six, seven, and eight, when I was bored and without many friends, being an awkward and pudgy pre-teen. I guess I’m bored now too. I wasn’t so much last year, even when I had a longer day to fill with Tesfa away from eight-thiry to four, as opposed to now from eight to two. Writing isn’t as much of an intellectual exercise because I don’t know how to write intellectually taxing stories. Lately, I write straightforward ones, like my story about summer, if I could ever figure out an overarching conflict rather than the string of microconflicts that are keeping the story going forward right now.
I’m working on embracing the sameness. It doesn’t get green here until June. Maybe more sun will cheer me up. Maybe writing more stories of summer will trick my brain. I feel like I’m using all my brainpower deciding on children’s bicycles at the Wal-Mart and making small talk at the bus stop. I should pick some extreme books and work out my brain.
Or something.