Cold-Blooded

It's the middle of summer. I wore a sweater-dress to work. I've just put another sweater on over it.

In my next life, I want to be an actual warm-blooded mammal and not a human-shaped reptile.

*wishes she could go back to basking in the sunny spot of the conference room.*

Writing about Writing

I'm in a strange mood. My throat hurts, a little, the way it does after you've been crying, And my eyes feel a bit odd. But I haven't been crying. I don't know why I feel as though I have.

I've been thinking about stories all morning. Trying to come up with a germ around which to build a short story. And discarding things as "too long" or "too obscure" or "no point" or "incomplete". Mostly "incomplete". I'm tempted to dredge up the "too long" outline I did for a short story based on one of jordangreywolf's dreams, just because at least it's a complete story.

Then again, I could, you know, in theory, just keep on moving forward with one of the three ideas I've been working on for the past X months. It's not as though I desperately need to write a short story.

Somehow, though, for some reason, I really want to.