A troupe of millionaires wrote a song called "On The Boulevard Of Broken Dreams"

I am doing this. And also this. I have a lot more ideas for the latter rather than the former, so of course I'm spending most of my time worrying about plots and characters.

Why do them both at once, when most of my time is usually spent getting irritated at not being able to do much? Trying to violently expunge. I want this to be sweat lodge time, because more than doing it, I want it to be done. I am hoping to find some gems inside the doing, and get beyond the thinking about doing.

The dog is skeptical. Or at least bemused. "Hey, aren't you starting, like, regular full-time employment at the same time?" Yes, dog, yes I am. I'll have "personal days" which is where they pay you even though you're not working, like if I brought you a half of a hot dog just for sitting in the sun.

I don't know why I have a blog most of the time. This act is freakishly public, even though barely anyone pays attention. I didn't write much before and I don't feel like writing much now because of that. If things will be saved on a wayback machine, I want to at least make a good stab at making something to be proud of. The "write a novel and an album in a month" project is part of this. The blog is not a good place to upchuck creativity. I work all day on teh interwebs as it is. I will update, maybe. Because I'm going to need some encouragement from the circuited ether to get through this.

Hey, I'll make everyone a promise. If I really and truly like stuff, I'll make it public.