last night, a guy with a guitar...

...said "anyhoo." 3x. *sigh* the 1st time, i glazed over. i don't know what song he was singing. The 2nd time, I was okay. By the 3rd time--nothing--or at least, not enough to mention (yet, here i am). oh, and he played the harmonica, guitar, and tambourine--all at once--while singing. and really well. i think that's worth mentioning.

i need therapy...and i think other people can tell. that's a good sign though, right? if i were crazy, I wouldn't be so self-aware. I keep putting off therapy--although I made a tentative appointment...but now I think I have to definitely go next week. I can't write my book without therapy...because there are emotions locked inside that I need to bring out and write down. my book will be just words without them.

Speaking of "the book," I think it's a cliche. a story of human tragedy--painful, but hopeful, blah blah blah. It's okay though...I'll find a way to make it more than that I'm sure. There's time...lots of it.

I attended my first writers salon tonight. At first, I felt uneasy, but thanks to red wine, that quickly faded. I wasn't sure I was in the right room, but after hearing some of the other writers read their works--i knew i'd fit in just fine. A poet there asked me "are you a poet?," and I said "no, i'm some-kind-of-a-writer." fucking self-doubt puts my foot in my mouth everytime. i loathe it. it's depressing! i've been a writer all my life--i've written for work, play, pleasure, and pain--for my entire life. next time, i'll say --with resolve--"I'm a writer." at the next salon, i promised to read my own writing. this woman was there--in-cred-ible storyteller/writer/orator/playwright. I can't say enough--so click on her link.

today, I feel brave.

p.s. I have good lighting in my bedroom...and this is when it's gray outside.