John Holton (john_holton) wrote,
John Holton
john_holton

Checking in

A bunch of random stuff masquerading as a journal entry...

I haven't updated in a couple of days. It's been crazy here. I feel like I'm going, going, going and I'm not getting anywhere. Yesterday, I didn't have a cup of coffee until late in the day, even though I made a pot first thing in the morning. Today, I didn't get a shower until after I was done with work (I work at home, so it wasn't a big deal to anyone but Mary and the cats, and I was locked in my office all day). I spent most of the afternoon on the phone, which I hate, going over the specifications for this consulting engagement I've been working on since early November that's on hold until we can get the customer to commit to something, anything at this point.

My local writer's group is dwindling. Tonight it was just one other person and I; the leader had better things to do. We sat and talked, and wrote some, and I got some good feedback on a story that I had written six months ago and just got around to rewriting. We're not much of a writer's group. Most of us don't have anything to turn in on a regular basis.

Speaking of which...I collect books on writing. They're great fun to read, and by reading them you waste time that you could have been writing, but I like them anyway. My latest acquisition is Jack Heffron's The Writer's Idea Book, from the nice people at Writer's Digest. Chapter 2, on "Enemies of Creativity", spoke to me, because in it he identifies an enemy called The Talker. This is the person who has to talk about his or her writing projects, and does it so much that when it's time to write, he or she can't. Unfortunately, I resemble that remark.

My polydactyl cat, Thumbs, is a very nice kitty, but every time someone goes into the kitchen, he thinks it's time to eat. I'm having my Devon Rex, Milton, and Bucky, the cat I brought home when Connie died last year, neutered on Thursday. I'm hoping that Milton settles down a little bit when we do it. As it stands, he starts running around on the bed and crying at about 6:15, wanting to be fed. He hasn't figured out that he can go downstairs and there's food and water out for the other guys. Of course, he's looking for canned food. Unfortunately, so are all of the other cats, and they all want his, for some reason. Kitten food is always so much more delicious, I guess.

I know I'm rambling here, but it feels good to ramble. I went to Loyola University in Chicago, and our team name was the Ramblers. I come by it naturally.

One of these days I'll clean my office. Mary suggested that maybe I should move it to the next room over, and keep this room as a guitar room. I like that idea. I had a boss that used to make me change cubicles every six months or so, hoping that I'd discard the junk from the old one. It never quite worked as well as he hoped.

I'm exhausted. Can you tell? Good night.
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