Early Spring and that Life-is-Not-So-Real Feeling

It’s warm in my house. I went through and pushed the windows up, getting spider webs on my hands. The unseasonable warmth reminds me of dreams: it feels unreal, yet it cloaks me. My son is patient when I climb up to my writing nook to translate. I asked him yesterday what he thought my second novel should be about. He rolled his eyes and gave me the same answer he gave last time: it should be about a single mom, and written in journal-format. I roll my eyes too: I don’t like that idea. I’m 140 pages into my short story collection, yet already I am thinking about the next book. I had a surreal moment this afternoon when I looked up from typing and noticed I was on page 130 on someone else’s novel. If only writing one’s own novel was easy as translating, I sometimes think, then decide, Nah. It wouldn’t feel real.

Picture at left of a lego street taken at “Brick Bash” last Saturday. I wonder if little lego people get road rage…

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