2.177. Compass

I grew up around people who felt there was one way of being, thinking, and reading. It was, as they said, the right way. You pulled from culture and what you read was known as literature. Television is rarely included in that influential stew meant to form the base of how and what one writes. It is because of this I believe that certain writings are relegated to the halls of genre. For example, I spend a great number of hours watching the sc-fi channel and some of what I learn about story there filters into the work I do. This is not what my precursors would call literary inspiration, but it suits me just fine.  I suppose that determines the type of writer I am seen as, though it fails to determine the kind of writer I am.

My compass points towards good writing. I find it everywhere. I don’t restrict what it is or limit my ability to judge it in the full.

Some Thoughts:

  1. 177 days since the moment that broke me. It was a culmination of moments, really. It was a gust of wind that toppled a house of cards and brought light to an incomplete deck.
  2. Writers tend to go on about some poetic nonsense.
  3. Yep, I’m a writer.
  4. When people talk to graves they are using a talis. They are using a conduit to connect to what they remember in hopes of pushing their emotions out into the ether of where that (soul?) went.
  5. Drank a full can of soda for the first time in some time. It was a rare joy. Certain things find strength and pleasure in moderation. Other things ought to be enjoyed every waking moment.