Whereas the thing I did not do,

Continued not to do, was to write or make things, aside from these connections, which are well and good, but hardly that one thing needful. For all these groups and consolations of company, events and the possibility of eventually writing about more and more ever accumulating and ever receding, it has not happened. Camp Nanowrimo seemed like a good idea back on the first of April, but all month I did nothing on the spring semester of the Book of Annotations but ponder and make plans. For the short story workshop I managed a paltry handwritten page, and for the memoir class likewise, only because there was a deadline there in each case, or perhaps out-thinking myself, supposing that if it was only for a deadline, there was hardly any point in more sustained effort over more time. So that if I had more time, all the time in the world, I actually might write every day as I ought to, rather than for imaginary deadlines and chance encouragement of groups. That seems like the way to find the balance, still, to write every day as I want to, and to share it with whomever is interested, by association or broadcast to the interwebs. To write it by hand, in a notebook of small pages Steph found, with a llama on the cover, or on the backs of pages for school as I like to do, only doing a better job of keeping them together, or on the various documents open on the computer, or here blogily, linking to them all, but writing somehow, and then making it freely available. (Donations accepted (preferably in kind (food, drink, or conversation:))).