Still living, still not blogging…

At least it isn’t March yet, so I can still claim to have written every month of 2013 as far as the old blog goes. February has been a relatively slow month, though it’s still February and therefore inherently fucking terrible. I got my winter doldrums out of the way earlier in the season and now I’m just feeling very prickly and short-tempered. Most people are clamoring for spring, but I’m the asshole outside shaking her fist at the sky, demanding to know where all the snow’s been hiding. It’s a pervasive myth that Pittsburgh it’s a snowy place. It’s not. It’s a perpetual disappointment in that respect. Can a girl get a blizzard here or what! One good storm! Signs point to “no,” and also to “hell no,” and also to “lololol no.”

I did have my quarterly I’m awful and I can’t write and everything I do is terrible and I am the least creative person ever and my entire identity is a fraud! I should just GIVE UP! crisis, so we’re on track in that respect. I mean, thank goodness. I need some predictability in my life.

Oh, jeez – more good news from January! Yes, January was my biggest month ever, for sure. I got engaged! Which is pretty exciting, and the fact that I put this bit of news below whining about the weather and airing my authorial insecurities is in no way indicative of how happy I am or how disgustingly in love we are. To answer the only questions anyone seems to care about: No, we haven’t made ANY plans yet. No, we don’t have a date. No, seriously, I have no idea about anything, stop asking.

So.

February. February’s almost done, March is days away. Which means my birthday is coming up and I feel pretty good about 28. I said this last year and I was right, so I’m going to say it again: I think it’s going to be a good year.

I’ve been writing a bit, trying to find something to occupy me now that Clementine is over. I haven’t settled on anything yet. Some things are brewing, but…we’ll see. I don’t know! I feel unmoored. Maybe I’ll just keep writing volumes of Clementine and her further adventures…

I have been reading a TON, of course. My current tally is 12 books started in 2013, 13 finished (one started and abandoned). I read Natasha Tretheway’s Thrall and would not shut up about it. I finished listening to Moby Dick and was really pleasantly surprised by the novel as a whole – Melville is so funny! Who knew! I read Jim Harrison’s newest novella duo, The River Swimmer, and fell deeper in love with him. I finally got around to The Fallback Plan and enjoyed it.

Currently I’m reading Percival Everett by Virgil Russell and…enjoying it? I think? No, yes, I am. I am! It is one of my failings as a reader that I always have to KNOW. I like to be centered. I have trouble going with the flow and letting stories unfold at their own pace. I like to know, or be able to figure out without a lot of fuss, what’s going on and to which characters and why and when, etc. This is not that kind of book, so that’s been an adjustment for me. But I’m a little more than halfway through it and intend on finishing it, so, good for me.

I hit this passage today and felt better about everything:

Not to complicate matters, as if I give a fuck about that, but I’d be remiss if I did not make clear the complete absense of clarity regarding one pressing and nagging matter, that being: just who the fuck is telling this story? There are readers, dear readers, and I use the plural modestly as to really mean possibly only one reader, counted repeatedly on different days, that require a certain degree of specificity concerning the identity of the narrator. Is it an old man or the old man’s son? Not that I am by nature disposed to behaving deferentially to any reader, or anyone, but I will clear up the matter forthworth, directly, tout de suit. I am telling this story.

This is why Percival Everett is A Big Deal and no one takes me seriously. Lead on, sir!

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