Every year, with the best intentions...

I don't know why I think I will be a prolific blogger. Sometimes I have a lot to say about writing, other days I'm stuck in the cycle that seems to define so many 30 somethings: work, hobby, sleep, rinse, wash, repeat. It doesn't feel very... creatively fecund.

I also sustained minor brain damage and whiplash earlier this month, and have had difficulty reading and tracking across a page. So, I'm sure that didn't help.

I really enjoy writing prose. Not sure I ever thought I would say that. Random thoughts about writing prose:

• I've worked in healthcare so long that I accidentally write passive sentences all the time and don't even realize I've done it.
• I don't really give a shit about ending sentences in prepositions. It doesn't really bother me. Really.
• I love sentence fragments, though!
• I enjoy getting obsessively lost in worlds I've created and entirely in my own imagination, which I think must be what hubris feels like. Sorry, invisible spaghetti god.

Oh, I made myself a new writing room! My wife calls it my mancave, which amuses me. 

Anyway, I got into a fight with Abbey about how old I am tonight. It was mostly playful but she was right and I am a year older than I thought, and I may have cried a little bit on the way home. This undoubtedly brought me to the conclusion that I need to be writing more, because WHERE IS MY LIFE GOING??? IT IS JUST ESCAPING ME! Must write more. Must write more. Other people are having babies. I need to birth this trilogy, man. Or maybe it will end up just being one fuck all long ass book. Whatever! I live dangerously.

Next blog: coming sometime in the near future. Perhaps it will have content besides rambling. 

Peace out, friends.