Yea, so it's been quite a while. Things got busy. A rough draft of a paper on Goebbels' effect on propaganda was due. I was working. I got sick. I still have to worry about comparing Antigone and The Stranger. And, even as I sat here with nothing to do last night, still recouperating from a cold, I knew I had nothing to say.

I'm guilty of making this just some girly "what did I do today?" sort of diary, I know. When I realized this was so, saw this in myself, I tried to swing away from it. Anyway, it's not as if I do anything much in the first place. I'm sure the first thing we all want to sit down and read about is how much coffee I've had.

But I guess, in that sense, it becomes a sort of Catch-22. Either I write every day, thereby improving my craft and annoying people less with it, yet boring them to death with the mundaneness that is my life, or I don't bore them with mundaneness and let my writing deteriorate, making it MORE crappy. Great!

Fiction tonight, maybe. We hope.