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And No Birds Sing
Dec. 8th, 2011 07:46 amAn inch of snow on the ground this morning. Next few days may not be winter per se – temps, for the most part, still bearable – but are definitely a flirtation with it. Sigh… I suppose winter held off for as long as it reasonably could and I shouldn’t complain, although, of course, I do. I took Milo for a fantastically long walk through the woods and gloom yesterday and realized what I may miss most are the birds and their sounds. Only birds left are the finches, sparrows, chickadees and carrion creatures like crows, and they don’t sing.
Well. Fourteen weeks of this shit. Less than 100 days, right? But who’s counting?
In other news, after reviewing my situation with as close to an objective eye as I could muster – which is to say, not very – I decided the two things I should check out are tax preparation and notary public-ship. So I signed up to take a tax prep class at my credit union, prerequisite for becoming a volunteer tax preparer – you get an IRS certificate and everything! If I prove to have any kind of aptitude for it, I’ll sign up for the HR Block course. The notary public thing will have to wait until I’m back in CA, since those things are mandated by state legal codes. But I knew a woman in Monterey who made $35 an hour as a mobile notary. There is a demand for it, and I imagine an even greater demand in the Bay Area than Monterey.
I remain incredibly distractible and… flat inside. My own creative life doesn’t interest me in the slightest right now. Novel on hold. Not a good thing. Part of me thinks, Who cares? Just write. Write anything at all. The other part of me remembers Jack Nicholson’s stint at the Overlook Hotel: All drudgery and no play makes Patrizia a dull girl. I suppose I’ll take another stab at it today. I seem to be stalled on the scene where Joe and Carol meet at the beach to talk about their relationship. You’re not Guinevere, Joe tells Carol somewhat brutally. And I’m not Lancelot, and John isn’t King Arthur.
But real people never talked like that, did they? Not even in the 1930s.
Well. Fourteen weeks of this shit. Less than 100 days, right? But who’s counting?
In other news, after reviewing my situation with as close to an objective eye as I could muster – which is to say, not very – I decided the two things I should check out are tax preparation and notary public-ship. So I signed up to take a tax prep class at my credit union, prerequisite for becoming a volunteer tax preparer – you get an IRS certificate and everything! If I prove to have any kind of aptitude for it, I’ll sign up for the HR Block course. The notary public thing will have to wait until I’m back in CA, since those things are mandated by state legal codes. But I knew a woman in Monterey who made $35 an hour as a mobile notary. There is a demand for it, and I imagine an even greater demand in the Bay Area than Monterey.
I remain incredibly distractible and… flat inside. My own creative life doesn’t interest me in the slightest right now. Novel on hold. Not a good thing. Part of me thinks, Who cares? Just write. Write anything at all. The other part of me remembers Jack Nicholson’s stint at the Overlook Hotel: All drudgery and no play makes Patrizia a dull girl. I suppose I’ll take another stab at it today. I seem to be stalled on the scene where Joe and Carol meet at the beach to talk about their relationship. You’re not Guinevere, Joe tells Carol somewhat brutally. And I’m not Lancelot, and John isn’t King Arthur.
But real people never talked like that, did they? Not even in the 1930s.
