marty_feldman_ameri_186080mInstead of writing 2000 words today on my new novel, I wrote nearly ten thousand. That’s one eight of a book. Plus a blog post, but I wrote that this morning. I just forgot to publish it. Now I feel exhausted, but happy. Spent. Excavated. I haven’t written that much for myself in a long time.

I had to apologise to Mark for not being there at all during the whole day. It’s not fair to him that I zone out into my own little world, with my imaginary friends, and spend all my time with them. I even managed to nearly miss dinner, but even then eating was mechanical while I spent the time thinking about the story, and the characters.

I become so focused when I write, you wouldn’t believe. I can forget time, space, and forget to eat and drink. I’m in that world, and not in this. There is some therapeutic value in that, I think. I control that world totally. I also realise that this sounds a bit mad, but aren’t writers mad to begin with? I usually joke that it’s an acceptable form of mental disorder. My imaginary friends feel very real, but they never take shape outside my head.

I need to limit that, because I’m not alone anymore. I can’t just zone out and forget the world for an entire day.


Remember young love?I missed that Stephen has a new girl, for one thing. He was actually over here, and I recall saying “Hi” to him before disappearing from the world again. He seems much happier now, and Mark managed to drag out that he’s met someone.

I wonder who. Stephen is one of those really social people. He can talk to anyone, and sometime it feels like he knows the whole town. We can meet a perfect stranger that neither I or Mark has ever heard about, and Stephen will remember meeting that person at some party or other. It is uncanny. He’s a walking lexicon about people, and sometimes we ask Stephen about someone we’ve met because we know that he usually knows him or her.

I don’t know who this girl is, and neither does Mark. Since it’s Stephen, I won’t even speculate in how he met her, or where, or why. I’m just pleased that he’s over the girl that dumped him.


People are angry at my other blog post for today. I have two comments in my comment-queue that say that I’ve “capitulated to radical feminism” as one puts it. I don’t even know what that is. There are many types of radical feminism, from the Dworkin-kind to the Butler-kind. Feminisms can be quite mutually exclusive.

But am I a feminist? In so far that I don’t think that there are different value to the sexes, that I think that the sexes should be equal in all things, and that I think that there’s no difference except in some biological ways between the sexes…

If I’m not, Maria will beat me up, and make an example of me. That was a joke. She’s not that bad. She’d just be very annoyed with me.