I wrote a fantastic blog yesterday. Early evening, just as the sun was going down, on the 31st floor of Palms Place on the balcony. It was full of gorgeous imagery and insight into some of what it means to be human. It even had a clever title. But somehow my phone didn't save it properly and it disappeared into that mysterious shadowy world of digital information. Can I recreate it exactly as it was? Not a chance. Can I get close? Probably, but it'll never be the exact same thing I wrote. I'm starting to think about editing the short stories I have written and hidden away. Or posted on google docs. But what do I keep, what do I change, and what do I throw my hands up in despair at? And how do you know what is more likely to get your stuff published?

Hopefully, I'll hear back from thefirstline.com in the next week or two. At least, I'll hear back from them, hopefully it'll be a favourable reaction. I'm not stressing about it at all, surprisingly enough. But if the answer comes back and they don't want to use my story, I'll start going through all the reason why they didn't want to use it. And the biggest question I'd have is would one of my other drafts have made it? Or was there never any hope?

Writing essays and papers for school, I almost never drafted them. I was pretty lucky, I suppose, that my first draft could be turned in a lot of the time. It's also why I was never more than a B grade student-- because I didn't put in the effort to get the A. I didn't think it was worth it. I still don't. But in retrospect it would have been good practice for now, for getting right something that is important to me. I hope I haven't just convinced myself that writing is important to me because I don't know what else to do with my life. . .arriving at the realization you want to do something else with your life at 28 can shake anyone up a little, send you scrambling for ideas and plans that might not be the best thought out.

It IS important to me. I'm sure of it. Otherwise I wouldn't be here, exhausted from a weekend of entertaining (and being entertained by) friends from University down here for a 30th birthday celebration. I should be sleeping right now, getting ready for my monday-tuesday weekend and all the things I need to get done. Instead, I'm lying here typing, hoping my laptop doesn't set fire to my bed, because I haven't done enough writing in the past week and it's gnawing at me. Yes, the stranger than usual work schedule didn't help matters, but I have to stop making excuses like that. Looking at my handy dandy word count spreadsheet for this month. It's very sad. I'm aiming to try and write 5000 words a week, and this past week I was nowhere near that. Blogging counts is a crappy cop-out way (it is writing, even if it's somewhat lacking in substance and sellability), and maybe by admitting online I've been unauthoristic this week it'll guilt me into achieving marvels the next few days.

Not much chance of that, guilt never worked on me when my teachers and parents tried it. But wish me luck this next week, maybe I'll have something worth reading. Or at least something worth editing.

Oh, and a quick mention about an idea for a screenplay I had a week or so ago. Could be good. Could be very sellable, we shall see. . .Because I don't have enough bloody things on the go already, right?