Notes, life and truth
Two years ago I wrote this. It was after a fight of sorts. I remember anger and fear, but no tears—that was what the writing was for. It isn’t exactly “true,” but it’s not fiction either. How can you edit your own life?
I’ve been going through old journals and notes and unfinished stories all fall. It’s been fun, but not as productive for my writing as I had hoped. I guess somehow I’d hoped there would have been more to salvage.
I’ve been taking notes for over a year now. Unfortunately, that’s all they are, notes, and they don’t seem to be writing themselves, lying, as they are, in a cardboard folder on my desk. And, unlike some, I am currently feeling very blocked.
Oh, well. Tomorrow we go see the apartment. Wish us luck. I’ve always wanted to live in Helsinki Rock City.
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