27 April 2005
You wouldn't think that writing books could be the path of least resistance, but some days I swear it is.
I know this not-novel-writing thing appears to be consuming me. That's because novel-writing generally consumes me, so the absence is a presence.
Anyway, yesterday my mom and I were at Ingebretsen's and I said, "You know what I hate?" And she started laughing and said, "You'd think by now I would, since you never hesitate to tell me. But go on: what do you hate?"
Whatever it was, it wasn't particularly important.
And the main page.
Or the last entry.
Or the next one.
Or even send me email.