...um...

For those that pay attention to such things, I'm a Libran -- which is supposed to herald the fact that I like balance and order in my life. (If you're like me, and hold no truck with this astrology shit, it really just means I was born in late September, and I got to spend my birthdays surrounded by classmates who couldn't care less that I was the birthday boy that day.) My mom tells stories of watching me cry in the mornings after she had laid a whole outfit's-worth of clothes and I wouldn't know where to start. Or how I would cry when presented with a dinner with more than two things on my plate; again, because I wouldn't know where to start. Or how coloring books and crayons made me anxious; it was too exhausting trying to make sure all colors were used evenly and fairly. This might have been easier had I only had one of those slim, 8-color boxes. Mom, however, felt she had to overcompensate both for the divorce and the fact that I couldn't have a pony by buying the 64-color box with colors like "burnt sage" or "melba."

One year she got me the 96-color box, after she told me my dog Sunshine had to go live on a farm, and that was the worst year ever.

But crayons aren't the point here. Or not specifically the point. It's been something like 17 years since my last post -- which wasn't a post at all, really, it was a cut and paste of part of a story that I'd been working on. Nothing of substance. And, even though I don't believe in astrology, if it gives me a way out, I'll take it.

I'm not good at time management. If you're a former or current employer reading this then yes, I lied. I lied out my ass. I even lied out your ass: that's how much lying was going on. I don't multi-task. I don't time manage. And I also don't always work well as part of a team, appreciate a challenge, or honestly see myself going far in any profession. I'll stay at any given job as long as there are snacks and not too much is expected of me. Also: showing up on a regular basis? Might be considered "too much expected of me."

So, I'm not good at time management, and I've had some things going on. One of them being that story that I shared in dribs and drabs. For those of you who've read the two excerpts (a) thanks, as well as thanks for the notes and comments and plugs; (b) I've finally finished it, but I can't post the whole thing here, apparently, if I want it to get published elsewhere, so end-say e-may an email-ay (email-ay?) and I'll end-say ou-yay the ory-stay; (c) I've made a few changes, so the whole is different from its parts.

Writing the one story encouraged me to write some other stories, and I've been devoting a lot of time and thought to that. But apparently I can't write in a journal and write stories at the same time so well. And then, if you were to hand me a stick of gum in the middle of all that?

I also went through a 21st-century lit phase. The last 4.01 books I've read have all been written within the last 6 years -- which is something from a guy who pretty much only reads books with bustles and cads. I started off with Never Let Me Go, moved on to Oryx & Crake, barely finished White Teeth, actually finished When We Were Orphans, and finished by continuing my "I hate all Umberto Eco novels save The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum" by hating and not getting past page 30 of The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana -- a novel I knew was going to be trouble when I could never remember the title. I either called it The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane or The Beauty Queen of Leenane.

And finally, the biggest reason for not writing was I couldn't think of much to write. I was going to comment on a comment I received, where a man named Jim said of me: "Michael, you've gotta be the biggest idiot I've ever run into surfing the internet. Pompous, bitter, opinionated and downright moronic." I decided against it because I'm afraid someone will find someone even more of an idiot than I am on the internet -- and then yet another title will be stripped from me too soon.

We'll see what tomorrow brings, though.