Margaret Atwood Sleeps in a Bed

Writers should not sleep on futons. This wisdom I have gleaned over the past several nights. The stuffing is made of hideous synthetic materials that emit (paradoxical) invisible, yellow fumes that form clouds around the writer's most important writing muscles, rendering them useless for at least 48 hours. This, among other excuses, is why I have not been writing.

I have, however, been valiantly thinking about writing. One of the perks of disliking music in it's entirety and being forced to own an iPod is listening to podcasts. I have been listening to Writers on Writing with host Barbara Demarco-Barrett and Book Lust with Nancy Pearl. They interview writers and other writer-type people. It is vaguely magnificent.

I have also been reading Margaret Atwood, causing one person, seeing it on my shelf, to exclaim with glee, "Wow, you are reading Margaret Atwood? I love her!" My literary vanity bolstered, I have read three of her short stories. I have been made to think alternately "This is
easy; I can be a short story writer" and "Oh crap, what am I thinking?" Luckily I have learned not to pay attention to my mind's reaction to most things and am instead led by the invisible, yellow idea that I am a writer.

And I will be writing again soon. (Does this count?) I like Friday deadlines, but I like most deadlines. Of course, I will also be a good reader and read everything on Google Docs. I mean, I
have read everything on Google Docs and have had thoughts and reactions. I will soon give these things an exit strategy from my brain into the real world where they may be of use or of vague amusement/nausea/confusion.

(I must also work on my intense use of commas and my not-so-vague overuse of the word "vague.")