I really did, I really thought about working on my story after I got home from work today, but it is now roughly six hours after I that moment and I still haven't written a single word. I did find out that the name of the church in my story is Prince of Peace Catholic Church. Mainly, I called my dad because I was bored, although my dad is probably the worst person to call in this situation, but I also found out the name because my dad knows everything about Kearney for some reason. Through much rebellious punkassery in high school I sort of conditioned him to try to keep conversations short, so it is primarily my fault, but we had a short, awkward conversation. My dad is primarily concerned with work, because that is his favorite thing to do. Honestly. When my dad is bored, he likes to work. Physical labor, bookkeeping, fix-em-up type jobs around the house, whatever. As long as he is being active and accomplishing things, he is totally satisfied with his life. While I used to despise his dogged work ethic which I took to mean that he loved his work more than his own son (yeah, I was one of THOSE kids in high school), I admire it now. I want to be as fulfilled in life as my dad is with his. He reminds me of Felix Hoenikker in Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. My dad is less eccentric but equally as inward. This is pretty much why I haven't gotten any work done today.
For a slightly more meaningful post but equally as unrelated to writing, check my reply to Chelsea's short story, it's long enough (and slightly prickish, but whatever) to direct people to it. Plus you should just be checking out Chelsea's blog anyway because it's good. And Charles'. And Jessica's. Katie's might be cool if she ever posted on it. I'm saying this for the three people who have ever checked this blog out who aren't in our class.
1 comment:
I've been thinking about writing for days. I finally am about finished with my roughest of drafts, but that doesn't mean much to me. I hate when I feel lazy. Talking about how exuberant your father about is reminds me of my mom. Whenever I try to convey how bored I am with certain classes or how tired I am of reading and writing she just looks at me like I'm such a kid. Her kid. Her lazy, lazy kid. I always wonder if I'm going to look at my children the same way. I guess it'd be worse if the kids were actually like my mother and still looked at me with her hereditary stare...great.
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