Pictures of You

I've been so irritable today! Last night, too. The thing is, I don't know why.  It could be the result of our house hunt and the fact we might be moving to Brampton., which sort of crushes my plans of going to York.

We had a great couple of days over the weekend at Algonquin. We hung out at Arrowhead on Friday, and spent Saturday diving through the park. We actually saw a deer one night on some side road we took while trying to get a good sunset shot. No picture though. There will be no shortage of chipmunk photos when get our prints developed, though.

We also went to Darlington on the Thursday before we left, and to the USA on Monday to buy the digital camera. That was a marathon driving session – 17 hours a door-to-door. We ended up driving all the way around Lake Ontario on the U.S. side to Kingston and then headed home, but not before stopping on some country road, turning off the car, and doing a little star-gazing. Gorgeous!

On the writing front, things have been going slowly, too slowly. I don't know if it has to do with my dilemma between writing either horror or literary fiction. In my mind, I just feel that I need to choose what to focus on. But again, working on both might be good for me right now as I can really figure out which one I want to focus on.

In the same way that I almost exiled myself from old friends and life outside this apartment, I now realize that I've hidden away my thoughts and feelings, my creative self and my writing.

I guess I was trying to be practical; to make money, to work. Before, I thought that I'd pushed away people in my life because I was ashamed of not having accomplished anything, or had a successful career. Now, it seems to me that it was perhaps that way in the beginning, but as time progressed, I felt worse and worse about myself and, in turn, created my own block.

I guess sometimes I am afraid that I may get what I wanted and either not be ready for it, or find some way, some excuse to push it away, reject it. At the same time I'm also afraid of not getting what I want and staying stuck in this same rut, this same position – standing still, never moving forward.

I want to make a quick note before I forget it. When we were in Algonquin, we found all these old faded Polaroids on the ground.  I sort of wished I'd pick them up now, used them as inspiration in some story.

One more postscript: I read the prologue of Dee's newest a story. His style is a lot like mine. And reiterated the fact that even horror writing can be literary. Look at Poe.