Instead, they’ve become rather more like ramblings of a semipolitical nature–not that there’s anything wrong with that. The terrors of the last few months have left me with reams and reams of completed work. I could go nearly two years without hardly needing to write a thing. It goes without saying that the writing side of my occupation has been well attended. The issue, again and again and again, of course, lies in the marketing, in which I seem a thing completely hopeless. I don’t have tens of thousands of dollars to throw away on an advertising firm; so it’s my problem.
I’m supposed to be uplifting.
I’ve been examining fencing manuals. I’m thinking of writing a short set of articles called the “Little Book of Hugs,” as a sort of inspiration.
People possess emotional depth we’re typically unaware of. I would say so endemically. It’s always there, but you might spend your whole life without realizing it. You have to be pushed, under some sort of stimulus, something typically unpleasant and unwanted, and when you finally scratch the surface of your depths, you’ll wish you hadn’t. The problem is that once you’ve discovered it, you’ll find you can’t help but return again and again and again until you resemble what others conceive a human in appearance only, now a creature of alien sapience lying beneath tactile flesh. And it is indeed an issue of want, but that specifically you didn’t want.
I prefer not to talk about life experiences without the medium of an invented character.
I think that’s all I’ve got in me at the moment. Remember to take care of yourselves.