So…how’s the writing going?

I get nervous when I’m asked this question. Especially on days like today when it hasn’t gone well. I took some pants to be hemmed, toured an open house I could never afford, and watched a Jet Li movie. Hell, it was only mild procrastination; I didn’t even get any housework done.

Today the writing is not going. I have notes for the second chapter for an E-book that I am helping a friend write, on how to learn Japanese. We went to high school together and I recently ran into him at one of Duncan’s Caffe Sette shindigs. He has taught English in Japan and learned Japanese. I teach English. I can write. He can podcast. It just might work. But it will only work if I am actually writing it.

The question stings today because I talked to E’s parents. They were back from their lovely trip to Northern Saskatchewan near some town that begins with Wa-. They always ask interestedly, and they are all kindness. However, I always feel like Jane Austen, writing away and obliged to hide her stuff from prying eyes. It’s not that I’d mind them reading the book on learning Japanese. But the hot werewolf sex? Not so much. Hot werewolf sex is somethng I bet a hundred dollars they’ve never even thought of, much like racial tension or pork rinds.

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