Further to last night’s post and in certain consternation to those of your few happy readers patiently waiting to see what I can hack out next, I am compelled to go read. Unstopably compelled.
Though I can be waylaid for a bit to make mention of my compulsion—and to justify. If I can’t write then reading is certainly the closest thing I can do. I wrote less in the winter when I couldn’t tear myself away from some football game, so it wouldn’t be fair to to put up too strong a fight to sit here in the dark with the keyboard and screen.
Just as I decided I ought to get the grammar book out and figure out how badly I’m botching comma splices, dashes, and parentheticals the book has gone missing. From here I can see the slot on the shelf it slid from—between “20 Master Plots” and something about screenplays. This void indicates to me that the form of the book should be on my nightstand or under it or under the bed: no, no, and nope.
Word count: 184