A lot has happened in the past six months, because fuck you, that's why. I have written a bit, even attempting NaNoWriMo, but this blog laid stagnant. As such projects are wont to do. But as my father first insisted I start this, now he insists I return; I inherited my wordcraft from him, after all.
Writing does not make one a writer. I'm not quite sure what does; nor can I doubtlessly proclaim myself to be one; nor can I ever. Harlan Ellison, in his astounding documentary, said "you aren't a writer until a writer says you're a writer." There may be hope for me yet.
Now to find what to say, what to speak of, what words to use. Or not. Some popular asstards don't bother, why should I? But I digress. Maybe. Hard to stray from the path when you're stumbling along blindfolded.
Fuck it, I'll return, if I remember, or not, what the fuck ever, and I'll say something, I suppose. Ish.
Maybe?
TTFN
At least you wrote something.
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