Trace us back trace us back

Trace us back trace us back

Today I picked up my photos from Target.  For some reason they're all upside-down on the photo disk, and this one didn't turn out (it was the first one on the roll; I guess I need to work on loading the film better) but I like it anyway.  For some reason I only like the trees outside my window certain times of the year, even though they never really lose their leaves.  But right now I like them, and I'll like them when summer comes and there's a light breeze and I can open all the windows and hear the leaves moving in the wind.

The weather has finally cooled down, and I have new jeans to wear tomorrow, so the combination of these two things makes me very happy.  But I don't know what I'm going to do if it rains.  I've never driven in the rain before.  And I have to drive at tomorrow night.  I don't know if I can drive (and park, mostly park) in the dark, in the rain. 


Right now I'm listening to Miley Cyrus and Phoenix and thinking about how horrid my UC essays are and wondering why I'm even applying anyway when I knew that I didn't want to even before I opened their mailer and got the worst paper cut ever.  I can hear my sister typing in her room; her word count keeps rising, and I'm trying not to feel bad about quitting.  I promised Qwerty I'd give his character a home and now I'm not because I've ditched my stupid road-trip-guitar story, and Gilly doesn't want his character so he's now homeless.  But I think I've probably done the character a favor, because he would not have been happy in my novel.

There is no way I'll ever be able to be a professional writer.  That's what I always wanted to be as a kid - a novelist with a big, cozy house and a shelf full of all my own books.  But I don't have the gumption.  I like that word, gumption.  It reminds me of "Harriet the Spy".  Harriet and Golly had gumption.    All I've got is five thousand words from this year, eighteen thousand words from last year, and some new jeans.