Here I am thinking about how I should be writing. I've picked up several books at the library after realizing that having any type of sickness propels me into a creative/depressed mood where I might....just might...actually write something worthwhile. Meanwhile, I'm also trying to find an ending to a piece titled "Highlights of my Father" that is the second non-fiction work I've ever loved . Its hard to love your own work. I pinch it, preen it, decorate it, and then ask other people to comment on it--hoping that they will exclaim over it.
Here goes, I've got to write something today.
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