I will not confess that I have done nothing this weekend as to writing. I went on a walk and thought a bit about Tessy and a thought or two about An Hour in Common. However, I admit, I did not write one damn letter. It's not my fault. I just got, in the mail, HBO's John Adams an the second season of 24 and I'm only a man. I have needs!
I am just a man!
But I do admit I have done little. A little little. To be petty, my loyal readers, it doesn't help that I write to a voiceless brick wall. I'm not proud that I'm no stoic. I'd like to be one, I'd like to be the type of man that inspires me, but I'm not. I'm vain and petty, and I'd like feedback, even negative feedback. That shouldn't be surprising. I'm into spanking.
My childish crave for attention aside, I promised myself that I would not let this blog linger and die like the branch of an old tree. As a self-punishment, I shall publish chapter three of my beloved novel. Now, get something straight here, people: I toiled over this (I agonized, I climbed mountains to consult monks on syntax, I cut out my eyes so that I may see with my heart), and you're getting it for free, so I don't want to hear any bitching.
That's a lie. I want to hear anything, bitching included.
PB
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