Today I hovered over my computer like a cat who's just birthed a litter. I created a new commune for prose writing and I wanted to start it off, but my daughter kept getting in the way.
Big words - commune, prose. I thought I had something written down as my first offering, saved it on my lappy, with numerous inputs from my daughter. She's a jealous child - she knows from the abstract way I refuse to meet her eyes that I'm in my private space, and she pounds her fists on the keyboard. In the last 2 days she's killed the number 8 on my laptop. Now nothing I write can have that number.
I saved the piece on the lappy, but my husband's hogging it at this moment, and I'm stuck with the PC which is whimsical at best. It seems like too much work now to get the piece off the lappy and onto Blogladder. So I think I'll just content myself with this entry for today.
All my writing seems so me-centric, that
1) it doesn't seem extensible at all, so I wonder if this idea to write together can ever kick off, and
2) I wonder if there's going to be any distinction between this blog and Daily Prozaic.
If it doesn't work out, I'll just let Prozaic die a happy, natural death.
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