Communication, a direction, and a poor attempt at humour in the face of mildly annoying pain

2003-02-06 - 5:40 a.m.

I got to talk with my oldest, best friend the other day. I realised after the call that we've been friends for about 10 years now. I'm not sure if I'm ready to be old enough to have friends for over a decade, so maybe I should send her a vicious email?

I also received both an email from my mom and a phone call from my dad this week. I hadn't heard from my dad since I called him before Christmas, and so I was a little worried - he's been calling me every couple of weeks or so since I moved to Toronto. I was asleep, so he would have gotten the machine. I hope he's okay.

And finally, I may have gotten back in touch with my muse. I've been pretty good about writing, except for the last week where I had a tally of maybe 100 words, which is not acceptable if I plan to realize my dreams as the world's most prolific bad novelist. Tonight, I've managed to pick up the thread of my story, which means I might really be finished this novel by the end of March. I'm absolutely amazed that I'll be able to write a novel in less than three months (even though I wrote a novella in two weeks last year)...it almost seems like magic.

But then, writing itself has been magical for me lately. I don't want to get all gooshy about it, but I like writing...it's every cliche about wonderful things when I'm doing it, and doing it well. When I've got a good story at my fingertips, there is nothing else I'd rather be doing. It's a poor choice for a career, I guess, since it means I'll be poor forever (unless Pookie strikes it rich) but I can say that I've found my calling. I will be a professional writer, and I will love it. That's a pretty powerful thing to carry with me, and it's something that I shouldn't feel embarrased about: I am a writer. Good or bad, I have a direction.

And that paragraph was supposed to be better, but I'm being distracted by this aching pain that starts in my jaw bone just below my right ear and stretches down to my right shoulder. It can't seem to decide if it's a bone-ache or a muscle-ache. It hurts. But I'll be okay, and afterwards, I'll write a 50,000-word novel in 2 months about how I handled it. I'll call it "Pain in the Neck: the Life and Loves of The Magus' Aching Body."

Cheers,

The Magus

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