I was reading this post on Dustbury on the differences between blogging and journaling and thinking, “I really don’t keep a journal these days anymore.” The only introspective writings I’ve done the past year are in the occasional post on this blog and in random travel journals. My writing energy has been diverted elsewhere. This does not mean that I’m no longer drawn to a blank journal. I’m always drawn to a blank notebook–but I don’t want to write about my thoughts about my life in there. I want to write stories. The kind of crazy genre stories that would make literary snobs cringe.
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Yesterday afternoon, I hiked up a steep hill again. It was somewhat treacherous–snow covered the surface so there was a bit of traction, but there wasn’t enough snow to conceal the fact that the ground below was a solid sheet of ice. I trudged along, watching my feet, when some guy whizzed past me. A couple seconds later, he reached the top of the hill.
This threw me into a black mood. The entire non-incident was like a metaphor of my life. Other people get to places with seemingly little effort while I have to tread carefully, hoping I wouldn’t slip on some hidden patch of ice and fall flat on my face.