in which I get philosophical, long-winded, and opinionated--and it all started so innocently!

katallen tells it like it is: writers is nutz.

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Still working on the Maple Leaf Rag. Also teaching myself to play "In the Mood," "Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy," "La Bamba," "Mack the Knife," and various other songs of that ilk. Keeping in mind that Scott Joplin is the uppermost limit of my technical proficiency, any suggestions for sheet music collections, especially of blues and folk-music, would be very much appreciated. (I recognize the irony, believe me, but since I have no ability to play by ear, nor to improvise, nor to compose, if I want to play something, I have to have sheet music. Them's the breaks.)

I love having a piano again. I love being able to wander out, play for five or ten minutes, and wander away again. I love being able to sit down and play for an hour, if that's what I want to do. I love the fact that I have no one to please but myself. I love the fact that I can please myself.

( reflections on piano lessons and the American cultural ethos )

after getting off to a slightly pretentious and uninspiring start (see previous rock)

Today I have:

• figured out how to end a short story that I finished in June--except for the last damn 150 words
  
• lobbed two turnips (this is the great advantage of email subs: if you get inspired at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night to get off your metaphorical ass (since your real ass is of course in the computer chair, and it would actually be kind of hard to type if you got off it) and deal with things, you CAN)
  
• packaged two more to go to the post office on Monday, one of them being the new story
  
• wrote a page or so of the currently-in-progress short story
  

I've still got three horror stories of varying lengths (6,500 words, 3,400 words, 1,900 words) languishing like beautiful consumptives, but maybe I can get them sorted out tomorrow.