So report from the trenches — Last night I ran a D&D game and came home to watch Lost, putting me in bed at 2 am. I woke up at 6:45 and while I managed to get my morning pages done for Artist’s Way, I missed my writing window. Tonight I ran my other D&D game, so I’m just sitting down to the computer at 11:15 pm. Right now I’m blogging, so I’ll have my NaBloPoMo requirements in. Perhaps after this post I’ll get another few pages of the story done — it’s a sci-fi story (big surprise), and I’m still not sure exactly where it’s going, but I have a main character and a setting, so we’ll see where it develops. If I were smart, I’d just go to bed now and wake up in six hours refreshed to write, but likely I’m gonna try to watch one of my shows instead.
Not a lot of concentration left, and nothing really profound to say. I did get a bunch of spam mail tonight from a friend, and while I deleted most of them without reading, one popped up talking about the dangers of ball pits in restaurants and how dirty/nasty/dangerous they get. There was some apocryphal story of a child that sat on a heroin needle and died of an overdose, and whether true or not just sends fear through my psyche. It’s a horrifying image of your child being hurt while playing in what should be a safe place, and having been to a few of these restaurants, it’s clear there’s not a lot of supervision or quality control going on. It’s probably just urban legend. In fact, it is: Needlepointless Tragedy. Still freaks me out. Being a parent is wearing your heart on the outside of your chest, and even the threat of your child being hurt is enough to send you into an emotional tailspin. Life is dangerous, and people get hurt and killed every single day. It’s unpreventable, and we’re all living in that world. Though, statistically speaking, we’re all in the clear. For the most part we’re all safe, except when we roll a seven and crap out.