A strange day, though. I spent it trying to find my way back into the writing, back into the work, in part by reading three of the stories in The Dinosaur Tourist – "Untitled Psychiatrist No. 3" (May 2017), "Ballad of an Echo Whisperer" (June-August 2013), and "Elegy for a Suicide" (July 2013). I rarely ever read my own work after it's published, unless it's to revise for reprints, and it always puts me in an odd mood. And I also read portions of one of my handwritten journals from 2007, and a good bit of the blog entries for that same year, which added to the oddness.
And there was a trip to Target for pajama pants and blue cheese. I'm sure that didn't help.
It's almost inexplicable, my skill at feeling intense nostalgia for places I absolutely loathed when I actually lived there. In this case, the house on Mansfield Avenue in Atlanta (December 2004–May 2008). At the time, I thought I was miserable.
Last night, Spooky made an apple pie (well, it was a frozen pie from Da Oink, but she cooked it).
10:24 p.m. (last night)