You know, I think in the long run, writers are the only ones with any job security. Really...seems robots could do anything else. I mean, hopefully it never gets to that point, but still. Which stinks, because I could never write good fiction. It always feels as if I'm giving someone's secrets away. It seems the only true point of view is limited. But I mean limited. Knowing no one's thoughts at all. Because that's how it is in life, right? I don't know his thoughts-- or hers, or his. It would be my thoughts alone...one endless journal entry. And that's no fun for anyone.
I can hear William outside, probably getting ready to pounce on one of my cats. That's my neighbor's 7-year-old. Also the name of a kid I went to grade school with. Also my kindergarten teacher. Technically, that was her last name. I didn't much like her-- she took her hair off once on April Fool's Day. Also she was mean. Mainly to this kid named Brittany. I walked with Brittany at my kindergarten graduation. I tripped. The the end. I remember having to draw self-portraits with my class then, and mine being the only one with skin-colored skin. All the others' were green or blue or something. I thought that showed a terrible lack of realism in them...probably just meant I had no taste for the abstract at age six.