Today I'd like to think that, in order to celebrate Post No. 50, I stayed home. It is ten of one. The house is so quiet and rain so slow and miserable that really I should be doing nothing but writing. Instead, I dragged this old piece out, gave it a read-through and can see all of its holes now. I think I'll work on this, the original Fast Ones.
I'm reading Heather Lewis' "Second Suspect." Third written, but second published—a revamped and significantly more marketable version of "Notice." It's making me sad, wishing she was still here. I have all of these questions I'd want to ask her about it.
First question: "Was it at least fun to write this?"
I'll go for a run first, see if I can shake off this indifference, what's left from last night.