Paying attention

Tyler's friend Wilpat has two new bulldog puppies. He says they make the snarfling congested sound that you'd expect sausage-shaped puppies wearing tiny harnesses to make.

I would like to be able to commit to a bulldog puppy one day. The sausage shaped, snarfling beginnings of my book is sort of like owning a puppy. Except it's rarely cute when you realize you've described the same t-shirt on two different characters. It means you're not paying attention.

I feel different when I tell the truth on the computer screen compared to when I lump things that should fit but don't. How often we dodge the truth in real life could have some bearing on doing it in writing, right? Mm.

So this week I vow to pay attention--are the lines I write leaving me enough energy to think about how I'm hungry, or how I really want a new set of acrylic nails? Or are they telling the truth, expanding once I hit something like a vein, taking up my heart and my head for that whole twenty minutes it takes to spill something real?