If It's Words You're After

I blogged five times yesterday. I should calculate my average daily word count since moving to Sackville . . . if I could translate even half of it into fiction writing on my various projects I would be laughing.

I've made up my mind . . . not taking the creative writing course at Mount A this fall. Quite simply can't afford it and was getting really stressed about the creative accounting I was going to have to do in order to swing it. I couldn't come up with a concrete good reason to completely starve myself for however many years it would take me to pay off the credit card. Other than the weight loss that might entail, though I'm sure I would pay dearly in the arthritis department. Taking the course would probably set me back financially for at least five years. Five years of hardship at this stage of my life is not appealing. I just can't do it when I don't know why I'm doing it, what difference it will make in my life. It's ONE course, not a degree . . . a degree that wouldn't help me make more money anyway. The only difference I could see was way less sleep as I struggled to stay on top of the course while continuing to work on BnM and with the WFNB. No publishing guarantees. No guarantee I'd learn anything that I can't find out on my own by reading and writing. So, that's that then, I'm not going. Maybe some other time, but not this year. It's just too much, too soon, and I'm not up for it on so many different levels.

The gardeners were here earlier this morning. People think I'm joking when I say that, well that is until they come here and see the place. There is no shortage of lawn and trees and flowers and ferns and all kinds of beautiful things. It smells wonderful! And with my favourite landlord being in Montreal a lot of the time, there are many people who come and go caring for the property.

There are the gardeners. Two strapping young gentlemen who show off their bronze muscles when they work shirtless and one older man who just sits on the truck tailgate and motions with his hands while he smokes. There is the contractor, who is doing all the renos next door in preparation for the students moving in at the end of next month. He's here now too actually, and today he's got a skinny little boy with him, probably around 12 or 13 years old. Maybe his grandson? The kid keeps swearing and the man keeps shushing him. Having met the contractor (but only once and I can't for the life of me remember his name) he does not seem like the type of man to curse very often. So the child is probably getting on his last nerve with all his trash talk.

There's the plumber. Very French. He spent the day in my apartment one time if you remember. Nice enough fellow. Very quiet. There's the business partner, who I think co-owns other properties with the landlord. There's the girl who picks up his mail for him while he's away. A full cast really. You never know who will be in the dooryard when you wake up in the morning . . . kind of like living at Marty's come to think of it . . . only much more decent and human. I'm never afraid of the people in the dooryard here. Well, I haven't been up to this point . . . with four students moving in next door . . . who the hell knows what sort of craziness might happen.

I'm hoping they are mature and serious students, but not snobs. Nice. But not loud. It's a tall order I think . . . and three of them are boys. I'm praying for nice boys and not bringing home a different girl every night of the week, rugby-playing, loud, obnoxious, jock-like boys. If the place turns into some sort of frat house, I will lose my mind. The perfect boys would be shy cuties, studious, intelligent . . . is it too much to ask for virgins? Probably. Inexperienced will do. I want them to be the kind of students who go to class and then stay all night at the library and only come home to sleep, shower and go back to school. Lord knows what I'll get.

Mood: fuzzy-headed
Drinking: fuzzy coffee
Listening To: fuzzy machinery
Hair: FUZZY