Basically I procrastinate like a mad procrastinator until the last moment has past. Then I smush the keys and in smushing them a story oozes out. In this case, not a story. In this case a slight diatribe. Perhaps exposition. More diatribe, really.My partner is actually the writer, though none of her work has yet appeared on this site. It can't appear without her first offering it for appearance. This is a problem. She being the more literary of our pair - she being the actual writer - she should be the one offering morsels of good, solid life for your enjoyment. She's the writer. Again, I only play one on the Internet. But she's been quite hesitant to offer a story or article because she feels she has nothing solid to contribute. This is strange. I smush words out of these keys as though trying to make some soupy alphabet jam sans recipe. Just hoping that something edible comes out in the end. At least something to gnosh on tomorrow around mid morning when I'm getting a bit peckish. And I've got no real talent at all. Meanwhile, she's alive with talent, vibrating with talent, gushing with talent and yet feels uneasy making an offering. Perhaps the difference is this. As I write I let the words leave me and in leaving me they are disconnected from my self. But as she writes, the words stay attached - they're a piece of her - part of her self and are thus forever connected. Her writing is a giving of herself and mine is a getting rid of self. I think mine is much more theraputic. Too bad for you.
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