Today was physically demanding. I spent eight hours down in the dirt, rebuilding the foundation where the old porch was attached to the house, as well as repointing ancient and dissolving mortar. My hands look like they belong to an eighty year old, and I can hardly straighten my fingers. Most of the work required me to kneel which has been just be great for my hip. Thank science for NSAIDs.

Tonight, I'm beat.

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AND IT SUCKS

Jesus.

All I want to do is write.

I can hear the wife in the other room, pounding away at her keyboard like there's no tomorrow. She's probably writing the great swedish novel, or some sort of Scandinavian epic poem. What am I doing? Watching dumb videos on youtube and getting stressed about work.

A writer that doesn't write is a liar.

Sorry. I guess I'm just in a bad mood, and this seemed like as good a place as any to spray about my ire.

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It's a dry streak, for sure. I usually have these periods of blockage (not writer's block, just an "I'm stuck, ideas are not sticking" moment) where nothing seems to work. All I have are one-shot ideas, which are not the stories I want to write right now, but they are all I have, so...

No time like the present?

Also, holy fuck, Seattle Angels gave me a review. If you haven't seen it, click on this text to see it.

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Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us
here.

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So, I went to Galacon last weekend. It's my second-ever convention – my first being Bronycon 2014 – and hopefully the second of many to come.

Galacon was a fucking blast, to be frank. Or, rather, the Galacon attendees were a blast. The actual convention that we'd all gone there for was... well. I spent about 15 minutes in the convention centre getting my pass and a booklet, looked around at what the pony-people were peddling, and decided that it wasn't for me.

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