the Written word

Jamie and I have this thing, that sooner or later one of is going to get published. I just started mulling the idea, seriously that is. I've thought about writing much more than I've written, and then I get sidetracked and never do what I really want to do. That is, write what I want to write when it pops into my head. She, on the other hand, has always believed, and rightly so, that she will publish a book one day. I think some days she wavers on what she really wants to do with that, but I feel that a casual 'race' of a publishing nature might push her into high gear.

We sit right now at different desks. Mine, a cheap plastic imitation of a desk that never ceases to stop its incessant squeaks as I type. And hers, a less than modern solid desk of Czech (maybe) origin, with no inclination to squeak whatsoever. To put it lightly, I hate my fucking desk. But I suppose that it is not the desk that makes the writer. It is the wit, and the ability, that makes the writer do what he (or she) must do. And as I sit here, listening to my desk sway and quake with every little tap of the keyboard, I wonder what exactly makes me write this post, or rather, what makes me write in general.

Whatever the reason (I do not feel like having a written argument with myself), I love the written word. Plus, I want to beat Jamie. And now I have to help her put up a hook for our scarves. Oh, the life in Praha.