i am so depressed. a woman who saw me writing in a very twee Indian journal where the paper's all handmade and pressed with bits of flowers said to me very sweetly, "Oh, writing in your journal?" I said something awful in response, like i don't write in journals and in fact don't believe in journaling, she said why and i said "Cos you can't make any money off it."
now really, the truth is that i am, by profession, a Journalist, which to me means that i get paid to organize my thoughts that would otherwise be random journal notes into journalism. like journalism with a capital J. and besides, i have my column and if that isn't a naked journal that i get paid for, i don't know what is.
it occurs to me that this blog is an on line journal. i know my friend the poet christine kluge told me that she uses hers as a kind of website so that editors and such can see her work easily on line and i guess that's purposeful. but so far i don't know how to make that work for me, so this is just a blog, a silly blog, to be taken no more seriously than someone writing in their diary.
whatever.
long live the internet. and besides, my hands are so stiff now from encroaching arthritis that i can no longer hand write any thing and have to type all the time. Ha ha ha.
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