No witty quotes today.
I started a new job as a residential assistant at a drug and alcohol treatment center. I’ve done several training shifts and will be officially on the schedule come September.
I’m waiting for my substitute teaching license to come through. I sent my paperwork in June, but my check for the $25 license fee didn’t get processed until August 1.
My tutoring job is slow at the moment. School is starting this week, and my student needs to adjust her hours.
My home care job is slowing down. One of my clients no longer needs me, and another decided she doesn’t like me and wants another caregiver. As soon as the substitute teaching jobs come in and I get my September schedule at the treatment center, I’ll be giving notice. Three jobs is quite enough. Four is asking for trouble.
Last night (really, early this morning) I had a vivid dream that I thought would make, at the least, a good short story. I wake up, fire up my computer, and bupkes. The inner critic starts telling me why I can’t write it. I don’t remember half my characters’ names. I realize I would have to publish under a nom de plume, given the subject matter.
The day’s not a total loss. I’m watching Big Trouble and Little Trouble play, and I have plans to go out with a friend later. I can still get some errands done. I can work on an old writing project that I’ve decided to resurrect.
I can read one of the library books that’s piled up on my windowsill. There’s quite an eclectic selection there. Short stories by Kurt Vonnegut, letters of Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, a graphic novel or two, novels of the Harlem Renaissance, essays by David Sedaris. Surely one of them can offer me a respite from this loose ends feeling.
Thank you for reading. I’ll be back to my usual self soon, I’m sure.