The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but something I made up

So I am sitting here while Little Guy naps taking a break from trying to bang out a short story for my class. For this class, we each get to workshop two pieces - the process of which involves crafting a short fiction piece to be taken home, read, and ripped to shreds by the group only to be followed up the next week by a 45 minute in-class discussion about it's suckiness.

I sit in the next to last seat at the table, a full twelve spots from where the sign up sheet started, so I was lucky enough to get a slot for this week, the second week of class. Of course I want my writing to be read and ripped, because I want it to be better, or maybe really really good, or at least to suck less.

Either way, I am committed, so that is what I have been spending my spare time on these days, back to the crack of dawn writing in the wee dark morning hours and some editing during naps. Today I have been working in the playroom which sits on the side of the house where my neighbors are in the last stages of a kitchen renovation so I am writing to the tune of a tile saw punctuated with bursts of Russian. It's fantastic really.

I say all of this to say that writing fiction puts my head into another place. A good place, but also somewhere that makes writing non-fiction, even blogging, a little difficult. So you won't hear from me as much around here. Because I will be busy writing things like

So there was an inevitable association between them that comes about when two people in the same small town fall victim to the same shitty circumstances.

As you can see, I really need to get back to it.