Wee Hour

Three twenty two. It won't be three twenty two anymore by the time this paragraph is finished. But it makes for a good starting point.

I just wrote somewhere, after reading an excellent piece that may or may not have been true, that "I could write of work, or use work as the jump-off, and turn a fact or seven around and redraw the links, and it might be pretty good, and no one would know or care where fact and fiction diverge." At this moment, I cannot provide a good answer as to why I haven't been doing that. Story is found in character, and my life is overflowing with interesting characters, not a few of them hidden away in the desolate halls of the corporation.

I can provide an answer. I just can't provide a good answer. The question interests me because the answer is connected with a tension between my partner and I. She's a doer: The other night for example she rearranged her studio to accommodate a painting, and stayed up all night working on it. I'm a dreamer: Right now I'm sitting here typing about how I wish I was writing. A similar tension dogs me at work: I self-characterize as someone who's really good at designing a product to spec and schedule but lacking -- terribly lacking, career-killingly lacking -- the networking acumen or strategic thinking ability that makes an engineer valuable. As a dreamer, I conceive of much more than I do. The doer does what she conceives. There's really no good reason for doing less than I conceive of. Just ponderous lifelong habits of thinking too much and seeming to fear a commitment to action. Those who are close to me would be delighted if I thought less and acted more.

On that note, I will stop this, and take a look at Major Writing Project A, and/or go back to bed.