Consectutive Days Lived Well: 3 (provided that I write after I post)

I worked, biked home, worked out, made dinner, went to the grocery store, and started on my taxes. Now I'm going to write for a while and then go to bed. I'm entertaining the possibility of writing a short story before completing the novel so that I have something to show people and maybe to test whether or not I have any potential. Writing is something I want to do; it feels almost like a duty to myself. Also, Emerson said something like, "If you're so lucky as to have Truth pay you a visit, do her the honor of writing it down" (maybe he put it in terms of the muses). Well, I agree with that, and I feel like I was fortunate enough to catch a few glimpes of some real shit, mainly during my time at St. John's, and I want to record it somehow. However, if I don't write, my endeavors would probably go much more smoothly. I never really liked writing, or, rather, I found it rewarding, but the activity itself has never been pleasurable. I'd probably be looking at graduate programs if I weren't working on this. For the time being, it's moving along, but it's painful. Mainly, I've beend dreading my pre-planned writing times. I just hate it when I dread the task. I want to beat that out of myself. It makes me want to vomit.