The amount of content I have to spin into “stuff” is baffling. This morning I lined up a selection of books in chronological order. We’re approaching the 2003 jump-off.
I think I’m done with therapy. While the six sessions I attended really did make a significant contribution to steadying me on my feet, I think I’m done complaining. Well, I’m done paying to complain. If I really feel like having a sook, I can just do it in these parts. Furthermore, the fact that I have four big sisters to bitch to as required is gold.
The main factor that has led me to this conclusion, is that for the past few sessions, all I’ve been on about is my book. “Blah blah I need to finish it. Blah blah blah, it’s been too long. Blah blah… maybe I’m too self-critical?”
Really? Why would I spend time being counseled about my book when I could be at home writing it?
I understand that I am independent to where it has actually become a literal fault. We all have our faults.
Never the less, while I enjoyed playing therapy and sucked some great stories from our half a dozen conversations, all I feel like doing is finishing my book.
I’ll work on it today while New York City cops its first thrashing of snow for the season. I must say Mother nature did a great job holding off the inevitable. Leaving winter in Melbourne to walk into winter in New York City has not been very fun.