Had to go to Compton today to resolve a ticket that apparently never went into the system and may be put in anytime between now and February of NEXT YEAR. Screw that. I'm writing a letter.
Had a panic attack last night. Am law-abiding and non-confrontational in the extreme, and my heart races just remembering how sick with anxiety I was last night and this morning. Driving used to do that to me. It still does, if I think too much about it. That's what I both hate and am grateful for about getting older: I think far less and am thus a great deal more stable emotionally. Not quite there yet. Obviously.
Finished Brock Clarke's book. Didn't work for me. Central character was too much of a pushover, the other characters not really well-developed into anything more than figures. If it's not Dickensian or magical realism, it just doesn't seem to fully realize a place or people. Felt like a waste of a good idea.
Am now afraid will incur similar responses about my manuscript in the future, which by the way, did originally feature the Robert Frost Place as well, but will now be changed into a fictional writer's house. Considering my book is quite loopy, this should be a positive change.