Oh, Regina

I fall in and out of love with Regina Spektor.  No.  That's not right.  I never fall out of love with her, I just get distracted and lose track of her for awhile.  Then I come back (I always come back), and remember how much I missed her while she was out of my life.  You'd think I'd be smart enough to put a few of her albums (or her entire discography) on my phone so I could take her with me wherever I go.



Right now, I'm playing Skyrim (right now, I'm actually blogging, but prior to this, I was playing Skyrim), with Regina singing "What we Saw from the Cheap Seats."  I ought to be writing, but I'm not.  I ought to be drawing, but there's this kid in Windhelm who needs help.  I guess he wants someone to kill the matron at Honorhall, but I'm hoping there's a peaceful solution to all this, that doesn't end up with the kid behind bars.

Also, I wish it was as easy to run around the block as it is to run to Windhelm (minus the murderous cold and the random dragon attacks).  I'm stuck at -14 pounds still, and I know I need to exercise - I often set time out in the day to do so - but I just as often find myself back in Tamriel or I just wake up a few hours later and realize I went to bed.

I'm not writing.  I knocked out the rewrite of my first book, but I cut so much out of it, I turned it from a 50,000+ word short novel into a 20,000 word novella.  I think I'll be going ahead with writing the rest of the stories I'd planned as sequels and see if trimming them down doesn't turn it all into one big novel.

Anyway...  I was talking about Regina Spektor.  I used to listen to Regina Spektor's live stuff (found online - mostly bootleg recordings of performances in New York) while I was riding my bike to or from work.  Sometimes I'd listen to Soviet Kitsch when I was exercising.  I normally listen to Jimi Hendrix or 80's Metallica or Tool when I'm writing, but for some reason, every refrain on What we Saw from the Cheap Seats keeps egging me on to get back to work.

It's like the lovely Ms. Spektor is sitting behind me in the easy chair that once belonged to my stepfather, quietly judging me and guilting me into getting off my ass and doing something.  Maybe I ought to get on it.