In the way of things, I've been cleaning up my old live journal and refurbishing it with a few sticks of old furniture. I've been wanting a cozy little alcove where I can just ramble on incessently about fanfic, about clothes, and all the rest of the silly trifles that I love. I'll still be updating this, but I want this to be more of a "writer's journal," something thoughtful (or at least thought out). If you're curious, you can pop on by here.

I went hiking up American Fork Canyon last Sunday. Six or seven miles of nothing but isolation. It's just displacement back there alongside the dusty roads. The water at the reservoir freezes your feet if you're not careful, and I wade through the makeshift river in white athletic socks to avoid blisters. I will not let myself go morbid, I repeat from Laura Brown. I will not think about falling noiselessly into the water. I don't, after a while, because the wild pheasants and lukewarm bottled water take over, and I feel myself release. It can be frustrating sometimes, such a delicate balance between that skulking in the dark corners and being fresh, and free, and open. It's getting better, I think, and sundaes are buy one, get one half off at Dairy Queen. Books and hiking and ice cream, everything's getting better. I can sing from Rocky Horror with my sister and lie out underneath the apple trees. When the wind blows through the windows the doors slam shut.

I'm trying to write another short story. I am not quite sure what it's about yet, but it's about a boy (Mr. Hornby, no pun intended).