Sometimes I think it would be good to be able to write about reality. About my own life and the things that happen to me and to the people around me.

Then I read things like this.

Things like this make me think that maybe writing about other people, or having other people writing about you, is not the most constructive excersise. Especially if the people being written about are dead, and so can't write back.

Meanwhile, I'd be quite pleased if I could write about anything at the rate I'm going today.