I thought I knew what I wanted. I suppose that is the nature of change. So like me, always trying. Even trying to plan out what I would create. Ah. I can’t bring myself to so much as look at a project I had decided would be my focus, Outside Ohio. The whole bit of it seems boring. I find myself writing stories on suicide. Someone is always dying or just died before I walked into the room. I don’t know why. I don’t know why certain things hang around me for certain periods of time. And why right now it’s suicide. I think it’s just a certain kind of death that leaves these particularly painful and strange places around it. The strange thing is sometimes I will start a story and when I realize that someone has died or that someone I am writing is about to die I feel guilty. I feel like I made that choice for them. I guess in a way I did.