Overall, I consider writing the most solitary of the arts. Not only does writing a novel involve spending months, if not longer, alone inside one’s head trying to reproduce the drama unfolding therein, the interim stages of an unfinished novel hold next to no interest.
View from the ferry window en route back to Vancouver from Victoria, BC.
It’s also where I spent most of last week, enrolled in a four-day Continuing Education course as professional development for my job.
I have to admit, I’ve never cared for islands, for I’ve had a negative experience on every island I’ve ever visited; everything from,
and most recently, four days of subtle mocking of the efforts of non-profit organizations by smug government works despite a non-profit worker – i.e. ME – being right there in the room.
A Frame Around Infinity 