This moment, I am concerned about what my bosses are saying in the next room. They chatter about people whenever the doors are closed, and it’s never good. Lunchtime is particularly vicious, and I’ve been falling behind in my work this month.
I try not to listen to them, instead investing myself in the keystrokes, giving myself time to write. I worry that I won’t have time to write what I want. I always start writing, and–because I write slow–I always take a long time to finish what I have to say. I want to read a book. I want to write pages in my journal, but that’s back home. I should bring it with me next time. I think about how this is stream of consciousness. I think about how stream of consciousness writing is often crap, appealing only to the writer and not to their audience–that oft-neglected segment of the aspiring writer’s career.
They’re still bitching about people. So far, none of it’s about me. That’s good.