January 17, 2022

Though it still feebly snows, we seem to have weathered Izzy, the storm meant to be threshold apocalyptic. During it I cooked noodles and worked on short fiction, bringing two stories to higher form. 

Received a note from an agent concerning Tub, which said she loved the prose but claimed adult stories with juvenile narrators in any part are hard to sell. This, of course, is bullshit. Fake expertise expressed with ludicrous confidence. The task of the contemporary writer is to find a way to spike their work past the stupidity of the  gatekeepers. I have not been good at that. 

Used Roku to find an exercise program on You Tube, whereby I began my day with half an hour of aerobics. I was careful of my knee, and it gave me no problems, nor were there the breathing issues I expected. Right now I do, as the aerobics instructor promised, feel great. I remember  when I’d do three high-energy aerobics classes in a row at the Spa. I probably have that to thank for some of my current knee problems, but at the time it was exhilarating, and my most consistent method of social interaction. Destroy the aerobics floor, then make the lonely drive back to the wilds of Candler. I was so good that aerobics instructor who were interviewing for jobs at other venues would bring me along as a ringer who could do their moves and make them look good. Except ping pong and 4-square, it was the only time I was superior at anything physical. 

The only time I left the house was to replenish the suet holders. Four red bellied woodpeckers stared at my through the window, referencing the empty feeders, shaming me out into the elements.