Right now, I’m dealing with (and I do mean dealing with) my short story ‘Autumn Leaves’ right now, sprucing it up after adding length and content to it, by recommendation of the writing club. They want to chop that bit of lit (short for ‘literature’) into fine, tiny-tiny pieces and inspect how to write a short story.

It feels so good to be a role model.

In fact, the cruel irony to me is that music was given to me by others; scale after scale and note after note, and any piece I wanted to play went under the guidance of my tutor.

My writing, however, came after I read stories online and taught myself to write, no guidance, no tuition, no money spent either.

I think, somehow, in some odd manner, my writing ranks better in skill than my music.

Worse, now I don’t feel like writing so much, but I do feel like smashing some ivory and ebony.

I can’t help it if I am fickle!

Ah well, this is what happens when you have a musically-inclined and literarily-inclined brain.

Can't type anymore. Midnight. Where did my sleeping hours go?