Weepy. No new tales to tell, this week, really. We're all waiting with baited breath for K to pop (I'm favoring worms for my bait, while she's using tiny minnows).

My father visited this weekend, and Sunday night we had our first really good conversation in years. We talked all the time in high school, often as not yelling as we did so. As I got older, most of the time we'd talk about computers and politics, anything that didn't really matter. But Sunday, I needed some advice and he was there to give it.

We've had troubles in the past--lots of them. But I'm glad we're on good terms, seemingly indefinitely.

He had an elegant refutation to an argument I made in an earlier blog, such that there's so much talent in the world, so why even bother trying to share mine. I hadn't even mentioned this to him, but it came up naturally. He said, "There are a hundred--oh hell, there are probably a million people with as much talent as you. But there is no one who's lived your life, who's had your experiences. No one can use their talent exactly like yours."

All true. I wound up crying as we talked. I seem to be weeping a lot lately, but this felt really good. So much so, in fact, that it felt breakthough-worthy, as though I might finally be able, after this conversation, to get my act together and Write.

Alas, no. Today I felt just as crappy as usual, and I've gone back to tired, sulky, and worried mode. Sigh...