I tried to write yesterday, but all I could come up with was a whinging entry about how much my wrists hurt and how stressed I was about my job and how nothing could possibly make me happy or relaxed again, ever.

So when I got home from work last night I took a forty-five minute shower, put on my patchwork silk skirt & a silk shirt, then curled up on my futon to read until Earl got home. By the time he arrived I was quite relaxed indeed, and it took an effort of will to go out to dinner instead of curling up and falling asleep next to him.

Today has definitely been the best day of the week, despite work continuing to be painfully busy. I spent all morning fighting with a workstation that needs to be configured for ISDN and then shipped (back) to Texas. I spent all of yesterday fighting with the same workstation. It turns out the boot servers in my building are broken, but apparently the only people who care aren't high enough in the food chain to fix it.

But Earl's here, and so it isn't really bothering me. I've been tense all week, and last night when I finally relaxed I felt like I'd run several miles -- my legs hurt, my shoulders hurt, my neck hurt, my arms hurt ... it wasn't fun. It's usually hard for me to let go of tension, which is what being around Earl helps. It's not that I don't get stressed, it's that the stress doesn't last.

Alexis wrote me. I was surprised, since I'm not sure how she found my entry. Pleasantly surprised, though, and I think also flattered. I like her journal, after all, even if I don't particularly care for After Dinner. So why not be flattered, at least a little, that what I said on Tuesday caused her to take the time to write?

That's not why I did it, of course. I did it because I felt like I needed to say the things I said. But the people I've been talking to as a result... that's nice.

Her letter was slippery. That's not an insult, not at all, but there's a quality to her writing that I can't find any other words for. Here she is, commenting directly on my journal entry, and I still don't feel like we're really talking. Not too unusual, in the end; most people have to learn how to talk to each other, and if Alexis and I keep communicating I suppose I'll get a feel for her tone and intensity. Right now, though, it's like trying to hold onto rain-slicked marbles... they keep falling through my fingers. Is she angry? The words feel a little upset, a little defensive, but the tone feels calm, amused, dry. I'm rereading the letter now, and it seems clearer that she honestly wanted to explain, to connect, to show me what she was trying to say in her journal -- but the first time I read it I felt scolded, like a big-city sophisticate was explaining why I didn't measure up. Not Alexis' fault at all, just my own assumptions, hang-ups, insecurities.

Gabby's right. It's hard to write like this. I'm stepping so carefully, so afraid that what I say is going to seem an attack, or like an attempt to ingratiate myself with someone. More insecurities, but I get points for identifying them.

It occurs to me, writing this, that the diarists I read fall into three categories:

1. People like Ceej & Gabby, who I immediately relate to and feel connected with. I may not write like them, but my mental image of my writing is similar to my mental image of their writing.
2. People like Gus and Steve Schlachlin, whose writing I can relate to but whose lives are wildly different from mine.
3. People like Alexis (and Maggy) whose writing hits me in different places, in different ways. There's something in the way they choose words that I just don't _get_. I think they write beautifully, and I have a certain envy for the style that is so natural to them, so foreign to me.

So, you see, what I've really spiralled down to is a realisation of the styles I'm used to and the styles I'm not, of the ways I feel able to write and the ways that would be a stretch. And also a realisation about how weird all of this is. I thought I was immune from the surreality of online communities. I'm glad I'm not.

This entry is too long already, but I wanted to write about something a little more everyday than my slow-but-steady experience of being woven into the online journal community. Let's see.

I finished re-reading The Sword of Winter by Marta Randall last night. This is simply one of my favourite books, no question, and I think it's a _good_ book, also. There's craft to it. There are authorial decisions which cause specifics effects, and they're clever, and the book manages to throw you completely into the world it creates. Emulating some of Marta Randall's technique would probably not hurt me any.

Earl and I are going with various Bryant-organised horde members to see Face/Off tonight. I have high hopes for it; rumour has it that John Woo got more of what he wanted this time, so it should suck less than Broken Arrow. I'll try to remember to give an opinion on Monday.