If reading the first page counts as starting, have just begun "Slaughterhouse Five" by Vonnegut. (This is in addition to also being in the process of reading, "The Pilgrimage," Paulo Coehlo, "My Beloved World," Sonia Sotomayor, "The Actor and the Target," Declan Donnollan, "David Copperfield," Dickens (which I've misplaced since moving, almost three months ago. Every time I thing I should get organized, I just get overwhelmed; I can't really find anything), and having just finished "The Edible Woman," Margaret Atwood, but I've read that one before, many times.)
I'm not busy enough, apparently. Also, taking a modern dance class, a clown class, starting a self-imposed art project, and trying to decide whether or not to reconsider enrolling in an acting conservatory program I had previously declined, but some of the circumstances for which I based that decision have changed and I have been updated on those. I'm not deciding today. (I also bought a blank journal, they were on sale: guess that means I should start writing again.)
So many good intentions.
Ha!
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