fine whine

I think writing that novel did something to me. Two days of silence, one before that of very little, and before that, a month (well, three weeks) of concentrated writing, and here I am now, wondering what I should do. Should I write another novel? Finish the website I have been building for far too long? Begin the second phase of said website? Finally break down and learn some Japanese? Finally break down and get some certification to appease my dad?

I'm not especially keen on that last idea, especially since having met a real live network administrator and his wife (she who also manipulates bits and bytes for a living). He confirmed my suspicions that certification's not really as big a deal as some make it. But I am getting ahead of myself. I met the two of them at the Nanowrimo (now that it is over for this year I refuse their capitalization) "thank god it's over" shindig at the local Chinese buffet, where I had presided over an empty booth. Behind me was a booth filled with Nano-ites and beside them another enclave of novelty novelists, so when the next couple arrived I offered them the other half of my booth. If they turned out to be weirdoes I could always move the whole bench away, as nothing had been quite nailed down yet in this bustling and expanding restaurant. But I digress.

The two of them turned out to be quite friendly and interesting, which was a relief. Also relieving was the lack of Christmas season music in the background, as it seems now that Thanksgiving has passed it's open season for the jingling of bells and the decking of halls, and today even I heard "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth" in a store. I am sure to mention this more often as the month goes on, so I won't get bogged down in the spirit of the season now. I have bigger fish to fry, as in why two of my coworkers were unfamiliar with the concepts of kitsch and hipsterism. Today I had spouted some completely useless information at an unwitting coworker regarding the nature of the A paper system (you know, A4, A5 and so on) at least as far as I understood it. I've known that they are aware at work that I "know things" but I think I only cultivate an aura of eccentricity to the other cubicle dwellers around me.

Which I'm perfectly okay with. With which I am perfectly okay? Writing that novel did something to me indeed.