Wednesday, February 20, 2008

I'm not done, yet

I miss the days when I used to write. My journal entries used to be long and thoughtful, and eloquent, if I do say so myself. But then I became a Scientist. Now writing is dry, consise and to the point, space-saving, time-saving, devoid of personality and finesse.

Yet one of my good friends fawned over my writing, and used a phrase I'd not heard before: that I was nerve and bone a writer, or something to that effect. I was touched. Still am.

I do not want to lose my writing chops. My precious mad skillz. But who has the time? And what a lame excuse that is.

Fine, I can find the time. Like now. I should be reading two articles for discussion tomorrow morning, but instead I'm here. But what can I write about? Pipetting? Perpetual statistical insignificance? It seems that nothing noteworthy happens, or not much, or not enough. And what authority do I have to write about things everyone knows?

What do I know that you don't know? What can I tell you?

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