Reread a chapter of The Fountainhead because I want to use it as an example in workshop tomorrow. Oddly, I'm using it as an example to illustrate dialog (mostly how to incorporate long speeches into fiction). I started to read it and felt myself cringing at how transparently the characters are stand-ins for Rand's narrow philosophies. Can't believe how much I used to love her. I guess their confidence and black-and-whiteness was alluring when I was fifteen and impressionable and looking for a passionate interest to follow my occultist phase. Did I mention I tried to watch the Atlas Shrugged move last week? It's cheaply made, with cheesy looking offices and no-name crappy actors. All the reviews point out how ironic this is.

Even though I have a cold, I walked around today thinking about how great my life is.

Yesterday I bought a copy of From Ink Lake, a collection of Canadian short stories edited by Michael Ondaajte, and Anita Rau Badami's Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? I bought them at my favourite used bookstore, which is going out of business and thus everything is 60% off. First it was all 40% off and then 50% off. Every time they increase the savings I go back and buy a bunch more books. Probably should have waited. Anyway, if I had paid new book prices, they would have been $41 before tax, but I paid like $7 total! Awesome! I have so many books now. I worry I will never actually read them and people will come over and see them on my shelves and start conversations with me about them and I'll have to pretend I've read them (just like I do when people talk about Proust).