At Least I’m Writing This

I might as well admit it. I’m in a bit of a slump. Or maybe it’s a rut. My wheels are spinning. Sand, perhaps. I’m lapping away.

I have a picture of where my writing needs to go. It’s just in soft focus. I’m getting Monet when I need a stark, black and white photograph. I need to just write it. I can go back and polish later. Colorize.

Perhaps it’s the Winter Olympics. There’s no particular reason. It’s just what arrived, probably coincidentally, at the time my sharpness dulled.

Described another way, a laptop is sitting in front of me (self-evidently). A guitar is to my left. A novel, Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River, is to my right. I tend to lean left or right instead of straight ahead.

I also bide my time with busy stuff, like my income taxes, but not for long. I just chip away at it, a little each day. Next up? Income from sale of stocks. Oh, boy, that’s a good one. I better play a few of my old songs, lest I lose the lyrics, then check up on Reuben and Swede.

This day has not been without its accomplishments. For instance, I both fixed and consumed breakfast. I expertly washed the dishes. I’m pondering a washing, drying and folding expedition. When I’m at my most creative, I am also at my most slovenly. I should be thankful my house is a mess.

And that I am so adept at rationalization.

 

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