Sometimes you sit down, and you have no clue what to say
Will the magic happen today?
Was yesterday a fluke?
Or, more likely, was I intoxicated on my own grandiosity (I am a writer, hear me roar) yesterday, and where the real world saw doo-doo, I saw Dostoyevsky?
I think the dumbest part of these thoughts is 99% of anyone who’s ever tried anything hard and creative has had them. The only person who doesn’t is Kate DiCamillo. I just won’t believe that woman ever feels inadequate.
Today I’m up at 6:30 trying to get into a routine.
It’s actually cool this morning. The heat has been “boob sweat” heat. A short walk around the neighborhood pushing a stroller makes me look like I jumped in a pool. And yes, that counts as my workout today.
But it’s cool this morning. The clouds just past dawn are lavender with little holes where golden sunlight peeks through. They look like tiny windows with a Renaissance painting behind them.
It’s a good day whether I write 1,000 words or 3.
But I’m looking for any excuse not to write:
I’ve investigated why some lead in my pencil is dark gray, almost black, and others look like the pencil is struggling to eke out any sort of mark.
I’ve killed a few aunts that crawled onto my desk and caused me to misspell a few words, the written equivalent of a typo (a writo?).
Anything to not have to force terrible words out that are the literary equivalent of boob sweat.
UPDATE: What I wrote today is the literary equivalent of boob sweat.
But it exists.
See you tomorrow, desk.
WELP. I meant to post this from Book Talk Good and it snuck over to Stories Talk Good because sometimes my brain operates like an American Airlines flight.
If you enjoyed it, you can check out Book Talk Good where more posts like this will chronicle my adventures in trying to write a book.