The goal was to write every day. Without fail. Without making excuses.
And yes, there was the flu week. The days of fever and wheezing and general nastiness. If I had managed to drag my aching fingers to the keyboard who knows what drivel would have poured forth (I’ll resist a tempting snot analogy). Those days I give myself a pass.
But what of December 2, 3, and 5? What’s my excuse for not coming here and doing what I love: making pictures with words, coaxing characters onto the screen?
I get distracted, sidetracked. There were years when I kept an online journal with daily accounts, anecdotes, and creative wanderings. And then it would stop. And start again. Humming and whirring away — and then clunk. Over. Like my mom’s old lawnmower: the slightest little rock or wrongly-shaped blade of grass and it sputters to a stop. Almost offended. And then it takes so many cranks to re-start that it doesn’t seem worth all the effort to get it going again.
I am not exactly like a lawnmower. The comparison ends at both the ease of quitting the job and the difficulty in restarting it.
- I do not attack writing with the viciousness of shearing blades.
- I would like to think that I create instead of destroy.
- I do not follow a linear path, back and forth across the page until the job is done. Because sometimes I write poetry.
As as much as I like to anthropomorphize, I do not think that a lawnmower actually enjoys the task of cutting grass. I would think that mowing the lawn ranks pretty high on the monotony list. And while writing can be a chore sometimes, I actually enjoy it (when I’m not avoiding it).
So what do I need to do on days when the motor won’t start or imperfect greenery threatens?
Get a pushmower. Or a weed-whacker. Or maybe even just a pair of scissors. Approach with a different perspective. And just get it done.
I just chalk those days up to percolating.
I like the sounds of that.