Just Another Writerly Weekend

What a weekend I had planned. Two full days to write, just write. And I was a good, disciplined writer, too. Honest I was.  Butt in chair. Fingers on keyboard. No Facebook (mostly). Clickety clack clickety clack. Go, Jimmy, go! Get those words down. Sucky sentence? You can fix it later. Crappy paragraph? That's okay, just get it down, one after the other. Let it flow, man. Clickety clack clickety clack. It got tougher as the weekend went on. Words and paragraphs and sentences came slowly. Eventually, trying to describe a simple action was like trying to swim in molasses. But I kept going. I know how this works. Persistence, man. Courage. And the outcome? A huge, heaping and steaming pile of horseshit. Clickety clack. Mama told me there'd be days like this. Actually, she didn't. She died when I was sixteen, way before she ever had the chance to warn me away from this craziness. Is it too late for a career change? Any companies hiring sixty-year-old interns? I could commute to Wall Street. I'm pretty sure I could pick stocks just as badly as everyone else there. Or I could sell shirts at Brooks Brothers on Madison. It wouldn't take me long to become a crew chief at McDonald's. I'm told I have a pleasant voice, so maybe I could work in a call center and put you on hold forever.  

So. How was your weekend?