Sometimes I feel the need to write on paper. The mesh of print/cursive—that I was always corrected by the students for using when substituting in elementary school—is therapeutic some days. Especially when using one of my favorite Profile Paper Mate pens. The act of moving the pen over paper is art itself.
But other times, like tonight, I need the soft music of the keyboard—the gentle sound created is just enough to fill the void on a finally quiet night. Seeing the words fill the screen allows me to feel that I'm accomplishing something, even though I cheat and use a size 14 font.
It's been a long day. From standing in line at the local Wal-Mart Supercenter for 30 minutes because their debit/check/credit card server was down to having to rush to a pediatrician appointment for the princess (no worries, it was her two year check-up) to dealing with the oldest child's meltdown (and not backing down on the repercussions.) Yes, it's been a long day!
And why am I blabbing about nothing? I suppose it's about writing and life, as usual, but there is a deeper meaning behind this blog.
PROCRASTINATION.
Plain and simple. I'm avoiding my W.I.P. because I've spent over a month working on a short story. And this past week I've added a non-fiction magazine article to the mix so Corroded has been wilting in the heat of the southern summer. Well, hopefully its smoldering, but I feel so removed from it that I can't help but think it's less than it was... that I'm not able to return to the hundred plus pages without the storyline falling into the abyss of flatly written mush.
So, instead I choose to write a squishy blog. At least I've filled up a page in my document file. Any writing counts, right?
And to go along with this soggy puddle, here's the first poem I have record of writing, way back at eleven years old.
Trees
Trees grow, very slow.
By the sea and by me.
They grow in lawns and by ponds.
Very slow do they grow.
