As I've aged, Sunday has become one of my favorite days of the week. No. I has become the favorite day. And it has nothing to do with religion, although I have nothing against religion.
It's a day you can kick back without feeling guilty about it. If God made the world in six days and rested on the seventh, then there is certainly nothing wrong with an old sinner taking a break from pecking a keyboard.
I daresay I'll never accomplish anything close to creating the universe; not sure that I would want to if I could, considering the direction humanity has taken over the ages. But we all live in little worlds of our own, surrounded by a galaxy of things that are important to us beyond that larger picture of chaos, madness. It's what we do in our own little universe that counts most in the mush between our ears.
I speak of "kicking back," but in truth the laptop and the pile of notes on the coffee table is calling my name right now at shortly after 10 in the morning. It will be difficult to resist firing things up and having another go at it today; I've fallen into a rhythm with the project, the kind of mental attitude that compels one not only to go on, but to want to go on. That's the place where a writer starts cooking in earnest. What could be drudgery becomes a pleasure. The once foreboding is accepted with open arms.
If only that would last. It won't. At some point, the joy will be replaced by agony. Those synapses firing all the good thoughts in need of immediate expression will be hijacked by little dark rebel notions lugging big loads of doubt and writer blockage. The glowing sun of creativity will set behind a dark mountain of gloom and despair.
Well, what the hell. Enjoy the ride while it's happening.
It's a day you can kick back without feeling guilty about it. If God made the world in six days and rested on the seventh, then there is certainly nothing wrong with an old sinner taking a break from pecking a keyboard.
I daresay I'll never accomplish anything close to creating the universe; not sure that I would want to if I could, considering the direction humanity has taken over the ages. But we all live in little worlds of our own, surrounded by a galaxy of things that are important to us beyond that larger picture of chaos, madness. It's what we do in our own little universe that counts most in the mush between our ears.
I speak of "kicking back," but in truth the laptop and the pile of notes on the coffee table is calling my name right now at shortly after 10 in the morning. It will be difficult to resist firing things up and having another go at it today; I've fallen into a rhythm with the project, the kind of mental attitude that compels one not only to go on, but to want to go on. That's the place where a writer starts cooking in earnest. What could be drudgery becomes a pleasure. The once foreboding is accepted with open arms.
If only that would last. It won't. At some point, the joy will be replaced by agony. Those synapses firing all the good thoughts in need of immediate expression will be hijacked by little dark rebel notions lugging big loads of doubt and writer blockage. The glowing sun of creativity will set behind a dark mountain of gloom and despair.
Well, what the hell. Enjoy the ride while it's happening.
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