So here I am on a Saturday evening, dinner in the pressure cooker stinkin’ up the house in all its beer-infused pork glory, and the shop is closed and the magazine done, and financial rehabilitation is within the month’s end sight, and I am dire in need of something to obsess about.
Damn few people will understand, but for the near-obsessive compulsive sort there is a need for worry and its relative excitement and drama that feeds like gasoline a car. Without that combustible fuel of motivated high we still obsess–but uselessly about nothing. Wandering room to room from one idea to the next is at the agitation level…but non-productive.
Oh yes, there are still leftover problems that can be processed but when something goes on so long without resolution or explosion it becomes too old-hat, or on the other extreme, too dangerous to continue on the trail. So something new is needed.
Right now it’s either writing something sizzling or cleaning up the cellar. I can’t decide.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Oh no, oh no. Don’t clean up the cellar, just write about it. An imaginary clean up. In the end it will be sizzling as your writing always is. And despite all the zillions of people on the Web, it’s sure to be a first. Yes, I’m convinced that’s what you should do. 🙂
You have singlehandedly inspired me to turn to writing instead of physical labor. Though I do admit, it wouldn’t have taken much…
Thanks, Roberta. Hey, you have a neat site there and I’ll be reading some more on it as soon as I’m done writing the cellar. Thanks!
Ah, adrenalin let-down. Don’t worry – another worry is on the way. For instance – what to write about next.