I begrudge the work I’ve done today, as it was not what I’d intended. That isn’t to say I spent the day idly, that my lax attire denoted a considered lack of concern for the day’s demands. Instead, it meant that the house is in spots too hot, the minimum temperature needed for the plants making my room a sauna while leaving the hallways pleasant. It means that I had to sit for hours, more hours than I’d planned, to finish my judgments for the Scholastic Awards.
I feel robbed. The last few stories I read weren’t much good. If there’d been even one with a spark denoting the writer’s potential, I’d have counted today’s hours a charitable expense. Such was not the case. I read several stories without ends, several glumps of prose which, though arranged in order, did not amount to stories, several direct imitations of television plots, and a whole lot of bland, awkward prose. I feel like I’ve lost the day and gained nothing for it.
Friday, I read a story that was nearly perfect. It made me jealous, the obscene sort of jealousy that prompts one to litanies of one’s own achievements as inoculation against a punctured ego. That kid is going to be a hell of a writer. Had I read that story today I’d have been happy for the five or so hours spent feeling the failing padding rot around the armature of my reading chair. To be both lazy and disdainful of sitting is my oxymornonic curse.
But the story exists. The literary world is better for it and I’ve done all I can as a judge to see that that writer is rewarded for his or her efforts.
I did do a few other things today. I’ve printed and signed my contract. In fewer than twelve hours I’ll officially be a subcontracted copy editor. I can already feel The Man’s pudgy grip encircling my free spirit. Ah, well, I’m too old, and far too grumpy, to be a bohemian anyway. The gig doesn’t start until february first, so there’s time left for a few more cigars, a few more drinks, and a few last noon-time walk-ups. Actually, given that I can work from laptop (I won’t say “from home” because dragging work into my house seems like inviting the devil to your cocktail party) I can probably keep doing all those things anyway. Crisis averted, normalcy is thwarted for another few months. There is much rejoice.
My own writing… stagnates. I haven’t worked much since thursday and that was minor edits. I feel I haven’t done much of anything, lately. I’ve four pieces/packets in review, another nine on queue. The managerial side of my writing career seems mostly on track, I just need the creative side to come back from it’s ill-timed holiday.
Tomorrow is monday. Regardless of what remains of the three foot snow banks, I’ll walk downtown for my coffee and writing session. I’ll make it a long one, at one of the seats at the high bar where I can alternate between sitting and standing. I’ll get something done, and if it doesn’t seem something enough, at least my feet will be tired and my arse will be awake, giving at least the impression of “having got done.”