Try, try, again.
Alright now, before you all start scolding me for not writing anything yesterday, hear this. I heard, once from a devout Catholic and chocoholic (who was giving up chocolate for lent) that you can cheat on Sundays. Now, if you can't trust a Catholic to give you good lenten intelligence then who can you trust? I wasn't initially intending to skip, but it was that kind of day. I did do some sketching in my notebook, and if a picture is worth a thousand words then I'm actually ahead of the game.
I am, however, now dealing with the consequences of falling off the wagon. That is, having to run to catch up with the wagon, avoid stepping in the poo of the creature pulling the wagon, and finally clamoring back onto the wagon while it is still moving.
Also it is hard to restart a neglected habit. I had a dance teacher who used to tell us that our bodies had to do something 28 times in order to remember it. This was her justification for running us through a particularly difficult section of a dance again and again. I lost count of how many times we ran each number, but those steps became second nature by the time the curtain rose. Her wisdom is also repeated in one of the books on creativity I am reading (written by dance legend Twyla Tharp no less). Now I've only been doing this 500 words a day thing for six days, and this is only my fifth post. Clearly I have a long way to go before this becomes a habit.
So I have been sort of trolling the internet and staring out the window in search of a topic to blather on about for five hundred words. Thus far I haven't come up with anything that pleases me, but my day is quickly running out so I am having a go regardless.
It is blizzarding today, white as far as the eye can see (about ten feet). So much for that little tease of spring. It's not that I didn't fully expect this kind of behavior from the weather. My rational self new that this was coming. Winter, after all, is far from over. However, my emotional self couldn't help but hope.
This self, this irrational, emotional part of my being gets me, and I think perhaps a lot of people, into trouble. This is the same part of the self that keeps hoping he will call when your rational self knows he won't and he's really not right for you in any case. The part of yourself that makes you curse and shake your “fist” at drivers on the road, even though you know you've pulled some of the same a**hole moves when tired or in a hurry. The part of every midwesterner who hopes for spring while trudging through eight inches of freshly fallen snow to take out the garbage.
We cannot help ourselves sometimes.
Me especially.
Word Count: 500
I am, however, now dealing with the consequences of falling off the wagon. That is, having to run to catch up with the wagon, avoid stepping in the poo of the creature pulling the wagon, and finally clamoring back onto the wagon while it is still moving.
Also it is hard to restart a neglected habit. I had a dance teacher who used to tell us that our bodies had to do something 28 times in order to remember it. This was her justification for running us through a particularly difficult section of a dance again and again. I lost count of how many times we ran each number, but those steps became second nature by the time the curtain rose. Her wisdom is also repeated in one of the books on creativity I am reading (written by dance legend Twyla Tharp no less). Now I've only been doing this 500 words a day thing for six days, and this is only my fifth post. Clearly I have a long way to go before this becomes a habit.
So I have been sort of trolling the internet and staring out the window in search of a topic to blather on about for five hundred words. Thus far I haven't come up with anything that pleases me, but my day is quickly running out so I am having a go regardless.
It is blizzarding today, white as far as the eye can see (about ten feet). So much for that little tease of spring. It's not that I didn't fully expect this kind of behavior from the weather. My rational self new that this was coming. Winter, after all, is far from over. However, my emotional self couldn't help but hope.
This self, this irrational, emotional part of my being gets me, and I think perhaps a lot of people, into trouble. This is the same part of the self that keeps hoping he will call when your rational self knows he won't and he's really not right for you in any case. The part of yourself that makes you curse and shake your “fist” at drivers on the road, even though you know you've pulled some of the same a**hole moves when tired or in a hurry. The part of every midwesterner who hopes for spring while trudging through eight inches of freshly fallen snow to take out the garbage.
We cannot help ourselves sometimes.
Me especially.
Word Count: 500