There are lots of contributing factors to my current State of Grumpy:
It’s incredibly windy right now
which means I can’t work in my garden
which means no exercise
since my hip is still messed up and I can’t do much of anything else
which also means I’m gaining weight.
And did I mention it’s Monday?
A really windy Monday?
But I also just realized I haven’t written much of anything in a week
as I’m still in CLOSE TO HOME limbo as I wait for readers’ responses.
I cannot work on BIRD BRAIN until I can give it my undivided attention
because I’ve started and stopped that project so many times I’m
afraid it’ll dwindle into nothing if I don’t give it the respect it’s due.
So there I was.
Crabby, crabby crabby.
Until I grabbed a book off my shelf, THE ELEVENTH DRAFT: Craft and the Writing Life from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop,
and opened it to Barry Hannah‘s piece, Mr. Brain, He Want a Song.
This is what I read:
". . . this is why I find working writers to be among the happiest folks in the world. Among the unhappiest are those who are not working and have endless questions. You do not want to get within a block of these people. The Great Suck – big bottom lip, the sulk, the neurotic and despondent vortex. But working writers are like unprosecuted felons."
I’m off to my PT appointment but as soon as I’m home,
I’m going to write some flash fiction or a poem.
I cannot stand wallowing in The Great Suck.
However, I probably won’t go so far as to commit a felony
(unless you count writing really bad poetry as a crime).